Page 17 of Matilda’s Summer of New Beginnings

‘Ah, yes. I was thinking about that—’

‘Forget it.’ I held my hand out in front of his face (I think it was in front of his face, I was studiously not looking at him) to shut him up. ‘I don’t want to hear about your mega-success with the Saatchi Gallery this weekend or how crap my art is compared to yours.’

He had the audacity to laugh. ‘Oh I haven’t been to Saatchi, Tilds.’

‘Good.’

‘Yeah, but like I say, I was thinking about Machismo, and what I said, and—’

‘Nope.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t want to hear about it.’ I stood up. ‘Rosie, is that kettle boiled yet?’

I wandered into the kitchen and got in Rosie’s way while she was lining our mugs up on the bench. ‘Go and see your mate Damien,’ I told her. ‘I’ll sort these out. I don’t want to hear any more about his art gallery stuff.’

Rosie moved and handed me the teaspoon. ‘You do have the option of Julio’s,’ she reminded me. ‘So don’t be too harsh on Damien.’

‘I guess.’ I scowled. ‘But it still galls me what he did.’ To be honest, it was more what he had said, as well.

‘If you say so.’ She drifted out of the kitchen, and I heard her strike up a conversation with Damien — it wasn’t about art, though. It was about his hat.

‘I think you could really make something of it,’ she was saying, patting his head thoughtfully as I walked in and clattered the tray down. Why would anyone voluntarily pat Damien’s hat? Your hand might stick to it and there could be germs. Many, many germs.

‘Why are you patting Damien’s hat?’ I asked.

‘Because I think he could be a bit of a male fashionista with it,’ Rosie replied. I snorted a laugh, because, really? Then I realized she was being serious.

‘A fashionista?’ I blinked.

‘Yes. I mean, somewhere under there, he’s got a face with a bone structure,’ said Rosie. ‘Don’t you think he’d make a good model for Darling!?’

I looked at Damien and he looked at me and we both, I’m sure, looked confused.

‘I have never considered Damien model material,’ I replied carefully. He was, to all intents and purposes, the slightly scruffy boy I’d ran wild with when we were kids. Sometimes, I looked at him and couldn’t reconcile this adult man with the boy who’d sat at my kitchen table while we’d done our homework, and who’d once spilled paint water on my landscape for Art. I still didn’t know to this day whether he’d done it deliberately, but he claimed he couldn’t recall the incident so he didn’t know.

‘That makes two of us,’ added Damien. He ducked away from Rosie’s patting hand and reached over for his mug. ‘I know I’m many things, but a male model I am not.’

‘I agree,’ I muttered, grabbing my own mug and sitting down. ‘I mean — you’re Damien.’

‘Yeah.’ He took a thoughtful sip of tea.

‘I think with a bit of a scrub up your look would be very “in”,’ said Rosie, picking up the third mug. ‘A bit edgy.’

This time Damien and I caught each other’s eyes, and I felt a smile twitch at the side of my mouth. Damien mirrored that and soon we were laughing. The conversation moved on from Damien’s modelling potential onto other things, including our weekend in Padcock. I noticed that he very carefully didn’t try to mention Machismo any more, which I was grateful for.

Damien and I were good friends and always would be, but I feared the Machismo thing was going to sting for quite some time. I know some people may think that having an elephant in the room the size of an art gallery wasn’t healthy, but that was the way Damien and I had always been. We disagreed on as many things as we agreed upon, and had learnt over the years that it wasn’t worth arguing over our differences.

Unless it was about how many red fruit pastilles there were in your packet.

And anyway, come Wednesday, I may have something even more exciting up my sleeve than a Machismo exhibition. If I summoned up the courage, of course.

The thought made me stare thoughtfully into my tea as I realized I was looking forward to the trip to Julio’s more than I thought I would be.

I ignored the thought that gently reminded me that perhaps I wouldn’t be so excited if Jay wasn’t coming with me . . .

Chapter Seven

Angelina was doing her usual sultry, seductive thing by lunchtime on Wednesday. She’d clearly woken up after a couple of double espressos, and she was enjoying flirting with the male customers at Ziggy’s — the Italian café I worked at.

And the male customers seemed to be enjoying the flirting.