Page 87 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

“Yes. I actually paused for a meal not long ago.”

Finally, I face him. He’s polished in a light linen suit, summer personified. His hair’s groomed into stylish waves, his tan leather briefcase slung across his shoulder. The arsehole’s at his most appealing. And he knows it.

“Headed home?” I ask unnecessarily.

“Maybe. I was thinking about seeing if you needed some dinner and seeing if I could lure you out to Lily’s private view like a good Samaritan. She said you were 99% going to ditch it.”

I open my mouth to protest in half-hearted outrage. She knows me too well. “Well.”

“Caught out, I’m afraid.” Eli gives me a wry look. “It’s not healthy to work all the time. And Lily really wants you to go. You don’t need to go for long, but I think it’s not right to bail on her.”

Guilt twists my stomach. She’s been such a good friend to me, again and again, especially lately in the throes of my heartbreak. Plus, I’ve eaten a shocking amount of her ice cream which she faithfully replenished the few days I stayed with her, never mind all of the constant tea and sympathy she’s provided.

A heavy sigh escapes me.

“Fine. You’re right.” It pains me to say it, because I hate Eli being right. Some part of me wants to be spiteful just to be contrary, but the more mature part of me takes over for Lily’s sake.

“Do you think there’ll be enough canapés to make a meal?” Eli asks with a smile. “Or do you mind joining me for a quick bite before the opening?”

My lips twist. Of course. “You’d tell me that canapés aren’t an appropriate meal.”

He chuckles. “I just don’t want to take up more of your time. I know you’re busy.”

“How about you help me a little and then we can go?” I try. “I’m on the G section here. You want to start with Z on this shelf?” I gesture.

“All right.” He slides out of his jacket, revealing a hint of biceps in his short-sleeved shirt. Which reminds me a bit of Blake. God, with Blake I would say that would have reminded me of Eli. I never knew I had a type, but apparently I should pay more attention to men doing the sports ball and working out.

Eli gets to work, and we continue for longer than I meant to, shelving books in a familiar if not comfortable silence. Once, he used to help me regularly in the shop like this, the occasional evening spent together after he had come home from a day of lawyering, only to moonlight as a bookseller like me.

“Sorry,” I say at last, startled when I look at my watch. Apparently we were caught up in a shelving frenzy. “I lost track of time. Let me get changed quickly.”

“We’re going to have to go straight there.”

Canapés and wine for dinner it is.

…

A change of clothes and a taxi ride later, I’m with Eli at the private view of the fashion exhibition Lily’s been working around the clock on for the last few days. The large gallery has several floors, and the exhibition is on the first floor, a prime location for major shows. The private event is sold out, people filling the gallery and lingering in front with wine and nibbles. A DJ plays music.

And it’s more than fine, it’s brilliant. Mannequins stand on podiums through the gallery hall, showcasing bespoke fashion. A series of dolls shows samples of various punk fashions before they were made to full-size production scale.

Walls have displays of impressive clothing, framed fashion drawings. In display cases are sketchbooks and notes and tools of London’s historic and up-and-coming designers.

In the distance, through the crowd, I thought I glimpsed Gemma and her latest girlfriend, but they soon disappeared out of sight. The place is jammed full of people, a great sign.

I’d get to Lily to congratulate her, but she’s flitting from her director to guest designers, media people and donors of note. Smiling, I’m happy for her that the night’s gone so well.

As for us, Eli’s winning the fashion prize, cutting a striking figure in his suit. I’m in a black shirt and dark jeans, going for smart-casual with the shiniest Docs I could find in my closet. Vintage cherry red eight-hole, so at least I might have street cred. Plus, I’ve put on a touch of eyeliner for the occasion, a scrunch of styling product in my hair.

A hipster gives me an approving nod at one point. Relieved, I get another round of wine for me and Eli from the bar. Eventually, Lily finds us, giving us each air kisses. She looks beautifully dramatic in her black dress with a full skirt, bare arms, a touch of cleavage, and devastatingly red lipstick. Her hair’s up in a twist and she has on her most chic glasses.

“You look amazing,” I tell her over the din of the crowd and the upbeat music that the DJ is playing. I guess they can’t go full-bore punk quite yet, but I have hopes that they might as the evening wears on. “And this is brilliant.”

“Very well done,” Eli agrees.

Lily beams. “Cheers, lovelies. I’m sooo relieved. The curator from MOMA managed to get on the red-eye last night and hand-delivered the last exhibit this morning, and I’m so happy about that I could fall over.”

“Don’t fall over. Here.” I give her my wine and shift into the queue for the barman to get another glass of red wine for myself. “I think this is the best show you’ve done yet.” I smile at Lily, who’s rightfully glowing with the success of the night. “People seem really impressed.”

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