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He cleared his throat. ‘Practically speaking, though, a garden or gallery would be more believable. And I’m not really into gardens so...’
A memory, long buried, shuffled from the wings into the spotlight. A school trip, and then later, when he’d been old enough to go alone, furtive visits by himself.
‘What about the British Museum?’
They both spoke at once.
Effie frowned up at him, her brown eyes tangling with his for a second, and then the corners of her mouth fluttered upwards into another of those mesmerizingly sweet smiles that made his heart beat faster.
No, they weren’t brown, he thought with a twitch of surprise. They were amber...like the colour of iced tea. Her hair wasn’t just brown either. There were strands of gold and red too, like autumn leaves spinning through pale sunlight.
‘You like the British Museum?’ he asked.
‘It’s one of my favourite places in the world. Not that I’ve seen much of the world.’ Her eyelashes fluttered like moths around a lamp. ‘I used to go there when I had a split shift. They have the most amazing glass perfume bottles from Ancient Egypt and Greece. Some of them are shaped like animals and others are incredibly simple, but beautiful, like a teardrop.’
Suddenly he couldn’t quite catch his breath. She was moved by the memory. He could feel how important it was to her. Her excitement caught fire in him, too, and then out of nowhere he had the strangest feeling...almost like regret.
Regret that this wasn’t real—that it never could be real for him. That he would never be able to make it real for her.
He shook off the thought. ‘The British Museum it is, then.’
The look on her face altered, the smile flattening as if she realised that she had revealed more than she had intended.
‘I think that would work, but...’ she hesitated ‘...if you’ve changed your mind about all this, then it’s not too late to say so.’
The sun had moved lower now, and the light was starting to fade. He felt a momentary chill. ‘I haven’t changed my mind.’
Straightening up, he drew back his legs as if to distance himself from that possibility. Effie didn’t speak for a moment, and he frowned, impatient suddenly, again.
‘Are you saying you have? Because—’
‘I’m not saying that.’ She shook her head, her brown eyes finding his. ‘It’s just that it’s all happened very quickly, and earlier I thought you seemed...it seemed...’
He watched it all going through her head: those few moments of unscripted easiness between them, his abrupt departure, her struggle to understand. But for her to understand he would need to explain everything that had happened, and he couldn’t put that into words. He didn’t have the words.
He shrugged. ‘It’s just strange, sharing my space. I don’t do that.’
The doubt faded a little from her face. ‘It is strange,’ she said at last. ‘I haven’t shared my space either, since—’
She stumbled over the word, and he felt a sting against his skin—fine, like a paper cut. Since Sam. That was what she had been about to say...only she couldn’t say it.
‘When did he move out?’ he asked.
Now her gaze was on him again, wide-eyed, bewildered.
‘Who?’
‘Your boyfriend. Sam.’ For some reason, that sentence was a lot harder to say out loud than it had been in his head. ‘The one who painted you.’
The one you’re still in love with, he almost added.
For a moment she didn’t reply. She just stared at him as if she was trying to put into words what she was feeling. Then, ‘Sam’s not my boyfriend. She’s not even a boy.’
Now it was his turn to stare. His eyes locked with hers as he replayed that moment in her flat when she had melted into him, the soft touch of her mouth and that shimmering charged heat that danced over his skin. Had that been an illusion on his part? An experiment on hers?
‘Are you saying—?’
‘No.’ She was shaking her head. ‘No. Sam’s my mum.’
