“I’m an actress,” Talia said, settling back in her chair. “I have excellent stamina for long stories.”
They talked for two hours.
Andre told her about the studio, about the shift from tennis to painting, about the strange, disorienting freedom of choosing a life that no one had planned for him. Talia told him about the Old Vic, about the grind of repertory theatre — six shows a week, minimal pay, the constant auditions for roles that might lead somewhere bigger. She and Liam had been together for three years, having met during a production of Twelfth Night at RADA — the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, one of the most prestigious drama schools in the world, tucked into a quiet street in Bloomsbury, where generations of Britain’s finest actors had learned their craft. They had both trained there on scholarship.
She was funny, sharp, and disarmingly honest. She told Andre that she had grown up in Hackney, the daughter of a Greek-Cypriot mother and an English father, and that she had wanted to be an actress since she was seven years old and had played a sheep in the school nativity.
“A sheep,” Andre repeated, grinning.
“I was a magnificent sheep. I committed to the role. Full method.”
By the time they parted — Talia heading to the theatre for the evening performance, Andre heading back to the studio — Andre felt lighter than he had in weeks. He had made a friend. Not a tennis friend, not a sponsor’s wife, not someone who wanted something from him. Just a person who liked talking and drinking tea and telling stories about playing a sheep.
He walked back to the studio, unlocked the door, and stood in front of the canvas he’d been working on all week. It was a large piece, abstract, all blues and grays, the suggestion of movement without a clear subject.
He picked up a brush, mixed a new color — a warm, vivid green, the color of malachite — and began to paint.
Chapter three
Introductions
Over the next two weeks, Andre and Talia fell into a routine.
They met at the cafe most afternoons — Andre arriving from the studio with paint under his fingernails, Talia arriving from rehearsals with the particular wired energy of someone who had spent three hours pretending to be someone else. They drank coffee and tea respectively, they talked about art and theatre and the particular madness of choosing a creative life over a sensible one, and they argued, pleasantly and at length, about whether painting or acting was the more honest form of expression.
“Painting is permanent,” Andre insisted one afternoon, gesturing with his espresso cup. “Once it is on the canvas, it exists forever. A performance disappears the moment the curtain falls.”
“That’s exactly what makes it honest,” Talia countered, tearing a piece of croissant — she had started buying them from Pierre’s bakery after Andre had mentioned it, and was now firmly addicted. “A performance is alive. It breathes. It changes every night. A painting just sits there, being smug.”
“My paintings are not smug.”
“Your paintings are extremely smug. In a beautiful way.”
Liam joined them when his schedule allowed. He was exactly as Talia had described him — a ginger disaster, loud and warm and incapable of sitting still. His green eyes were constantly moving, taking in the room, reading people with the instinctive precision of a trained actor. He asked questions the way a child asks questions — directly, without apology, genuinely wanting to know the answer.
“So you just hit a ball back and forth?” Liam asked during their first proper conversation, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “For hours?”
“There’s more to it than that,” Andre said, amused.
“But fundamentally, you hit it, he hits it back, you hit it again. And people pay to watch this?”
“Millions of people.”
“Millions of people also watchLove Island. That doesn’t make it art.”
“Tennis is art,” Andre said, surprised by the conviction in his own voice. “When it’s played well, it’s as beautiful as anything I’ve ever painted.”
Liam considered this, his head tilted, his green eyes thoughtful. “I’d like to see that. You playing, I mean. Not on television. In person.”
“Come to Wimbledon. I’ll get you tickets.”
Liam’s face lit up. “Seriously?”
“If I’m playing. Which is not guaranteed at this point.”
“He’ll be playing,” Talia said firmly, as if the matter were settled.
Andre smiled but said nothing. The truth was, he hadn’t decided. Hamburg was in two weeks, and he still hadn’t committed. The Whitfield Gallery had offered him a solo exhibition in September, and the preparation required was enormous — twelve to fifteen new pieces, all of exhibition quality, in less than three months. Something was going to have to give.
