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The room got cold. I put on a sweater.
My stomach grumbled. I didn’t stop. Not until my eyes began to burn. It was only then I realized I didn’t have my glasses—the new ones wouldn’t be ready for a few days. I was farsighted and didn’t need them for this work but would need them when it came to the finer details. Time to call it a day.
Or night. My clock radio said it was after eleven p.m. I’d been painting for nearly six hours, nonstop.
I set aside my brushes and washed up. I should’ve been exhausted, but I felt wide awake, and I’d promised Ambri I’d do research for his portrait.
I heated up a cup of ramen—the salty-ass noodles never tasted better—and tucked myself in bed. Even the cold wind seeping in through the window didn’t bother me as much.
Amazing what a little hope could do for a guy.
I flipped through my art history book that covered the Renaissance through the late 1800’s. But the images passed under my gaze without me really seeing them. I already knew how I’d paint Ambri’s portrait. I could envision every line, every brush stroke.
The book tilted out of my grasp as sleep crept up on me.
“I could paint you with my eyes closed…”
Dawn came in what felt like minutes later, but I jumped out of bed and examined my painting. Another few hours and it’d be done.
“Holy shit,” I whispered.
I touched the edge of the canvas, half afraid it would vanish. That I was dreaming. But like Lucy had said, the self-doubt that had been squeezing me like a boa constrictor was gone and I could breathe. I was in the zone. I was doing what I was meant to do, and that was everything.
I wasn’t due at Ambri’s until the afternoon. I drew three full-body sketches of him as a demon—they practically flew out from under my hand—and headed to Hyde Park. I kept the price at twenty pounds and again customers told me that was cheap. Ambri was already paying me too much for his portrait, and even these sketches were a gift from him. It felt like I was taking advantage.
By noon, two sketches were snapped up, and a tall man in a brown tweed coat took the last one, studying it through round tortoiseshell glasses.
“Do you have more?”
“That’s it,” I said, “but I’m working on a series of paintings.”
He nodded and rummaged in his pocket. He handed me a business card that readDavid Coffman, Retailer and Exhibitor,along with his contact info.
“I’m curating collections for the London Art Faire a week from this Saturday. Do you think you’ll have something to show by then?”
“I…yes! Definitely.”
“Stalls open at six a.m. for artists. Come see me at the office then. I’ll hold a booth for you.”
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
He handed me the sketch. “You forgot to sign it.”
“Oh, right.”
I signed my name at the bottom right corner while he pulled a fifty-pound note from his wallet.
“I don’t make a habit of buying from my vendors,” he said, “but this one I’m going to keep.” We exchanged the sketch for the money, and he squinted at my name. Then he tipped his cap to me. “A week from Saturday, Cole A. Matheson.”
“Right. See you then.” I sat back on my little stool. “Wait! You forgot your change.”
He waved me off absently, his eyes on the sketch. “Trust me, this is a steal.”
I arrived at Ambri’s flat in the early afternoon. Jerome was at the desk. Again. Did they ever give him time off? He waved me up before I could say a word. At Ambri’s door, I knocked, and he called for me to enter.
I inhaled deep, bracing myself for how he was going to barrage my senses and scramble my thoughts.
He sat on the chair near the fireplace, staring into the flames, a stormy expression painted on his beautiful face. He wore all black—dressed as if he were about to head to a photo shoot or movie premiere. His sharp glance slid to me.
