Page 35 of In the Frame

“It’s beyond the M25 and Richard’s terms, as well as more difficult to change the flights.”

I look at him uncertainly, then nod. Florian could have any flight he wanted, I’m sure of it. But it’s interesting to learn he’s made concessions to Richard’s wishes. They obviously have a working relationship, and Florian must be a demanding man to work for, but it’s also a relief to know Florian isn’t a tyrant. “Okay.”

He gives me a cautious smile. “So I’m here should you actually want me to accompany you. At least for a couple of hours, like you said.”

“If you would… that’s really terrific. In return, I can offer you another fake date to some business thing or whatever it is you need. Art lessons,” I quip. “If you want.”

“Art lessons?” Florian sits up straight at that suggestion, as if I casually mentioned I planned to jettison him into the sun. There’s an air of alarm floating around him.

“Just something to consider. I’ll even give you the option of actual art techniques or history of art.” I can’t help but laugh at his expression. “Art’s hard to monetize, by the way.”

“I have evidence to the contrary. We were at Sotheby’s for the contemporary and modern art private view the other day, weren’t we?” There’s a hint of humor flickering in his eyes, a certain way his lips move into a ghost of a smile.

“Florian, that’s the most elite of the artists out there in the last century. Most of us are either scrounging for bus fare between our sofa cushions or leading simple lives in order to follow our passion. Or, I guess, otherwise born aristocrats and can dabble in art at will. Otherwise, everyone else has got a lifetime of compromises and living in a humble way.”

“I see.”

“It’s like a cultural exchange. You can see how the other side live. It’ll be, um, character building and great for hobnobbing with your clients and business partners. And it’ll give me, if you’re willing to give me a reference, some experience in privately tutoring art.”

“It would be useful to know more about art.” Obviously, wheels are turning in his head because he’s quiet for a long moment, looking far away. “At the very least, I do have another event where it might be useful to have a fake partner.”

“Oh?”

“A charity gala.”

“Shit, Florian, that sounds way out of my league. I definitely don’t have clothes for that.”

“Don’t worry about the clothes. Those can be arranged.” Florian’s dismissive. He doesn’t want for material things.

“Easy for you to say.”

Florian smiles.

I nod slowly. It’s daunting, but it would be worse to give him up. And if we’re into fake dating, let’s keep it going a little longer.

“And you’re sure you’re up for today?” I ask him. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you look a bit wrecked.”

“If it’s no bother, I might have a nap,” Florian concedes. “I couldn’t sleep on the flight.”

“Shit. Well. I know the hotel’s booked out. You could sleep in my room for a little while, if you want. I mean, you’d sleep without me there. In the room. As in—I’ll need to go meet up with my friends to check everything’s okay at the venue for later and help them set up for the wedding.”

“That would be very kind. Thank you.”

“Okay. You have a two-fake-date and one-nap business deal.” I offer my hand for him to shake, and he does. I shiver slightly at touching him again, his hand firm in mine, purposeful.

An agreement is an agreement, after all.

Chapter Eighteen

While Florian naps (in my bed!), I go to help with the venue setup times two, first for the reception, and second for the wedding ceremony overlooking the beach. Together, we’re a band of merry queers. For the reception, we arrange long tables through the length of the old church, check that the zigzag of lights strung up overhead works and are wrapped over the oak mezzanine banister rail. Floral arrangements are on the tables, and the caterers set the place settings.

As for the ceremony, it’s on the beach. For England, it’s a miracle of a day, sunny and mild for early July. The ceremony isn’t ’til 4:00 p.m., so I head back around 2:00 p.m. to the hotel to get ready and check on Florian.

A soft rap on the door doesn’t bring a response, so I use my key card and open the door. I shut the door quietly after myself and turn to see Florian curled on his side on my bed, sound asleep. His bare arm is flung outstretched, dark hair fanned on the pillow. His suit and shirt are on a hanger over the wardrobe door.

For a fake dating relationship, this feels very intimate, the pale skin of his inner arm laid bare, given we’ve only shared one kiss. I gulp.

Then, frankly, I’m staring at him. Shuffling awkwardly, I’m not sure what’s the best approach, given it’s quarter past two and I don’t want to be a creeper creeping on him while he sleeps. I clear my throat, nudge ever so slightly closer, and ask, “Florian?”