Page 45 of In the Frame

“Yes. I did say that.” Why the hell would I say that? Fake kisses are stirring up attention lower down. Clearly, I’ve lost my mind. This is starting to feel a little too real. Like I like having Florian around me a little too much. And God, his kiss? Amazing.

“What would you like to do now?” he asks. “I can go find another hotel or⁠—”

“Let’s just walk? Is that okay? I… I’m not ready to go back to the hotel yet,” I confess.

“Of course.”

We walk through the North Laines, and it’s the middle of the night, if not later. We skirt around puddles and through a fine mist that starts and up and down hilly streets. There’s the sound of street sweepers, idling lorries while rubbish is cleared away. Some seagull yells from the rooftops. At this unreasonable hour, few people are out, all the pubs and bars long since closed.

The feeling still sits heavily in my chest. And before I know it, everything starts to spill out as we reach the promenade and the blustering chill winds off the sea.

“It was hard to see my friends tonight,” I admit at last. “I love them so much, and I miss them, but I can’t help but feel like I’m left behind. Even though I chose to move to London. I feel like everyone expects me to be some big success, and I’m not. I’m just Matty.”

Florian stops. He looks at me, hard. “Mathias.”

My eyebrows lift. He certainly has my attention now with his I don’t fuck around in the boardroom energy.

“Matty,” he relents slightly. “You have so much, and you don’t even see it. A great group of friends, for starters. I can see why it was hard to leave them. But you left Brighton for your career, right?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak in that moment. Instead, I swallow down some bittersweet feeling. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to have a pity party⁠—”

He waves me off. “You’re not. But also? You’re a recent graduate in a new, expensive city, and of course it takes time to establish yourself. I think you should consider cutting yourself some slack.”

Quiet, I consider him, crossing my arms tightly across my chest at a particularly sharp gust of wind. We turn to head back into the Laines and walk together in silence for a long time.

I start to point out to him places where my friends used to hang out, favorite bars and pubs and cafés. Where Noah once fell down drunk laughing in the street and Raheem fireman carried him home. And where some Banksy art is rumored to be, under layers of paint. Places so familiar they’re my second home. As we turn a quiet corner up a pedestrian lane, I take Florian up to the Rose & Crown. A low light is on in the gallery, enough to see the work from the window. There’s some artwork I recognize.

“This is the Rose,” I tell him. “Officially, the Rose & Crown. It’s now an art collective some of my friends belong to. It was an old pub. They’ve turned part of it into studios, part into gallery space to host exhibitions. The bar is now used as a café. It’s a real hub in the community. And there’s a little shop where they sell work from the collective on consignment.”

Florian listens, attention rapt, as if I’m telling him the latest stocks or something that he cares very much about.

I nod at the window. “You see that silver liquid-looking sculpture? That’s Raheem’s. And over there, the street-art-style blue painting is Noah’s work.” Once more, I fold my arms tightly across my chest. A cool gust of wind against the back of my neck makes me shiver.

“It’s great work. Thanks for showing me.”

My lips twist into a hint of a smile. “Look at you, Mr. Art Connoisseur. One trip to Sotheby’s, and you’re ready to go.”

He laughs, then sobers, looking at me.

And then, to my horror, I realize I’m crying when he reaches out to brush my tears away. He pulls me tight into his chest. I gasp. And then I let the tears come, and I let Florian hold me. “I feel like I’ve let everyone down who believed in me. My friends. My family,” I confess unsteadily. “Everyone who supported me, and I’ve got nothing to show for myself.”

He rubs my back, then tilts my chin up. “When did you finish?”

“Mid-June.”

“And it’s the end of July. So, you’ve given yourself… six weeks? Maybe? To get settled in London since then and feel like you should have finished work. I may not be an artist, but I see a logical flaw in your reasoning.”

I shake my head. “Less than six weeks, actually.”

“Proves my point.”

A flicker of a smile crosses my lips. I blink away the last of my tears. My voice is wistful. “When you put it that way. It just feels like a lifetime. Raheem and Noah have already been out a year, and they have all this work to show for themselves. They make it all look so easy.”

“It’s never easy.” Florian gazes at me. “You don’t know what they’ve been through to get where they are today. Or who’s helped them along the way.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Florian sounds very reasonable. And I feel a little more cheered, with Florian listening as closely as if he were a real boyfriend. I can only imagine what having a real boyfriend would be like, but that’s as unattainable as having a sold-out solo show at the White Cube Gallery.

“And also? It took them longer than six weeks.” Florian smiles.