Page 60 of In the Frame

Florian just looks at me. Hard. His lips tug down, and he very much has his king-of-the-boardroom look going on. And I’m totally intimidated.

“Matty. Please.” His tone is crisp. “Another time.”

“I—sorry. Fine.”

Except it’s really not fine at all.

I slip out, and he pulls off, and all I want to do is cry as I watch his black Mercedes disappear into an endless stream of London traffic. Like my heart’s been torn out of me.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I walk into the station in a daze. Like I’m watching myself from outside of my body go to the ticket machine to check the balance on my Oyster card, as if on autopilot. There’s enough cash there to get me around London through the day. Except I’m not ready for the crowd of commuters who hurry past. Least of all squashing together on the tube like we’re a giant united mass of humanity hurtling under the city. Someone snaps at me that I’m in their way, and I instantly jump aside—into someone else’s path.

I hurry outside again a couple of minutes later, blinking in the sunlight. I’m never up this early. And I’m about ready to have a panic attack in London, and I don’t know anyone in a city of eight million other than Florian, really, and Arran’s busy with his own life. Shit. I can hardly talk to Kat at work about my problems either. And Noah’s probably getting ready to work another day in his studio on client projects, not knowing that my fake boyfriend is considering the apparent listing. Or, worse, actually buying the Rose with the intent to knock it over.

Florian didn’t deny the property listing was on his computer. He didn’t lie to cover it up. Which I guess is good. But—he should have said something when we were in front of the Rose at Paul and Cadden’s wedding, since he said the sale was already underway. Why didn’t he say anything more then?

He probably didn’t want to upset me. Then we kissed. And that makes everything worse. Because a part of me is already falling hard for him, and the other, angrier part wants to give him a piece of my mind. But I didn’t want to make him late for his brother, so I held back. Maybe that’s maturity. Or maybe it’s chickening out.

My phone tells me there’s a Starbucks not too far away, and I make my way over. I order a latte and sit down out front at a small round table. It’s August, and the morning’s already warm, promising a heat wave, according to the people sitting at the next table, who I can’t help but overhear.

With the last scraps of resolve, I tell myself not to look at Florian’s messages. Not to text him. To calm down first, then see how I feel. That’s what I’ve learned in therapy. Except therapy feels like several lifetimes ago in my dry run ahead of London living. No matter how many times I visualized living in London, the reality’s a lot bigger and more chaotic than I could ever imagine. A city of millions compared to Glynde’s handful of people. Not even two hundred people at last count.

The traffic is loud and a far cry from Glynde, where the village has a main road through it and a train station and mostly houses surrounded by gorgeous countryside.

In London, I’m overwhelmed by all the people and the shops and how on earth am I going to make it here? It’s so different. When I was in Glynde, we’d go to Lewes, a bigger village nearby, if we needed anything. Moving to Brighton for uni was a radical move. Never mind London. It’s the equivalent for me of moving to the moon.

And London happens to be full of London people, like Florian, who are the exact opposite of me. There’s no reason why I should feel so out of sorts. It’s inevitable we would clash. It’s fake, anyway.

Feeling homesick, I walk down the street with my coffee a little while later. My phone tells me there’s an art supply shop nearby, and it won’t hurt to look. Inside the shop, my spirits lift as I take in the many colorful displays of art supplies. I love seeing tubes of paint hanging in orderly racks. Soft pastels full of pigments are begging to be picked up. I don’t linger by the oil paints because that’s too painful to face.

Instead, I walk to where the sketchbooks are, skim my fingers over their pages inside to see their character. How smooth or rough they are, how heavy the paper, how they might take water or paint.

And it’s stupid, but I’m thinking of Florian, even though I’m upset, and I want to buy him a small sketchbook and pencils so he keeps drawing. Even if he doesn’t talk to me again because I lost my mind in his car when he had somewhere to be. Justifiably upset, but who knows how he’ll take it. Or if that’s the last time I’ll see him.

I buy a small sketchbook and a pencil set and decide to walk all the way back to Florian’s to leave the small paper bag on his step. I sit on the step and write in the front page,

Florian,

Please keep drawing. I think you have something there.

x Matty

I stare at the page for a long time. I can imagine Florian arriving home after a long day of hostile corporate takeovers, being confused by the art supply bag at the door, and bending to pick it up. He’ll look flawless, of course, in his suit. Florian always does. Probably he’ll be coming home straight from buying the Rose or something equally soul-destroying. It’s like asking a lion not to feast on its prey when I’m a herbivore chewing away on grass.

I make myself put the black hardcover sketchbook away in the bag, put the pencils in their metal case at the bottom. I’ve checked both for price tags and removed the receipt. Leaving the bag at his door with one last glance over my shoulder, I at last make my way home for a few hours before I have to work at Ivan’s tonight.

Chapter Thirty-Four

I’m well into my shift on what turns out to be an especially busy Thursday night. We’ve got two different private events happening in separate function areas, along with the main bar. I’m mixing drinks with more confidence now than when I first started. After all, I had a solid base to start on from the pub back home, which serves great cocktails to go with the gastropub meals. We have a chef who, incidentally, moved from London to get out of the rat race, she said. As for me, I learned most everything I know from my dad and a little from Kat here at Ivan’s. Back home, people come from the city to our small village just for the food, but it’s also a popular stop for the Glyndebourne opera-going set.

I haven’t had a break yet, and it’s nearly ten, and another big drink order’s come through to me. There’s a queue at the bar, and Jenny and Kat and I share a hive mind, plus Alexander, who’s filling in as a server when one of our waiters called in sick. It’s great to have him out of our hair for the most part. The three of us have worked behind the bar on several shifts now, and we’ve got it down. Jenny’s on pints and nonalcoholic drinks, I’m making drinks for tables, and Kat’s on the bar and helping me out when I need it.

She grins at me as I reach for another bottle. “Look at you go now.”

“Don’t jinx me,” I tell her, expertly doing a pour and then raiding the garnishes.

Kat laughs, and then she leans in to help the next customer at the bar. She talks with someone for a minute, and I glance up when I hear a familiar voice at the same time as she says, “Matty, there’s someone here for you.”