Page 13 of Love ad Lib
Libby checked her cleaned and flossed teeth in the hall mirror and opened the front door, her heart pitter-pattering.
Lucas Butler was lounging against the wall outside.
Lucas was an artist on the cusp of his big break and had an ethereal beauty about him. His blond hair was bed-head dishevelled, his fingers were eternally paint-stained, and his skin was the perfect pale of a Pre-Raphaelite with consumption.
He looked at her through his long hair, one corner of his mouth turning up. ‘Hey, Lib-Lob.’
She grinned back manically.
He held up a four-pack of beer. ‘You gonna invite me in?’
‘Oh yes, sorry, long day, come in, come in, let me take those from you,’ she said, walking backwards.
Libby’s job may have involved being creative with words, but since her ex, Giles, had shattered her confidence, she was either tongue-tied or babbled with men she liked. Lucas shared her working-class background and supported her career choices, so was the polar opposite to her ex. However, she didn’t have the courage to tell Lucas how she felt, and he seemed unaware that she was dying for the day he would declare himself and make her his muse.
Lucas pushed himself upright and ambled in after her as if filled with so much ennui it was difficult to find the energy to move.
His aquiline nose lifted to sniff the air. ‘I hope it’s my favourite.’
‘Of course it is, and I’ve made fresh naan bread.’
‘That’s my girl,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m bloody starving.’
‘That’s because you aren’t looking after yourself,’ she scolded as they entered the kitchen. ‘Sit down and start on the poppadoms and pickles. Let me open a beer for you.’
‘What would I do without you, Lib-Lob?’
Her heart thudded in her chest. No one knew better than she how difficult it was to make ends meet if you were a performer or artist, especially in London. Lucas supported her dreams, and she used her savings and overdraft to help him realise his.
To make every penny count, she’d stopped drinking, eating out and using public transport. She was helping Lucas and improving her health and fitness at the same time. Everyone was a winner, and it was no-one’s business but theirs that she’d been paying the rent on his studio for the last six months.
‘How’s the preparation for the show going?’ Her voice was fast and breathless.
‘Have you got that beer?’
‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ She popped the cap. ‘Do you want a glass?’
‘The bottle’s good enough for a working-class lad like me. I’m not some posho like your mates.’
She passed it to him. ‘Claire’s not posh.’
‘Fancy flat in St. John’s Wood? You can’t afford a place like that teaching bankers to play kiddie games.’
Libby ignored the prickle of hurt in her throat. ‘They could afford it because Ritchie’s mum died.’
Lucas rolled his eyes. ‘But his mum still had pots of dosh, didn’t she? They’re not like us, Lib-Lob. We know what it’s like to grow up on the other side of the tracks. We know about hard graft.’
She put the naan bread under the grill. ‘How’s your painting going? Are you ready for the show?’
He leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. ‘It’ll be tight. The gallery owners don’t know their arse from their elbow. They know money, but they don’t understand the creative process.’
‘Can I help at all?’
Lucas shook his head and loaded a piece of poppadom with onion relish and mango chutney.
‘You know,’ she began, tentatively. ‘I haven’t seen any of the pieces you’re working on. I’d love to visit the studio.’
He held up his hand to stop her whilst he finished his mouthful.
