His eyes are twinkling. “I’ve got to take some stuff to a gallery on the other side of the island.”
“And will we have to wade through a river filled with piranhas to get there?”
“You’ve got awfully dramatic in the years we’ve been apart.”
“It’s you. You bring it out in me.”
His eyes show pleasure, but he wisely says nothing. Instead, he says mildly, “We’ll drive over there. I can drop the stuff off, and we can have some lunch.”
“Fried in animal fat, I suppose.”
“Only if you ask very nicely.”
I bite my lip to hold in a laugh. “And then what? Come on, I know there’s exercise in your itinerary somewhere.”
“We can walk on the beach.”
“Aha.”
“It’s a very pretty beach. Thought you might like some fresh air.”
“Why? Is the five million gallons of it I’ve had so far this week not enough?”
“So many words,” he says. He prods the sketchbook I’d left on the table last night. “Have you used it?”
“Haven’t you opened it?” I say, astonished.
“Of course not. It would be like looking in someone’s underwear drawer.”
“Well, you’ve probably seen most of my new underwear already.”
“I have composed a voicemail to Dean thanking him.”
“They are all a bit slutty.” I shrug. “I’ve been drawing a bit. It helps when I feel wired.”
“The doctor says that feeling will pass.”
I shrug. “Not much I can do about it.”
“Have I ever told you that I admire your nihilistic mind?”
“No, because you know I don’t know what ‘nihilistic mind’ means.” I point at the sketchbook. “You can look if you want.”
His eyes light up, and he pulls the book towards him. I stand up and start to gather the pots. I don’t want to see his face when he’s looking at my stuff. It makes me feel curiously naked. I also don’t want to see politeness. That would hurt more than dismissal. I rattle around at the sink, clattering pots so loudly that at first I don’t hear him speak.
“Xavier?” I look around and swallow. His face is lit up like Christmas morning. “These arebrilliant.”
“R-Really?”
He nods. “You were amazing when you were nineteen. This is even better.” He touches a picture of Mrs Mac’s cat sleeping in the sun on a wall. I spare a moment of thanks that I burnt the one of Reuben’s face that I drew last night. “You must have done a lot of sketching over the years. That makes me so happy.” He smiles. “You were always so content when you drew.”
“I haven’t picked up a sketchbook since the Cotswolds,” I say, and immediately want to pull the words back when his face falls. “Not because of you,” I say quickly. “Just because I’ve been too busy.”
Silence drops because we’re both studiously ignoring the fact that I was mainly busy fucking myself up.
In the end, he offers me a gentle, crooked smile. “Well, I’m going to buy you a crate of arts supplies, and I really hope you use them. Don’t ignore a talent like that.”
I stare at him, stuck for what to say, and then the moment is lost as he stands up, setting the book down as carefully as ifit were a holy text. “Leave the pots. We’d better be going. Grab your coat and hat.”
