‘This one is practically unctuous,’ she marvels. ‘I’ve never felt closer to the Amalfi Coast. It’s as if I’m sat by the sea, eating ragu and drinking an earthy red. What’s the piece called?’
I peer at the tag underneath. ‘Black Square.’
‘Wow. Have you ever seen a less square-like square?’
I try to make informed, appreciative hmming noises but they come out as a splutter. So maybe my transformation into aesthete isn’t quite complete. You’d think, as a florist, that I’d have an innate appreciation for all the arts. After all, most of my days are spent arranging bouquets, styling my little flower shop and taking pictures of commissions for social media. Stylish photos, I can do. Abstract art? Not so much. I’m not convinced Gold Glasses and I will have masses in common so I make my excuses and potter off to the loos, stopping at the entrance to take a shot of the beautifully arranged ivy hanging along one wall.
I tinker with the light and sharpness of the picture before uploading it to my flower shop’s Instagram account and tapping in a caption.
Prettiest trailing ivy we ever saw! For the less green-fingered among you, there’s good news. Ivy makes the perfect houseplant as it’s practically unkillable. Want even more good news? Our houseplants are back in stock soon so stay tuned for more!
I add the usual hashtags and it doesn’t take long before the likes start coming in, giving me a familiar buzz of pride. I set up an account when the shop opened so that I could share pictures of our displays, the shop itself and anything flower-related, really. It took off and I have a big following now which is amazing. My shop has featured on interiors influencers’ blogs and I work on large displays for lots of Sheffield’s independent shops, too. Customers can DM with enquiries and whenever I’m not in the shop, I’m usually to be found hunting for social media content.
However, flower inspo is not the main reason I’m here tonight. I’m on very important best friend business and I keep glancing over at Natalie to check she’s okay. She’s fighting hard to be her professional self, I can tell, but underneath it all she’s still so sad. My last check-in confirmed that she’s just had a peek at her phone and is now on the verge of tears. I’m so mad at Jake, I hate that he’s done this to her. And I can confirm that pretending to be absorbed in the art (the piece I’m standing in front of now is called ‘Red Circle’) is not easy when you’re actually plotting your first murder. Jake, frankly, is going to have to meet a sticky end and soon. When I look across again, Natalie is walking towards me, looking sheepish.
‘Don’t be cross, but Jake’s just asked to meet,’ she says.
‘I hope you told him where to stick it.’
Natalie coughs. ‘Um, no, I’ve agreed to go. Will you be okay here by yourself?’
‘No I will not! You can’t meet him now Nat, we’re in the middle of an event you organised and you should stay ’til the end. Also, it’s just not a good idea. He’s made you sad enough, he doesn’t deserve any more of your time.’
Natalie sighs. Her bag is already on her shoulder and she looks so lost that I want to bundle her into my arms forevermore. This isexactlywhy you should never fall in love, I remind myself. It opens you up to all kinds of emotional distress.
‘I’ve checked with my boss and he’s happy that everything is running smoothly.’
‘Of course he is. He just turns up, drinks wine and takes all the credit for your hard work!’
Nat bites her lip. ‘He does do that,’ she concedes. ‘But for once I’m grateful for it. I just need some answers.’
‘Let me come with you to make sure you’re okay? Maybe push Jake under a bus as we say our goodbyes? You know, by mistake,’ I say, making finger quotes around the last two words.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she smiles. ‘Stay, enjoy the art or at least enjoy the free bar. I’ll see you later.’
Propping up that makeshift bar an hour later, I realise I’m quite drunk and have abandoned all hopes of “enjoying” the art. I take a sip of my third glass of wine. Or fourth? Can’t be sure, the bartender just keeps topping me up now. The good news is that I’m fully invested in the conversation I’ve struck up with myself.
‘And then she said something about ragu and the Amalfi Coast and earthy reds. I mean, talk about pretentious. It was a black square. It was even called ‘Black Square’! Want to hear the best bit? It cost four hundred and fifty quid! The artist must be laughing all the way to the bank. I could literally have painted that myself,’ I snort.
It dawns on me that the man on the bar stool next to mine has been listening for some time, his deep green eyes looking at me intently.
‘That’s interesting, because ‘Black Square’wasinspired by the Amalfi Coast. My family are Italian,’ he says.
I’m confused. Who is this absolute snack sat next to me?
‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ he smiles, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Zach and this is my exhibition.’
I blink. Surely …
‘I’m the artist,’ he clarifies.
‘Oh god. I’m so sorry,’ I cringe, taking his hand and shaking it a little too enthusiastically. ‘I’m Alice and as you can tell, I really don’t know anything about this kind of art. I’m sure your work totally is full of … ragu?’
Zach laughs and I find my gaze lingering on the tangle of dark hair framing his handsome, angular face. The intense eyes peering through inky lashes. I beam back, enjoying the way his laugh makes me feel like I’ve just stepped into the sunshine.
‘This is the first time I’ve displayed my work like this, with a big opening night I mean,’ he’s saying. ‘Or, itwas. We’re the last people here now.’
I peer around us and realise that he’s right. ‘Well, congratulations! Did tonight go well?’
