Page 101 of Tears of Glass

His eyes fall over my shoulder, his fingertips still cradling my face. “What is that?”

I turn and look at the shards of glass I’ve been making. Towering and dominating the look, more Krypton than Kensington Mews. “I was playing with ideas for the Tate, I want to highlight the homelessness in the city. How unwelcoming it is, how dark.” The black glass shards are sharp, angled, not meant to be sat on. “I wasn’t sure if they would work so I’ve been practising. And I’m not going to lie, it was harder than I thought.”

He shrugs. “If it’s hard, it means it’s worth it.” The delphinium blues dance across my face.

I’ve been working on something else, but it’s safely stowed in the pocket of my apron.

“Question.” His lips twitch. “Do you plan to attend dinner in just a sports bra and a pair of jogging bottoms, not that you don’t look edible how you are?”

I flush. What has happened to me? It’s pathetic.

“I need to shower. I’ll be quick I promise.” I screech as his strong hands land on my waist and lift me from the floor, tipping me over his shoulder.

Then our date starts with a shower only Eli knows how to perform.

I’m chuckling as I stare at him over the chequered tablecloth. I’ve bought him to the cheesiest Italian restaurant in London, but with the best spaghetti. It’s true cheese, Chianti bottles covered in wax and holding candles light the small space and the sound of the chefs shouting in Italian in the kitchen is louder than the strained notes coming from the violinist in the corner. It’s a true gem.

Not The Ritz.

“So, they want to make it my final piece of my degree.”

Eli snaps a breadstick with his long fingers. “That sounds like more work than the average student will be doing.”

I nod my head, brandishing my own breadstick decorated with a splodge of butter. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

Eli’s eyes narrow. “Seems like they are going to utilise their most famous student while they still have her.”

“I’m not their most famous student.” I flush, not that it makes much difference, the restaurant is so hot I’m sweating anyway.

He arches an eyebrow. “Anyone else in the paper on Monday?”

“That was gossip, nothing to do with art.”

He shrugs. “So, it’s got nothing to do with it. Inch space in a paper is inch space in a paper, it doesn’t matter what it’s for.”

“Well that sounds depressing and cynical.”

A slow smile lifts his lips. “Just as well you saved me.”

We are interrupted by the arrival of our pasta which Elijah looks at dubiously. I ordered for the both of us, while he sat back and watched me with his burning gaze, sipping his cheap Italian red, looking so beautiful he made the words on the menu swim.

“I promise it’s nice.” I chuckle a little. “It’s the best pasta I’ve ever had.”

“Eileen makes good pasta.”

“You serve pasta at Bowsley? Surely not. I thought it was all meat and two veg.”

“No, Sunshine, that’s what I serve you.”

I fan myself down and giggle. “Mr Fairclough, we are in public.” Our toes meet under the table, pushing against one another’s feet and I could almost burst, my chest is so full of disgusting happiness.

He twirls some pasta and pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully until he nods as he swallows. “It’s good. I’ll have to tell Eileen to learn smoked salmon with vodka and cream.”

“It sounds like she looked after you a lot.”

He shrugs again but then when he sees my intent gaze on his face his shoulders relax. “The kitchen was a good place, warm, welcoming. I used to sit at the table and do my homework and Eileen would serve me up pancakes for every page I completed.”

A slow smile spreads on my lips. I can imagine it so well.