Page 12 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

“So, you’re a reporter.” Alex tilted his head, giving me his full attention, and the rest of the room fell away as we spoke to one another. “That must be fascinating. I admire anyone that can write. It must be so rewarding, telling the stories of people’s lives.”

“It has its moments.”

He narrowed his eyes, and his head shook slightly as he asked, “Have we met before?”

‘I think I’d remember you,’ I thought, but replied, “I don’t think so.”

He frowned, rubbing his stubbled jaw as he said, “I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I know you.”

“Maybe I have a memorable face.” I shrugged.

He paused, then uttered, “Very memorable.”

And my already hot cheeks burned fiercer as I tried not to react, and took another sip of my champagne to mask how shy he made me feel.

“Are you an art collector?” he asked, waiting avidly to hear my response. His eye contact was insane, and the way he focused on me, like I was the most important person in this room, made me forget that I was ever awkward or apprehensive to be around these people. Alex Kingston had a way of putting me at ease and making me feel like I belonged there. He was easy to talk to and comfortable to be around. He had a magnetic aura. They all did. But he was on another level.

“I’m an art lover, but not a collector.” I gestured to a set of abstract portraits on the wall behind us. “The pieces here are a little out of my price range. But I hear you’re a collector, Mr. Kingston.”

“Alex,” he replied, his expression kind and endearing. “Please call me Alex. And yes, I am.” He smiled, and it made my insides twirl.

“Are there any pieces here that you’ll be adding to your private collection?” I smiled back, interested to hear what he’d say. Wondering what his home looked like and what type of art he collected. What was hung on his walls? What did his bedroom look like? Jeez, I was getting ahead of myself.

“Which piece is your favourite, Miss Belmont?” he asked, throwing the question right back at me.

“It’s Emma,” I said, my voice coming out all breathy, like I was a damn schoolgirl speaking to her first crush.

“Emma,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye. Then he repeated, “Which piece is your favourite, Emma?” And the way he said my name made my body turn to molten lava.

I took a deep breath, glancing around the room, trying to formulate my thoughts into a response that wouldn’t make me sound as uneducated as I felt. From the corner of my eye, I could see him regarding me with fascination and curiosity.

“I think all the art here has a lot of merit. Some pieces are truly stunning. I particularly like the modernist approach of some of them. The reflection on today’s society and how we see ourselves, like a window to our souls.”

He grinned knowingly as he shook his head. “You don’t have to give me the generic newspaper spiel. I want your honest opinion. An answer that comes from the heart. Just tell me, Emma, which one stands out to you? What piece of art makes you feel something?”

The waiter reappeared with a tray containing Alex’s whisky, and he took it, sipping thoughtfully, then he tilted his glass towards me and asked, “If money was no object, which one would you buy?”

I could feel sweat gathering on my upper lip as he looked at me, waiting for a response. The little black dress I wore suddenly felt too tight, too restrictive. I was worried about saying the wrong thing and making myself sound stupid. Stalling for time, I cleared my throat, as I felt every pair of eyes boring into me. Then I glanced at the others, the room around us now back in focus and blaring loudly, making me feel self-conscious. Our circle had stopped talking and they were watching us, waiting for me to speak. And just like that, my tongue felt too big for my mouth.

“Don’t worry about them,” Alex said, moving to stand right in front of me, blocking the others out. “Falstead wouldn’t know good art if it jumped up and slapped him round the face. He still has the Athena Tennis Girl poster framed on his wall at home.”

“Oi,” Tobey chimed in. “Everyone loves that poster. They always talk about it when they walk through my front door.”

“It’s certainly a talking point,” Alex mused. Then he turned to me and said, “There is no right or wrong answer, Emma. Honestly. Just pick one. I’m interested to know what you really think.”

“The heart,” I blurted out. “Although I would love to see what other art Tobey has in his collection,” I added cheekily and they all laughed.

I turned to face the wall with the S.K.A.M. graffiti art on it. “That one speaks to me the most. Follow your heart,” I reiterated. “Because how can you follow your heart if it’s in pieces? Which part do you follow? Because it all matters. Everything attached to each fractured part. And I think, maybe, the artist is trying to explain that we all feel torn in life, between duty, family, work, friends, caring for the environment, being the best person we can be, but always feeling as if we’re failing, because we can’t follow every part. We can’t be all things to all people. And everything is so splintered, broken and shattered sometimes. How do you fix it?”

“You can’t,” he replied softly, moving closer to me. “It’s impossible to fix a world like ours. But if we can be the best possible version of ourselves, to be something to someone, doesn’t that make everything worthwhile?”

I nodded, unable to form words after he’d just given me such a perfect answer.

We stood for a moment in silence, and then he glanced to the side, where a podium with a gorgeous flower arrangement stood. He reached out and took one of the pale pink peonies from it and handed it to me.

“Here’s to being somebody’s someone,” he said, and feeling dumbstruck, I took the flower, glancing at it before peering back up at him.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to take these,” I said, my eyes wide, like a child caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.