Page 42 of Best Man
I stare at him. “Why would I mind?”
“Well, I can get a little lost in these places. Patrick always used to moan about it.”
“Remind me not to let you go to Waterstones with me,” I say, nudging him towards the door. “You can lose me for hours in there.”
“Oh, me too,” he says eagerly, a wide smile on his lips. “Especially with the sofas.”
“And the coffee. I could live there.”
We smile, and I follow him into the shop. It’s filled with light, and Zeb immediately makes a beeline for a group of pictures hanging near the front of the shop. They’re bold and vivid abstract paintings that would look amazing in the high-ceilinged rooms of his flat.
I study him for a second. He looks as if he belongs somewhere like this in those chinos that cling to the long muscled length of his legs and the checked shirt that makes his eyes look very blue. An assistant brushes past me, making hasty tracks to someone who obviously hasdeep pockets, and I turn away and wander further into the gallery. It’s quiet and has a very expensive atmosphere, and I walk from one exhibit to the next undisturbed by assistants or other customers.
There’s a lot of stuff from local artists, but it isn’t until I’m making my way back towards Zeb that I spy something I like. It’s a huge canvas filled with pink peonies painted on a black background and it seems to glow against the white walls of the gallery. The passion and talent in every stroke of the paintbrush is mesmerising. It’s part of a group of paintings, all obviously from the same artist, and I move from one painting to another but always come back to the original one.
I’m looking at it when I catch the scent of warm citrus and feel Zeb come up next to me. “You like this one?” he asks, standing next to me staring at the art. I nod thoughtfully, looking at the painting again.
“It’s beautiful. I’m not one for flowers at all, but–” I hesitate, afraid of looking stupid, but he just looks at me enquiringly, and I know suddenly that he’ll never laugh at me. With me, yes, but neveratme. And something in me relaxes instantly and unfurls a little bit. “I get the impression that it’s about more than flowers,” I say slowly. “It feels full of emotion somehow.”
He grins. “Probably is. That’s Ivo Ashworth-Robinson’s work. He’s slightly temperamental, so I’m sure it’s absolutely chock full of very loud feelings.”
“You know him?”
He shrugs. “Vaguely. He’s one of Max’s best mates. They were apprentices at a newspaper together and then worked together a lot. Ivo was a war photographer but he’s a full-time artist now.”
I turn back to the picture, admiring the colours. “It makes me feel happy,” I finally say judiciously, and when I look at him, he has a look of almost astonishment on his face. “You alright?” I ask. “Did you buy that picture you were looking at? Do you need a sit down now? We can catch the moths that flew out of your wallet later on. You’re my priority at the moment,” I finish solemnly.
He frowns at me but it doesn’t work and he bursts into laughter. It’s loud and almost shocking in the cool, quiet room.
“Cheeky twat,” he says almost affectionately. “I’ve bought it. It’ll look amazing in my bedroom.”
“Better than your etchings,” I say slyly.
“Come on,” he says, ushering me out of the gallery. “We’ll go and grab some lunch. There’s a lovely fish restaurant here that has a nice view of the water.”
“Have you eaten there before?” I ask reluctantly.
He nods, looking suddenly awkward. “Patrick and I used to eat at the restaurant.” He stops suddenly. “Shit, I forgot to give the sales assistant my mobile number for the delivery driver. I won’t be a minute.”
He vanishes back into the gallery, and I wander over a little bridge, stopping in the middle to stare down at the water running busily over the stones. It glitters in the sun, nearly hurting my eyes. I lean my elbows on the balustrade and sigh. I hate the fact that he’s been here before with Patrick. It feels like everything we do has his perfect shadow falling over it.
But what worries me most is that I shouldn’t feel like this. Zeb hired me to do a job, and throughout my time with the agency, I’ve prided myself on being able to care about the clients but still be able to leave them behind once the job is done. I know I won’t be able to do that with him.
I look up and see him walking towards me. I watch the long length of his legs and the sun shining on the messy waves of his hair. He smiles, and I groan under my breath. “I’m fucked,” I say out loud. “Sorry,” I mutter to the old couple who just heard me. “But it’s the truth. Fucked,” I say sadly.
EIGHT
JESSE
When we get down to dinner that night, I stop dead.
“What is it?” Zeb’s hand comes to rest at the small of my back. He’s probably unaware of the gesture, but it feels like he’s branded me. I can feel the heat of his hand at my back, his fingers spread. It’s almost possessive, which is completely ridiculous, but I can’t deny that he’s seemed softer with me in some way since we got back from our afternoon out.
I sneak a look at him as he stares at the table, a small frown on his face.Probably looking for potential problems,I think affectionately.
He looks back at me. “What’s the problem?”
“The seating arrangements.” He looks at me in incomprehension. “They haven’t changed. I was hoping we were sitting next to Jeffrey Dahmer tonight rather than George and Mildred.”
