Page 19 of In the Frame

“I think we should go for a walk,” Florian says with a decisive air. “Let’s get our coats.”

So, we do, and a few minutes later, we’re walking outside past high-end shops as it starts to sprinkle rain on a cool July night. The air feels refreshing, despite being in central London. A stream of slow traffic creeps past us on New Bond Street, the wet road casting red reflections from taillights in puddles and onto parked cars and glass storefronts like a kaleidoscope.

And I wonder why I feel so angry all of a sudden. I give him a level look as we stop beneath a luxury clothing shop’s awning for shelter, a couple of doors over from Sotheby’s.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset.” Florian gazes at me, his green eyes hard. “You’ve told me yourself that you’re not making art and instead work in a bar. You’re currently removed from art production.”

“Art production?” I squeak. “Florian—I’m a painter, for crying out loud. Not working in a factory making millions of identical widgets. Or bespoke widgets. I paint—or I did—because I have something to say.”

His lips sour. “How do you know that the people in the widget factory don’t have something to say too?”

“Oh. My. God.”

He’s totally lost his mind. We’re both technically speaking English, but even my parents are way more sympathetic about art despite not knowing a thing about it. I’ve never met someone so calculating about art. And maybe that’s how it is in elite circles. I wouldn’t know, since they’re not my circles. I’m trying to draw in a breath before I erupt.

Florian peers at me, like he’s completely at a loss as to why I’m having a meltdown in front of some fancy clothing shop with a mannequin in the window that’s probably worth more than all of my paintings put together.

“Why are you so angry? This seems disproportionate.” Florian eyes me.

“I’m angry because art matters more to me than anything else, and you’re just seeing dollar signs. It’s like you’re totally tone-deaf. You’ve said nothing about human expression. So, I’m upset, Florian. Because I have feelings.” I gesture sharply at him, frustrated. “Maybe you don’t. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“I can see you’re upset. But I’m having a hard time following why.”

My eyes prickle, and I shut them for a moment. I make myself breathe. “I don’t know what I’m even doing here,” I tell him hotly, flushing, throwing my hands up in the air. That stung. Like I needed the reminder. Florian’s gone for the jugular again without missing a beat like an ace drummer. “You got your suit, right?”

“Yes. I did.”

“You see everyone as something to be used in order to have worth. In my world, the real world, there’s a lot more out there. And you can’t see it. And it makes me sad that you can’t see it. And… and I think that’s why you’re not with Billy, because I bet he can see and feel beauty, and you can’t⁠—”

His eyes widen, and I know I went way too far. Definitely the third glass of champagne on a handful of canapés was a mistake, but I’m still furious. And I’m not sorry I said it. I want to see him as upset as I am. To prove he has feelings too and that he isn’t carved from marble.

“I—you—” Florian tries again, spluttering and stunned, looking like someone had just thrown more drinks at him. “Too far, Matty.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Maybe not. Look, you got what you needed from me tonight—a companion for an evening at your event. You have your suit. Let’s call this done. Whatever this is.”

Florian gazes at me, impassive. “If that’s what you wish.”

“It’s all fake, Florian. Remember? Every last bit of it. Everything’s for show, to impress someone else, right? I’m going home. You can go home to your secret art vault or whatever. Good night.”

We stare each other down on the pavement. His jaw’s tight, shoulders braced. Maybe he’s not even human for all I know. Maybe some alien species is missing one of their own tonight. I grit my teeth, not wanting to be the one who looks away first.

“Good night, Matty.”

He stands with his hands in the pockets in his fine wool coat, his gaze unwavering. Some fleeting expression crosses his face, something soft and sad, before it disappears again as he glances down.

I turn on my heel abruptly, heading home alone in the misty rain. More than anything, I’m angry with myself for letting Florian get under my skin so much and for why I even care about what he thinks in the first place.

Chapter Ten

Three days later, my temper’s subsided, and I’m more on the mortified side, still trying to unpack the evening with Florian in my mind while I worked the weekend at Ivan’s, crafting premium cocktails. For the record, there were no more spilled drinks, in part because I didn’t offer any more table service and instead stuck to bartending, where I’m at least showing a flair for basic skills when no one is looking.

And I have an awkward realization, which is that I’ve returned Florian’s suit, but he’s neglected to return mine—definitely a problem because I need mine back.

The wedding’s next weekend, and I now have no suit and no money to replace it with a new one or, frankly, to pay for a rental. The rental would be the go-to option because I have no plans to speak to Florian ever again.

What I have is about fifty quid to take me to the end of July. Aside from the deposit for a new flat and my overdraft. The last thing I want is to get into debt for a suit that I should already have hanging in my closet. That’ll teach me to do good deeds.

By Monday, my stomach’s in knots. Opting for a change of scene and having the prepaid ticket already, I head south to Brighton. I’m off to meet Noah since we share the same day off. He works as a waiter, but unlike me, he also has his own studio. To be fair, he’s been out of uni for a year and has since established his own illustration practice and was regularly selling work before graduation.