Page 47 of Charlie Sunshine
I try not to laugh, but a snort escapes. I put a stern look on my face as we pause in front of the huge picture of Samson and Delilah painted by Rubens. “Well, what about this one? What do you see?”
“What doyousee?” he says cautiously. “You know so much more about this than me, Charlie.”
I roll my eyes at him before turning my gaze to the picture. “I see Delilah watching Samson sleep with his head in her lap. She has her hand on him and looks like she maybe feels regret for cutting his hair, but she can’t express it because of the other man standing over them.It’s beautiful. Look at the colours of her dress and the glow of his skin.”
“Oh,” he says faintly, tilting his head to one side and studying the picture in a puzzled fashion. “Oh, right.”
“What doyousee, Misha? I can’t wait for this,” I mutter.
He shrugs. “It looks like a threesome that’s gone drastically wrong.”
I can’t stop the laugh this time, and it comes out much too loudly. Several people look disapprovingly at me. I grab his arm and tow him out of the room.
“Okay, let’s try another one.” I position him in front of the painting of the execution of Lady Jane Grey. “What do you see when you look at this?” I demand.
“Really, Charlie? This is like a date with Andrew Graham-Dixon.” He looks at my mop of hair tied up in a lopsided bun. “Only he has better hair.”
I gasp and pinch him. “You wound me, Misha.” I wink at him. “But not enough to divert my attention from the art. Nice try, but what do you see?”
He sighs and gazes at the huge painting showing the poor Nine Days’ Queen about to lay her head on the block, while her ladies-in-waiting sob, and the axeman stares.
“Well, I hope it wasn’t really like this,” he finally says.
“Why?” I ask, slightly excited. Maybe he’s been struck by the terrible pathos of Lady Jane’s situation.
“Just look at it.” He gestures at the painting. “Her ladies-in-waiting are prostrate and sobbing on the ground. If that had been me, I’d have been quite pissed off. I’d have said, ‘Ladies, this is really more of ameday than a you day.’ If you can’t have everyone’s attention when you’re being executed, then when can you?”
I stare at him, and he flushes. “Well, you did ask,” he says defensively.
“I really did,” I say faintly. “Okay, what else?”
He sighs long-sufferingly. “Well, look at the executioner. Weren’t they supposed to dress in black and wear a bloody mask? That blokelooks like he was about to go clubbing and got called into work at the last minute because someone was off sick.”
I look at the pouting axeman in his red tights and doublet and start to laugh. “Oh my God, you’re right.”
“I usually am,” he says in his typically modest fashion. “You should hang around me more, Charlie, and you might get some culture by osmosis.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it that. You’re like some sort of anti-art critic.” I take his hand and tug him toward the next painting. “Come on. I want to hear your views on some more priceless works of art.”
We spend the next hour or so wandering the rooms while he enlivens the day with more acidic commentary. I watch him studying a picture, his full lips pursed. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much on a date— The record immediately screeches to a stop.Back the fuck up, Charlie Burroughs,I scold myself.This isn’t a fucking date.
He glances at me and smiles, and I’m suddenly blinded. Like I’m staring directly at the sun.He’s so beautiful, I think wistfully.
“Charlie, you okay?” There’s an anxious tone to his voice like he thinks I’m going to have a turn.
I give his hand a squeeze. “I’m fine,” I say hoarsely. Well, as fine as you can be after realising your best friend is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. “Just tired all of a sudden.”
“Hmm,” he say doubtfully. “I think we’ll go and get something to eat. It’s way past lunchtime. We’ve done a lot of walking today, and you’re only just fit again.”
He’s possibly the only person in the world who’d get away with saying solicitous shit like that to me, and the look in his eyes says he knows it. But tiredness is pulling at my body the way it does when I’ve done too much, and I’m sad, because I don’t want to leave this place. I’m having too good a time.
His eyes soften as he reads my expression. “I tell you what,” he suggests. “I want you to show me your absolute favourite painting in this gallery. The one you’d take if you had the fool-proof chance to steal something.”
I straighten my shoulders and glance around, taking stock of where we are in the Gallery. Then I lead him through the different rooms untilwe end up in one with red wallpaper. We stop in front of a small ornately framed picture.
“This is it?” he asks curiously. His arm is draped across my shoulders and he tips his head against mine as he looks at the painting. “Why?” he asks. I shiver slightly at the feel of his breath on my face.
“Why, what?” I ask hoarsely.
