Page 81 of In the Frame

He nods, rising. “Gabriel’s not well.”

But he doesn’t say anything more, and I don’t ask more because it’s not my place. Not when things are like this between us. Not that there is an us. “I’m sorry he’s unwell.”

I walk him out to his car after he says good night to my parents, thanking them for the meal. We linger with our hands in our pockets beside his black car. The sun’s gone, and it’s the first hint of the evening moving to twilight.

“I hope to see you again,” Florian offers softly. “But I understand if it’s too difficult.”

I press my lips together. All I can do is nod.

Florian unlocks his car, opens the driver’s door, and starts the engine. And soon, he’s backing down the driveway, onto the lane, and out of sight. I retreat to my room and fling myself face down on my bed.

Chapter Forty-Five

The next morning, I’m up very early, startling my mum in the kitchen at 6:30 a.m. when I make tea since I gave up on sleep. The night was full of unsettling dreams of Florian and Ivan’s and the Rose. Ivan’s had turned into the Rose & Crown, and all my friends worked in the pub when Florian shut it down. And then Florian was kissing me, and all I wanted was him as things got heated. I tried to shake off the dream with a thorough wank and a cool shower.

Now seated in my studio, I’ve taken out the two beach paintings Florian loved so much. Did he actually love them? I look critically at the paintings, now propped against the bookshelf on the floor. The sky is aqua, and the sea is a deep blue, with pale beaches and colorful figures and red-and-white striped beach chairs. In the background, the iconic Brighton Pier stretches into the distance with its famous sign and structures. The second painting shares the same color palette, from further down the beach, with a closer focus on the figures. When I painted this last year and showed it to my friends, they were all enthusiastic about the work. Noah thought I should do more. “That’s all you need, Matty. Work in series. That’s what sells best. And these are gorgeous.”

I don’t think Noah would lie to me. Not usually.

Then I text him early to see if he’s free for a drink today if I come to Brighton and that I’m in Glynde and that I need to get out to clear my head. With my earnings from the pub and no rent, I can afford the day trip. Right now, all I can see is Florian here in Glynde, as if he’s manifested into some kind of ghost. And hopefully, he’ll have ghosted his way out of Glynde by the time I get back tonight. Brighton’s about twenty minutes away on the train when it behaves itself. There’s always a chance of rail replacements, being Sunday, but it would be great to catch up with him. I’ve lain low since coming home. I haven’t told anyone I left London. It would be great to see him and also get an update on the Rose too.

It turns out Noah’s up early, too, because I have a text before long.

Pub lunch? 12:30pm? The usual?

Deal

Which is still a few hours away. I find myself changing into my painting coveralls and pulling out paints to mix up a suitable palette. I have a primed canvas ready to go, and I glance at my sketch of Florian and soon set in to work.

When it comes to portraits, I prefer to work alla prima, or wet-on-wet paint. There’s a freshness in the resulting work that appeals to me when I paint in this style, loose and free. Putting on some music, I lose myself in painting. Something bound tight in my chest frees as I work.

I only become aware of my surroundings a few hours later when there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I call, in the process of cleaning my brushes, standing before my newly finished portrait of Florian. I glance from the painting to the door.

Mum pokes her head in, then enters, holding two tea mugs. “I thought you might need more tea.”

“Thanks,” I tell her, taking off my gloves and accepting the tea. I sit on the stool by the easel, and Mum takes the desk chair. The tea’s hot and grounding. Though it does feel weird to be caught painting Florian by my mum.

“Stunning,” she tells me, admiring the painting. “You’ve really captured him.”

“I hope so. I mean, I’d like to think so.”

Florian’s gaze from last night as he sat on the stool where I am now is burned into my mind. Impossible to forget. There’s something both serious and a little melancholy in the painting. And there’s a lump in my throat.

Mum looks from the painting to me. “How was it seeing him yesterday?”

I sigh and shrug. “Amazing. Terrible. You know.” Then I sip my tea, battling myself. Like how can I put into words how I feel about Florian? About how infuriating and incredible he is at the same time? How thrilled I was to see him yesterday, and how devastated too. Because nothing’s changed one bit, in reality.

Mum gives me a wry smile. “I can tell you both care for each other.”

“Yeah.” I swallow a particularly generous mouthful of tea, and it burns a little on the way down. “Caring only gets you so far. Better off not.”

“That’s very cynical for you, love.” Mum frowns, considering me. Like she’s checking to see if I’m the real Matty and not some doppelgänger. Maybe the other version of me would have a better time navigating feelings.

I shrug again. My shoulders tighten. “Feelings aren’t helping this situation. It’s what makes it worse. If I didn’t care about Florian, it wouldn’t hurt so much that he wants to destroy the Rose.”

“I’m sure it would be a huge loss.”