Introductions
Chapter three
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 watch Love 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.
He hadn’t told Blake about the exhibition yet. He wasn’t sure why.
Blake came home from Eastbourne on a Thursday evening, tanned and tired, having reached the semifinals before losing to a big-serving Australian in a tight three-setter.
He dropped his bags in the hallway, kicked off his shoes, and found Andre in the kitchen, cooking. “You’re cooking,” Blake said, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’m making ratatouille. Your mother-in-law’s recipe.”
“She’s not my mother-in-law.”
“She acts like she is. She asked me yesterday if you were eating enough vegetables.”
Blake crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Andre from behind, burying his face in the curve of his neck. Andre leaned back into him, his hands still moving over the cutting board, slicing courgettes with practiced ease.
“I missed you,” Blake said, his voice muffled against Andre’s skin.
“You were gone nearly two weeks.”
“Every day was one too many.”
Andre set down the knife, turning in Blake’s arms. He cupped Blake’s face in both hands, studying him — the new freckles across his nose from the English sun, the slight darkening under his eyes from travel, the way his golden hair had grown just long enough to curl at the temples.
“You look tired,” Andre said softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I’m always fine.” Blake leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Andre’s.
“Tell me about your week.”
Andre hesitated. “I made a friend.”
Blake pulled back slightly, his eyebrows rising. “A friend?”
“Two friends, actually. Talia and Liam. They’re actors at the Old Vic.”
“The Old Vic? That’s near your studio.”
“Around the corner. I’ve been seeing them at the cafe for weeks. Talia recognized me from a show I went to, and we started talking.”
Blake’s expression was open, curious, without a trace of jealousy. “That’s great, Andre.
"What are they like?”
“Talia is sharp. Funny. She argues about everything. Liam is…” Andre searched for the right word. “Loud. In a good way. He asks a lot of questions.”
“I’d like to meet them.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. I told Talia we’d have dinner this weekend. Here, if that’s okay. I’ll cook.”
“Of course it’s okay.” Blake kissed him, slow and warm. “I’m glad you have people. Outside of tennis, I mean. Outside of… us.”
Andre looked at him, tenderness cutting through his chest like a blade. Blake was so generous, so open, so willing to make room for whatever Andre needed. It was one of the things Andre loved most about him, and one of the things that sometimes made him feel profoundly, inexplicably guilty.
“Je t’aime,” Andre said, the French slipping out the way it always did when he was half-asleep or completely sincere. “I love you,”.
“I love you too. Now finish the ratatouille. I’m starving.”
The dinner was on Saturday.
Andre spent the afternoon cooking — the ratatouille, a green salad with Pierre’s vinaigrette, a baguette from the bakery downstairs, and a tarte tatin that Claire had helped him assemble that morning, standing in the bakery kitchen in her apron, guiding his hands with patient, practiced authority.
Blake set the table, opened the wine, and changed his shirt before Andre told him the first one was fine.
“You’re fussing,” Andre observed, leaning against the kitchen doorframe.
“I’m not fussing. I’m being a good host.”
“You’re fussing. You never fuss. You’ve been making small talk at charity galas since you were twelve.”
Blake shrugged, smoothing the front of his shirt. “Those are strangers. These are your people. I want them to like me.”
“And Doug.”
“Doug is a coach.”
“And Pierre.”
“Pierre is your father. That’s different.”
“And Claire.”
“Andre.”
“I’m just saying. You know people.”
“I know tennis people. That’s not the same as knowing people who do… other things.”
The buzzer rang at seven-thirty. Andre pressed the intercom, and a minute later, Liam and Talia appeared at the door.
Talia was carrying a bottle of wine and wearing a green dress that made her dark eyes look almost black. Liam was wearing a blazer over a t-shirt, his ginger hair slightly damp, his green eyes bright with the particular energy of someone who had just finished a matinee performance.
“Blake Harlan,” Liam said, extending his hand with a wide, genuine smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Andre says you’re the best tennis player in the world.”
“Fourth best,” Blake corrected, shaking his hand. “And Andre is biased.”
“Andre says you’re modest. I can see he wasn’t lying.”
Liam Calloway was tall, broad-shouldered, and radiated the kind of easy warmth that made strangers feel like old friends.
Talia kissed Andre on both cheeks, then turned to Blake, studying him with the frank, assessing gaze that Andre had come to recognize as her default setting.
“You’re taller than I expected,” she said.
“Thank you?” Blake said, uncertain.
“It’s an observation, not a compliment. Come on, let’s eat. I’m famished. Two shows today and all I’ve had is a sandwich from Pret.”
The dinner was a success.
The food was good — Andre had inherited enough of Pierre’s instincts to produce a meal that was simple, honest, and satisfying. The wine flowed freely. And the conversation, after a few minutes of polite small talk, opened up into something warm and genuine.
Liam, it turned out, was from a small town in Shropshire, the son of a schoolteacher and a postman.
He had discovered acting at fourteen, when a drama teacher had cast him as Puck in a school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and he had never looked back.
He had trained at RADA — the same Royal Academy of Dramatic Art where he and Talia had met — on a full scholarship, graduated with distinction, and immediately taken a position in the Old Vic’s repertory company, where the pay was modest and the work was relentless.
“It’s not glamorous,” Liam said, refilling his wine glass. “People think acting is red carpets and champagne. It’s actually cold dressing rooms and instant noodles.”
“Sounds like the junior tennis circuit,” Blake said, and Liam laughed — a loud, bright sound that filled the room.
Talia was quieter than Liam, but no less present. She listened carefully, asked precise questions, and had a gift for drawing people out. She asked Blake about his childhood in Connecticut, about his father, about the pressure of being a prodigy.
Blake answered honestly, more honestly than Andre had expected.
He told them about the training schedules, the early mornings, the relentless pursuit of perfection.
He didn’t spell out how oppressive it had been — he rarely talked about that anymore — but the weight of it was there, in the spaces between his words.
“That sounds brutal,” Talia said softly.
“It was what it was,” Blake said, his voice even.
“I didn’t know anything different until I met Andre. ”
Under the table, Andre reached for Blake’s hand and squeezed it.
The evening stretched on. They moved from the table to the sofa, the conversation shifting from careers to childhood to the particular absurdity of being young and ambitious in a world that seemed designed to crush ambition at every turn.
At some point, Liam turned to Blake and said, “Do you shoot?”
Blake looked at him, surprised. “Shoot?”
“Clay pigeons. There’s a brilliant range in Surrey — Holland and Holland. Talia bought me a session for my birthday last year, and I’ve been going every month since. It’s addictive.”
Something shifted in Blake’s expression — a flicker of recognition, of memory, that Andre noticed immediately.
“I used to shoot,” Blake said slowly. “When I was a kid. My best friend Tyler and I used to go to the Greenwich Country Club. Both our families were members — my mother practically ran the place, chaired every event they had. Tyler’s father taught us. We’d spend entire Saturdays out there.”
“You’re a shooter, then,” Liam said, leaning forward, his green eyes bright. “Proper shooter?”
“I was decent. Tyler was better. He had steadier hands.” “Come with me. Next time I go. I’ll book us a session."
Blake hesitated, and Andre could see the calculation happening behind his eyes — the schedule, the training, the endless, careful management of his body and his time.
Then Blake smiled, and it was a different smile than the one he wore on court or in press conferences. It was younger, less guarded, almost boyish.
“Yeah,” Blake said. “I’d like that.”
Liam grinned, raising his glass. “Brilliant. I should warn you, though — I’m terrible. Absolutely dreadful. You’ll have to carry us both.”
“I think I can manage that,” Blake said.
They left at midnight, Talia slightly unsteady on her feet from the wine, Liam wrapping his arm around her waist as they walked to the door.
“This was lovely,” Talia said, hugging Andre. “Thank you.”
“Come back anytime,” Andre said, meaning it.
After they left, Blake and Andre stood in the kitchen, washing dishes side by side, the quiet domesticity of the moment settling over them like a blanket.
“I like them,” Blake said, drying a plate.
“I knew you would.”
“Liam is…” Blake paused, searching. “He’s intense. But in a good way. He reminds me of Tyler, actually. Before everything got complicated.”
Andre looked at him, a question forming, but Blake shook his head slightly — not tonight — and Andre let it go.
They finished the dishes, turned off the lights, and went to bed. Blake fell asleep almost immediately, his arm draped across Andre’s chest, his breathing deep and steady.
Andre lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the city and the faint, comforting creak of the bakery settling below them.
He had a strange, unsettled feeling in his chest — not anxiety, exactly, but something adjacent to it. A sense that something had shifted, that a door had opened that couldn’t easily be closed.
He pushed the feeling away, pressed closer to Blake, and eventually slept.