Page 14 of In the Frame

“Ah. I would suggest clothing, Mr. Gowen-Smith.”

God, that confirms it’s Florian’s assistant, with the same literal streak. It must be something core to his brand. Or maybe Richard Walker’s trying to be funny. But this is very much a serious question.

“What’s the dress code?” I try desperately.

“There isn’t one as such, but I would recommend smart casual at a minimum. I would stop short at a ball gown or a morning jacket.”

“Okay. Cool. Um, thanks.” Perfectly opaque. Great. I know enough to not fish out my wrinkled laundry from the bottom of the laundry basket. Or at least find an iron or steamer or something. Worst case, I wear a shirt and trousers that I’d wear to Ivan’s. No one will know. “And—wait. What’s the address?”

“On New Bond Street in Mayfair,” says Richard smoothly without missing a beat, like it’s so obvious where Sotheby’s is, or maybe it is in his circles. Which are not, obviously, the same circle as broke art graduates. “I do not have the precise address in front of me. However, I could look it up for you if you would like.”

“No, no, I can figure that out from there, I think.”

“If that is all⁠—”

“No, it isn’t.”

I swear I can hear the sound of him arching an eyebrow.

“This is going to sound weird. I have Florian’s suit. I mean, he must have several. Anyway.” And I brace myself for Richard’s judgment, but he’s probably enough of a professional not to show it. “I need to return Florian’s suit to him. The one that I have. I told him that I would have it dry-cleaned and it would be ready to pick up from the bar where I unfortunately attacked him with cocktails. Is that something you can help with?” I force myself to stop talking and suck back a breath.

Silence.

To his credit, Richard only pauses for a second. “Of course. I can arrange to have his suit picked up.”

“Great. It’ll be ready after 5:00 p.m. today. At Ivan’s in Soho. Just let them know it’s the suit Matty dropped off for Florian. Or ask for Katerina.”

“Fine. It will be collected today after 5:00 p.m.,” he confirms. “And, for Thursday, please be prompt. Mr. De Ligt does not like to be kept waiting.”

“Yeah, I get that sense. Um, thanks?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gowen-Smith.”

The line goes dead. And I sit there for a long moment, contemplating the blank screen of my phone before I immediately start searching about Sotheby’s and Thursday’s event.

A couple of hours later, I meet my friend Noah, who’s up from Brighton also on his day off, so we find ourselves on Monday afternoon in a pub not far from my loaner flat in Soho. We’re at the back, holed up in a corner, pints at the ready, and none of them are airborne. Happily, we have to go to the bar to get our drinks, and there’s no table service here unless you put in a food order. Instead of proper food, we down crisps, a couple of packets opened up before us for a carb buffet.

I just filled Noah in on my Saturday night debacle, including to the point where Florian and I were trapped together in my building’s lift for hours. At the minute, he’s grinning.

“Well, that’s some way to meet a guy,” Noah marvels. “Was he hot? That’s the important part.”

“Hot,” I acknowledge. “Not much older than me, either. I’d guess thirty, tops. Though he’s very prickly. It’s like being trapped with a cactus in an enclosed space. As if he knew he was better than me. To be fair, he probably is, because he’s some business hotshot, and I’m a nobody right out of uni.”

Noah frowns and shakes his head. “Did he actually say that?”

“Well, not quite. But he did accuse me of being an unsuccessful artist. And he’s not exactly wrong about that, because I’m doing zero art and only working in a bar right now.”

He waves me off. “You’re an artist even if you’re not making art from sunrise to sundown. It’s not a verb. It’s a state of mind. You know that.”

“Deep.” I flick a crisp at him. He catches it with his hand and pops it into his mouth with a crunch. Just like the old days at uni. We met on the same course in Fine Art, and Noah’s a year ahead and been out in the real world for a full year now.

Noah’s actually making art. And selling it.

I sigh and sip my pint. “Yeah, I guess. It just feels a long way off for me, you know? I can’t afford a studio, and I can’t mess up Arran’s flat with paint. And I’m probably going to be living on someone’s sofa in Sevenoaks next month.”

“Have faith. You’ll get there. Painting, I mean. Not to a Sevenoaks sofa.”

“Let’s hope. And I’m sure Sevenoaks is perfectly nice, just a commute I don’t want to make to Ivan’s.” I feel resigned, trying to scrape together enough cash to save for a deposit on a London room of my own before Arran comes back. If it wasn’t for his generosity, I’d be back home in the village with my parents, working at the family pub. So, I suppose it could be worse. “I searched him online.”