Page 13 of In the Frame

Looking at my phone, I see it’s approaching midnight, which is our closing time. I text Kat back quickly, explaining I’d been trapped in a lift with a customer, if anyone will believe me. But she does, because she’s a saint. Meanwhile, I’m sure Alexander has plans for my upcoming evisceration. But at least she says that’s not tonight, that they’re covered for the rest of the evening as they wrap up, and not to worry about returning this evening. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or not. I’ll worry more about that tomorrow.

In relatively short order, Florian emerges from the bathroom in my suit. As expected, it’s a little big, but more than passable. And most importantly, it’s dry and clean and glass-free.

“Thank you,” he acknowledges, looking a little sheepish. “I’ve been terrible. Despite that, you’ve been very generous.”

Taken aback by the unexpected appreciation, I don’t know what to say. “Well, I did spill the drinks directly on you, rather violently. And I happened to have a suit, so. It’s no problem. I’m sorry about attacking you with alcohol, and the whole lift thing too. And for ruining your night. I didn’t expect we’d spend four hours in the lift.” I shrug my shoulders expansively, then gesture toward the living room. “By the way, your phone had a fit when it got signal. I think you’ve got a bunch of messages.”

Florian stands by the window, scrolling through messages while I put the vacuum away. He’s a lean shadow against the sheer white curtain, the streetlights behind him casting a soft glow, and instead of smelling like the floor of the bar, he now smells fresh and clean. And it’s very appealing? Or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s not behaving like a beast for five minutes, but it seems like cause for euphoria.

When I return a couple of minutes later, I hover nearby. “I’d, er, offer you a drink or tea or something, but I’m not sure how you’d feel about more drinks coming from me after tonight.”

His gaze flickers over to me. I get the sense he’s amused, though nothing in his expression gives him away. “I need to find my friends. Apparently, there’s been a power outage in the area. They’ve gone to the club early, so I’ll need to leave now to meet them. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“And I’ll have my assistant contact you with details about the event if you give me your contact details.” Florian gazes at me. “It’s Thursday, by the way. Don’t ask me anything else because I don’t know.”

“Thursday,” I confirm, startled he’s followed through on the fake date plan. After everything, I was convinced I dreamed it while passing time in the lift. He texts me a simple Florian to test my number without any other message (what was I expecting exactly?).

He nods with a certain finality. “Thank you. Now I must be on my way. And I will see you later this week.”

“Sounds great. Watch out for spilled drinks. I hear that’s a real mess. And I’ll arrange to get your suit dry-cleaned.”

“Thank you,” Florian repeats, demonstrating manners twice in rapid succession, proving he’s more than capable of being polite when he wants. When it suits his purposes. He’s probably more polite when he’s not freshly soaked with cocktails and glass, anyway.

I see him to the door, exchange goodbyes, and watch him walk down the hallway to the stairs. It’s a wise choice to give the lift a wide berth.

With a soft sigh, I lean in the doorway of the open flat door and watch him leave. It’s one of the strangest evenings I’ve had in some time. What will Thursday’s fake date at Florian’s mystery art event be like, and what exactly have I gotten myself into? Who knows which Florian will show up—the beast or the more vulnerable man I glimpsed earlier.

Chapter Seven

Early on Monday afternoon, between folding my underwear and matching my socks on Arran’s dining table, and also making a pasta lunch, my phone rings. “DE LIGT INVESTMENT HOLDINGS” pops up on my screen. It doesn’t seem like the usual spam calls or die-hard telemarketers reaching out from the ’90s to sell me stuff I don’t want or need. It seems important.

Despite my strong aversion to talking on the phone, my gut says to answer it because Florian said his assistant would call. And it’s got to be him because nobody has ever called me from an investment holdings group, even as a prank. Like they’ve already seen my bank account balances and said no, thanks. Though I still don’t know Florian’s surname despite my best internet sleuthing yesterday. Hot, broody, shouty investors in London comes up with some interesting search results, though.

I set down a pair of freshly paired polka dot socks and answer on the third ring with my best pseudo-business voice. As in, how I’d imagine a businessperson to sound. Breezy. Confident. Like, why, yes, so glad you called, here’s a few million for your bespoke-glamping-amid-llamas experience for the discerning Londoner. Because back home in Glynde, we’d just climb the fence of a neighbor’s field to pitch a tent and have a snooze in a neighbor’s paddock, like we do this all the time. “Hello?”

“Good afternoon, may I speak with Mathias John Gowen-Smith?” an unfamiliar male voice asks.

I’m unable to resist a sputter—maybe this has to be either my student loans calling or Florian’s twisted idea of a joke. I guess the good news is that Florian paid attention and remembered my name in full detail?

“Er, speaking. Who’s calling, please?” I sit up straight at the dining table, as if the disembodied male voice can see me despite not being a video call. I glance over at the boiling pasta water. Steam curls into the extractor hood, but it can wait a few minutes before I put the pasta in to cook. Meanwhile, the extra steam could be excellent for my skin. Maybe another niche pasta-spa crossover experience needing an investor, even.

“It’s Richard Walker speaking, of De Light Investment Holdings. I’m Mr. De Ligt’s assistant. I’ve been directed to follow up with you regarding the Sotheby’s private view.”

“The…” I trail off, blinking as I take a moment to digest this new information that Florian neglected to mention. Rather significant information. Posh auctions were definitely not on the menu. “Sotheby’s, as in the auction house?”

“Yes, that’s correct. The private view is scheduled for Thursday after 7:00 p.m., and you will be attending as Mr. De Ligt’s guest.”

“Right,” I manage, looking around for something to write on. I find a receipt and a pen on the kitchen counter. I scrawl: Sotheby’s, Thurs, 7pm. And for good measure, I jot down Richard Walker and Florian De Ligt. As if I might get confused with anyone else who might want to attend a Sotheby’s auction together with me. If it is an elaborate kidnapping ploy, someone will find my notes and know where to start looking in lieu of gingerbread crumbs.

“Mr. De Ligt looks forward to seeing you then⁠—”

“Wait!” My plea of desperation cuts through Richard’s efficient effort to wrap up the call in less than thirty seconds, clearly a man after Florian’s heart in not wasting time. I can see why he was hired as his PA. “What do I wear?”

“Wear?”

“You know, to the private view?” I encourage hopefully. The private views I’ve been to generally are of the paper cup and box wine variety at a pop-up exhibition in some borderline derelict building and definitely not Sotheby’s. What I do know is that old jeans and flannel shirts won’t cut it. Or my shabby trainers.