Page 73 of In the Frame

“You know Michael’s in London too,” she prompts.

“Yeah. We met up once. I forgot he was there until recently, to be honest.”

Mum gives me a wry smile. “Matty.”

“I was so busy with everything. And Arran was busy too. Plus, most people have time in the evenings, and I was picking up every evening shift I could get, so the schedules didn’t line up. And I met Florian. By dumping drinks on him.”

She laughed. “Did he deserve it?”

“Probably,” I say darkly, then relent. “No. Not really. It was an accident. Another one. I didn’t mean to. Anyway, turns out he’s my total opposite, and it would never work out. All I want to do is hide out for a million years.”

“That’s an awfully long time.” Mum’s voice carries her amusement.

“It’s not funny,” I protest, but I’m smiling. Mum has a way of making me feel better, even if I’m nearly twenty-three years old. “I’ve just felt so disconnected from everything and everyone. I needed to come home to find myself again. To see if I even want to paint anymore.”

She blinks, frowning. “Why wouldn’t you want to paint? Everything of yours is up in the loft as you left it.”

The loft was my old bedroom, now the guest room, at the top of the house. It was adjacent to another room in the loft where I had my studio, complete with two skylights to vent oil paint fumes and keep my canvases, materials, and paint.

“Leila decided to keep her old room, and the twins want to stay sharing the same room, so nothing’s changed.” Mum gazes at me. “It’s as you left it.”

I drink my tea, soothing and tasting of home, an Earl Grey and breakfast tea blend. I nod.

“You know you’re welcome home anytime,” Mum says, which is what she told me last night via text. “While you’re here, you can get your bearings once again and see then how you feel about art. You’re usually so passionate about painting. This isn’t like you.”

“Yeah.” I swallow hard, thinking about the Rose and that I should reach out to Noah soon to see the impact of Florian’s plans. What good is art if a developer’s always going to win and take our spaces? Or have our paintings end up in some oligarch’s vault, even if an artist makes it to the top? Who’s it all for?

“And, if you’re up to it later, you can go down to the pub to give your dad a hand. We have the usual August summer traffic, and we’re down a person,” Mum suggests, her fingers wrapped around her tea. “I’m sure he’d be thrilled to see you and have experienced help.”

“Can’t promise I won’t ruin something.”

“Matty.” Mum looks at me, shaking her head, giving me an appraising look. “It will be fine.”

Except everything feels very not fine. And I don’t know how to make things feel fine again. Right now, it feels like I’ve failed at everything: London, art, and dating.

Chapter Forty-One

I’ve been home for almost two weeks, getting into a comfortable rhythm again and getting my legs under me once more. The pub’s packed, and my parents are glad to have my help, which makes me feel like my choice to leave London was a solid one, rather than driven by a full-on panic attack. It’s great to spend time with my family, and the village is gorgeous, especially in summer, and home’s helping relax me. Except something’s off.

A couple of days ago, I dared to step into my studio and look around for a few minutes before stepping out again. Which, given how I’m feeling about art right now, is progress I even went in there at all.

In the evenings, I’m busy with the pub or helping my mum with the girls, who are thrilled to have me home. I can do things for them like fix their bikes, boost them up the tree to get into my old tree house, help them get ready for going back to school at the end of the summer.

At fourteen, Leila’s a proper moody teenager. It’s terribly embarrassing to have parents and listen to them. It’s slightly less embarrassing to have an older brother to talk to about stuff. As for Maggie and Jess, they can talk my ear off and then some, the other picking up when the other stops to catch her breath. They’re very busy, always moving, except when they finally sleep.

Everything’s starting to feel more normal again. Except I can’t stop thinking about Florian and the Rose and everything going wrong. In my imagination, he’s back together with Billy. Stronger than ever. They can redevelop and rewild together to their hearts’ content. I tell myself it doesn’t matter.

This afternoon, a Saturday, is busy with the Glyndebourne crowd and tourists spilling over from Lewes. All the seats inside the pub and on the spacious patio out back are full, and the evening band hasn’t even started yet. I’m behind the bar, mixing drinks and pulling pints and putting through orders to the kitchen, where Felix leads everything culinary. My dad floats around, doing what’s needed. Plus, we’ve got the small hotel upstairs, which Hattie manages. All to say, we’re busy in all directions.

At the moment, my dad’s down at the other end of the bar, ringing up orders into the till. I’m working on drink orders for an older couple in front of me, who collect their wine and pint and head out into the sunshine to join their friends on the patio. I can hear the cheer from their group and laughter as they’re the last of their set to arrive. I watch them through the open doorway leading out to the back.

And when I glance up at the next customer, I do a double take. I blink. I’m hallucinating.

Florian.

In a black shirt, jeans, and sunglasses on his head. With a forest-green tote bag slung over his shoulder. He gives me a tentative smile. “Hi.”

“How…” I manage. “Hi.”