And he had no idea that happiness could be so fragile.
Chapter eleven
The Gallery
The invitation arrived on a Thursday morning in late September, slipped through the letterbox along with a gas bill and a catalogue from Selfridges.
It was printed on heavy cream card stock, the text embossed in a deep navy blue. Andre picked it up from the mat, turning it over in his hands.
Winters Gallery cordially invites you to the opening of "Light on Water" — new works by Lev Sokolov. Thursday 3 October, 7pm. 14 Bury Street, St James's.
Below the printed text, someone had written in a loose, confident hand:
Andre — would love to finally meet you. Clara speaks very highly. Come if you can. — Jasper Winters
Andre set the card on the kitchen counter, propping it against the fruit bowl. He poured his coffee and stood there, looking at it.
He was deep in the Paris commission — three large canvases for a collector who wanted a cohesive series that also stood alone. The work consumed him. Most days he was in the studio by seven and didn't leave until the light failed. The idea of standing in a crowded gallery, holding a glass of wine, making conversation about someone else's art felt like a distraction he couldn't afford.
But Clara had mentioned the Winters Gallery several times in recent weeks. Jasper and Phoebe Winters. They'd opened the space eight years ago — small, independent, fiercely selective. They didn't represent names just to raise eyebrows. They showed work they believed in, artists they cared about. Clara said they'd been asking about Andre since the Whitfield show in July.
Blake came into the kitchen, still damp from the shower, a towel draped around his shoulders. He picked up the card, read it, and set it back down.
"You should go," he said, reaching past Andre for the coffee pot.
"I'd rather spend that evening with you. Perhaps massages that turn into something naughty?" he said with a snicker.
"I'm not one to turn down massages that turn naughty, so why don't we go and start the massages when we get home?" Blake poured his coffee, took a sip, and looked at Andre over the rim of the mug. "The wine will get us in the mood and, anyway, you've been in the studio for three weeks straight. You need to look at something that isn't your own work. It would be an opportunity to network."
Andre considered this. Blake was right. It would just be an hour and a half and he would insist on playful intimacy when they got home.
"And I'll be there," Blake added, leaning against the counter, his hip touching Andre's. "If it's terrible, we leave and start the massages early!"
Andre picked up the card again, running his thumb over the embossed lettering. Bury Street. St James's. It was a good address — serious but not intimidating. Not Cork Street, not Mayfair. Somewhere between the establishment and the edge.
"Okay," Andre said. "We go. But the naughtiness is non-negotiable!"
"Deal," Blake said smiling deviously.
The gallery was narrow and deep, occupying the ground floor of a Georgian townhouse. The front window was a single large pane of glass, and through it Andre could see the paintings already — large, luminous watercolors that seemed to glow against the white walls.
They arrived at quarter past seven, deliberately late. The room was already full — perhaps forty people, holding glasses of white wine, their voices creating a low, pleasant buzz that spilled out onto the pavement through the open door. The October evening was cool but dry.
Blake's hand found the small of Andre's back as they stepped inside — a light, steady pressure that said I'm here without saying anything at all.
The paintings were beautiful. Lev Sokolov worked in watercolor on a large scale — something Andre respected enormously, because watercolor was unforgiving at any size, and at this scale it was almost reckless.
Andre was standing in front of the largest piece — a six-foot canvas of what might have been the Thames at dawn, or might have been nothing at all — when a voice appeared beside him.
"You're looking at it the way I hoped someone would."
Andre turned. The man was tall with close-cropped gray hair and a warm face. He was perhaps fifty, wearing a linen blazer over a dark T-shirt, no tie, the kind of deliberate informality that suggested confidence rather than carelessness.
"Jasper Winters," the man said, extending his hand.
Andre shook it. "Andre Moreau."
"I know." Jasper's smile was wide and genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Clara's told me everything. Well — not everything. Enough to make me very keen to meet you."
