Page 71 of In the Frame

He’s doing the furrowed-brow thing, which is surprisingly hot, but it doesn’t help anything. Not the thudding in my chest or how my stomach has dropped out and fallen. And any private daydreams I had of a chance with Florian are gone in an instant.

“I’m sorry, I have to go—” I say unsteadily as I slide off the stool. “Thanks for the invitation. Please tell Billy the event’s incredible.”

Florian looks alarmed, eyes wide. “Matty, wait. Please stay⁠—”

“Besides, Billy needs you. And he wants you. I can tell.”

It’s an open wound, about Billy. Even though the reasonable part of me, like some voice shouting far off in the distance, tells me I’m definitely overreacting. The other part of me, which is real basic, feels like Florian and Billy are destined to be together. They come from the same world, speak the same posh city language. And then there’s me. I’m barely employed.

“Matty—”

I shake my head, desperate to get out of here before the tears come. Plus, how can I tell my friends I dated the guy who shut down the Rose? If they can’t make it, how can I make it as an artist? If this is what London life is, I don’t want it. My face burning, I rush away from the gala, leaving Florian behind.

Thank God he doesn’t come after me.

The night is still warm as I leave the museum beneath dark skies. My ears ring in the quiet. And on the train ride home, my bow tie loose in my borrowed tux, I delete and block Florian’s contact. And my heart sinks, broken.

Chapter Forty

The next night at work, I go through the familiar motions, my head heavy with the lack of sleep. I spent the night after the gala staring at the ceiling in my room as if solutions to my problems would float down at any moment. Around me, a party thumped on from downstairs, like the entire city celebrated on Saturday night. Instead of joining in, I sidestepped my new housemates and hid in my room.

Kat’s also working Sunday night. I’m busy restocking the bar since it’s quiet but steady, lost in my thoughts, and Kat’s handling the drink orders for now, sensing my dark mood. I ache with exhaustion. It’s hours to go yet before I’m off for the night. There’s been no sign of Florian, which makes sense because, after all, I deleted and blocked his number. Today, I scrolled through the online London entertainment pages recapping the gala and red carpet arrivals. Which include me and Florian. The caption reads, Top Thirty Under Thirty listee investor Florian de Ligt with guest. I suppose it’s good I’m anonymous, because I’m definitely not hitting any lists as Anonymous Bystander #1.

I go to the back and fill up another wooden crate with Moët & Chandon champagne and head blindly around the corner leading to the doorway back to the bar. Which is when I collide with my boss, Alexander.

In the commotion, I drop the crate, which lands on its side in a dramatic, loud explosion of glass and fizz, soaking our trousers. Every bottle breaks. I freeze amid the broken glass.

Instantly, Alexander explodes too. His tone is haughty and crisp. “That’s the final straw, Matty. You’re fired⁠—”

“I’m so sorry, it’s an accident.” Wide-eyed, I stare at him. “I can clean this up right away. I’ll pay for the champagne⁠—”

It’s a lot of money. More than anything else, I want to make things right, even if it takes a good part of my pay. Fuck. I need this job. I can’t lose my job. Everything relies on this job.

“No.” Alexander stares me down and eviscerates me with his sharp gaze.

I gulp. “No?”

“Go home, Matty. Thank you kindly for your service this summer. We’ll send you final payment for your time.”

“I—”

“Now.”

Staring at the hardened expression of Alexander, who looms over me, I nod, my shoulders slumping. “Okay.”

Avoiding any further eye contact with him as my face burns in shame, I collect my light jacket over my arm and head out the back to avoid my coworkers at the bar. I’m sure Alexander wouldn’t want me traipsing through soggy and covered in glass. He must be so thrilled to finally get rid of me.

Going home on the tube, I feel sick to my stomach. London’s definitely not for me. I tried. I failed. When I get home by 10:00 p.m., nauseous and vibrating with nerves, I text my mum that I’m coming back home to Glynde the next day.

For good.

In the morning, on the verge of a panic attack, I hurriedly pack my two suitcases full once more, plus the two suits I own. With my chest too tight to get a deep breath in, I return my tux from Saturday night’s gala first thing, then head back to my London room one last time to collect my bags for the station. I transfer the following week’s rent and text my landlord that I’m leaving. Which isn’t any great loss. The electricity is paid with coins on a meter. My room has rising damp along the walls, with a faintly musty scent I’m not sure whether it comes from the walls or the old carpet. Or something else growing or dying somewhere.

At any rate, I can’t afford the room, even a terrible room, not without a job.

I get myself to Euston Station and the Northern Line to London Bridge, and then take a train that heads south. I’ll need to change trains at some point on the journey, lifting my heaving suitcases from platform to platform.

As I leave London, I know I’m running away, but I also feel freer. I haven’t been home for any amount of time, not since Easter. After finishing uni, I went straight to London because Arran needed a flat sitter. Seeing London slip away and green countryside take over is a huge relief. From the train, I message my mum again my arrival time at Glynde Rail Station.