Page 17 of In the Frame

Heaven help me, it’s all I can do to keep from my jaw dropping. Fuck, he’s a quick study. And he’s done something funny to my insides, hearing him call me my true name for the first time in the same breath as partner. I know this is all make-believe, but still.

I squeeze his hand in acknowledgment and give him a heartfelt smile.

Again, he doesn’t give anything away on the outside, but… he squeezes back?

Oh my God. I suppose the good news is that he’s trying to be convincing. Very convincing. No notes.

Inside, there’s a gathering crowd when we reach the gallery, with people laughing and mingling over drinks, exploring the impressive artworks in the gallery.

“Want a glass of wine?” I offer, noticing the serving station to the side of the room. Another tidy queue as the gallery fills up. On the opposite side of the room, a DJ plays upbeat music.

The bar area is decorated with stunning, colorful floral displays, which dot the room on tables and flank doorways.

And the art is amazing. Truly amazing. Sure enough, there’s an Andy Warhol not more than three feet from my elbow. I stop dead in my tracks en route to the bar to gawp, because Andy Warhol. And I truly gawp like a tourist, because frankly, I have no chill when it comes to art.

In my peripheral vision, I’m aware Florian’s stopped beside me. But what I see is a Warhol self-portrait, all pop art appeal, bright colors, and sharp contrasts. Most of all, I’m intrigued by his expression. About what he sees, and who he is, and what it would have been like on the avant-garde edge in the ’60s.

I’m not sure how long I stand there, considering the piece, with Florian a silent shadow beside me. When I come to my senses again, I glance over at him curiously. “What do you think?”

“I want to know what you think,” Florian says simply, his gaze still fixed on the work. “Obviously, I know who the artist is, but the way you stopped… I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

What? Florian didn’t want to interrupt me?

I turn more fully now to face him, with shock all over my face, I’m sure. Unlike him, I have a terrible poker face. “That’s… very considerate. I was just thinking, what it would have been like to live at that time, pushing back against the status quo with experimental works and helping inspire a movement. Did he even know that’s what he was doing? I mean, he had the Factory. I can’t imagine being in his shoes, but it’s cool to think about. I can’t imagine I’d ever be in the same position, but…” I give him my best side-eye with a smile to know I’m teasing, “it’s not because I’m an unsuccessful artist.”

Damn, second dig in tonight. I should watch myself.

Florian presses his lips together into a line, which transforms into a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

I shrug. “Well, I guess it’s partly true, at least. I mean, true right now, not necessarily true forever. I just finished uni, in fairness to me.”

He blinks at that. “You did? How old are you?”

And somehow, his question cuts. Or maybe it’s the way he asks. The result is that my stomach’s in knots again.

Chapter Nine

This is where even the fledgling fake boyfriending fails. It was a fragile idea at best. I try to think of a quip but can’t find anything, and it’s a reasonable enough question to ask. I don’t want to lie or mislead him into thinking I’m someone I’m not. “Twenty-two. I took a gap year before uni. And I just finished and moved to London. Which is why I’m at Arran’s and not at my own place. And working at a bar.”

Florian considers me. “You have some excellent insights for someone so young.”

“Thanks, Grandpa. How old are you?” I counter, unable to help myself. He just managed to make himself sound like he’s well into his golden years.

He groans. “Twenty-seven.”

“Oh my God, I bet you’re on those Top Thirty Under Thirty Lists, aren’t you?” I exclaim in delight.

Florian looks dreadfully embarrassed, flushing and looking away. “Possibly. But it’s irrelevant. It’s not what drives me. Now. Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Let’s go, then. See if I can pick up some tips about pouring drinks into glasses and not onto people.”

“Cute, but that’s not what happened,” he says drily as we join the queue for drinks. “Believe me, I had a front-row seat.”

“True story.”

We’re next up for drinks, where we both take the offered champagne, which he does with practiced ease, while I feel like I’m playing an escalating charade at being someone much posher than I am. With our drinks, we do a circuit of the gallery, and I continue to be stunned at seeing so many incredible contemporary artists in one place. Occasionally, we stop, and I tell him about the art. And he listens, much to my surprise. Like, really listens, like I’m some kind of expert, which is hilarious, because I’m definitely not. Florian asks my opinion on different pieces, and I give him what background I can about the artist and the movement (over there, that Hirst is from the Young British Artists of the ’90s, or holy shit, Lucien Freud’s figurative paintings are to die for, and so on).

And I pretty much lose my composure again when I see a David Hockney painting and the way he captures a mood and color that I can only aspire to one day. Unexpectedly, tears come to my eyes, and then Florian surprises me with a moment of shocking emotional intelligence and squeezes my hand in an almost convincing non-fake-boyfriend sort of way.