24. Lavender
Brin’s face.Days later and I’m still tickled pink when I think about it. Brin does not look good in green.
I know it was mean of me to taunt him with the thing he most covets, but I couldn’t help myself. Though technically, my McLaren is like his dream car multiplied by ten. And I suppose, technically, it isn’t a gift from Raif but more like something I’ve yet to earn.
I don’t even like it, to be truthful. It’s way too flashy for me, and the way the door opens up rather than out is annoying. It’s also an invitation to be carjacked, so I’ll be selling it to the highest bidder as soon as Raif and I are through. I might even give Brin first refusal.
Just for shits and giggles.
If he’s answering his phone to me by then.
I’m not ashamed to say I’d tried to use my… womanly wiles to persuade Raif to tell me exactly what went on between Brin and him. But he just did something with his tongue, and my brain cells all went pop.
I suppose I have fifty-one weeks of this to work out what I’m missing. Something tells me it’s envy, plain and simple.
Fifty-one weeks of annoying him.
Fifty-one weeks of pleasure.
Poor me!
It’s amazing how only a week has passed. I feel like I’ve been living this life, the high life, for way longer. Daisy and I get on like a house on fire. As in, she sometimes looks at me as though I’m scary. But she’s slowly coming out of her shell around me and loved being in the gallery again on Tuesday.
Unlucky for her, she was back to school the following day. I’d assumed that would mean I’d have to go back to slumming it and using public transport. But when I came downstairs on Wednesday morning, phone in hand, trying to work out the Tube timings, I found a new face in the kitchen.
New to me at least because Luis’s face looks like it’s been around a few years. As well as a few fists. Anyway, he introduced himself to me as my new driver and has barely said a word more since. It’s all a bit strange. I can have a conversation with Sam, the chef, no problem. He speaks to me like I’m a regular person. Antonio will answer if I ask him a question, but Leo won’t even look me in the eye.
I don’t think it’s completely unrelated to how I’d found a Harrods bag on my side of the bed on Tuesday evening. Inside was something I hadn’t brought with me from my flat: a dressing gown. My old dressing gown was once fluffy but is now a little ratty. It has a hood with teddy bear ears, and you could probably soak it and make a pan of soup from the stains.
My new dressing gown, more rightly a robe, is made from oyster-colored silk, full-skirted and bell-sleeved. I feel like a silver screen goddess when I’m wearing it. But boy, are those sleeves annoying when you’re eating porridge.
And speaking of finding things on the bed, I’ve discovered bliss—multiple times—in Raif’s bed. Not that we’ve… at least, not all the way.
The first evening after our bathroom experience, shall we say, we found ourselves lying on opposite sides of the bed. I’d huffed and puffed, trying to find a comfy position, ending up on my back with my arms clamped over the bedding like one of those clips that keep your cornflakes fresh.
I stared at the ceiling, my breathing audible and awkward, while Raif inhaled and exhaled like a normal person. He’d smelled of soap and shampoo, and I’d wanted to snuggle closer. But that would’ve meant knocking down one or ten of my walls. Instead, I’d fussed and huffed and wished I was a braver person because I really wanted to cuddle, but instead, I’d shot myself in the bloody foot! I was just about to fling back the covers—maybe go get a drink of water—when Raif’s arm crashed over me like a wave, pulling me closer. Without saying a word, I’d nestled my head on his shoulder and dropped off to sleep.
It’s how our nights begin… my body fizzing with anticipation and somehow ending up with our mouths fused to one part of the other. No, that’s not true. The night usually ends with me staring up at the ceiling, smiling so brightly, I bet it can be seen by the stars.
I’m making hay while the sun shines. It won’t always be like this, I know. I do wonder how long it’ll be before he starts to get grumpy. Starts to pressure me. Expresses his disappointment with the situation.
So far, he hasn’t. But then again, I’ve gotten more action this week than I’ve had in the past five years. Maybe that’s the difference between men and boys. I don’t know. What I do know is I spend a lot of time being all “oh, no, please. I don’t think I could cope with another orgasm…”
And he dishes them out anyway.
Seriously, the man should give up his business and start a how-to school. It could be a philanthropic move, and his graduates highly sought after.
Seriously, men everywhere need to learn his technique!
“Thanks so much.”
I come back to earth as the door to the gallery opens, a woman in a tweed jacket and fedora slipping out.
“Oh yes. Have a lovely day!” The door closes, and I go back to my musing.
I wonder what Sam’s making for supper tonight? I could go for that duck ravioli again.
“What are you doing?”
“Jesus!” I cry as Tod materializes next to me. “You scared the daylights out of me.”
“Sorry,” he says, sounding anything but.
“Have you dyed your hair?” I press my hand to his cheek to turn his head. “It’s shorter.” Not to mention golden in the sunlight.
“Yeah.” He tips his head, running his hand up the back of it in that adorably self-conscious way he has. Except I don’t seem to find it adorable anymore. “Do you like it?”
“The barber does highlights?”
“What?” He gives his head a quick shake. “I didn’t go to my usual place. Vinny did it.” He glances out the window to where tourists, yummy mummies, and office workers on their lunch trundle by in the sunshine. Everyone seems to be smiling, such are our reactions to British summertime.
“When?”
“Wednesday night. After work.”
“Oh.” Am I a bit miffed? Vinny is super skinny, super cool, has blue hair, and is full of piercings. But she’s also the owner of the salon across the way, so she also must be pretty astute. Or maybe not if she has a thing for starving artists.
I expect he’s starving now, considering I haven’t been there to fill the fridge.
I’m such a bitch sometimes.
“And you’re only noticing now,” he answers with a pout.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Yeah, so I see.” His eyes flick to the sucking bite on my neck.
I thought I’d covered it with concealer. Dammit, Raif. I am so going to give you a payback hickey when I see you next.
I wonder if he’d be into that. Biting, I mean. I rouse myself from that thought. Time for a change of topic.
“Did she buy anything?”
“Vinny?” Tod’s body does this thing, which is the equivalent of slapping himself on the head. “Ah, yeah. She bought the diptych hanging on the little wall in the back room.”
“Pieces in a Petrie Dish?”
He nods. “I have the address for delivery. She’s an interior designer for a property developer.”
“Oh cool.”
“She’s also going to think about buying Art, Ethos, and Easter Eggs.”
“Yours, right?” The piece that looks like a totem pole made from ugly egg cups, I think.
Another nod. “Yeah. Exciting, right?”
“Absolutely is.”
“Is it me, or is business really picking up?”
“It’s not you.” But it is strange. We’ve had a steady flow of foot traffic this week, and the website hits have tripled. Also, over the past two days, we’ve had some really decent sales. Via some unusual buyers. People who seem to be more interested in buying by price rather than appeal.
Art isn’t exactly flying off the shelves, but we’re doing all right.
“It’s probably the sunshine,” I say. “It makes everyone happy.”
“Happy people buy art?”
“Who knows,” I say with a small shrug. “But we’re happy when people buy art, right? Because it keeps the wolves from the doors. And Whit off my back. “If it keeps going well, you’ll be able to pay rent soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your fifty percent.” He gets fifty and the gallery gets fifty, which is pretty standard for in-house sales.
“No, I get ten percent commission if I’m the salesperson.”
Which is why he directs customers to his stuff first.
“It’s five percent. You know it is,” I add when he looks as though he might argue. “Anyway, if your exhibition goes well next week, you might be on the way to getting your own place.”
“You mean I can’t stay with you?” He looks like a toddler whose ice cream just fell off the cone.
“I think Raif might not be so keen on that idea of you as a roommate.”
“No, your place, I mean. Where I live now.”
“Do you think I’m a charity?”
“No, but—”
“I can’t pay the bills indefinitely!”
“No, I know, but…”
“What?”
“I thought you’d be coming back at some point.”
Well, obviously. But I’m not supposed to tell him.
“I’m married, Tod. You remember how that happened, right?”
“Of course, I remember,” he snaps. “How could I forget? Like, ever.”
“When you’re talking about me moving back, it seems like you have.”
“It’s not like it’s gonna last forever, though, is it?”
“What do you mean?” I demand.
“It’s not like a proper marriage. You haven’t fallen in love with him or anything.”
“What?”
“You can’t have—not that quickly. I know it isn’t real!”
“The fucking audacity, Tod!”
“Lavender, I think you only did it for me.”
“What?” I lift my hands, though the sound of the door opening stops me in my tracks. Attempting murder on the premises is not good for business.
My head cranks left, but my body pitches forward as I fall straight into the arms of Tod.
No, not fall. Hauled, as his arms come around me. Well, bloody hell!
“Talk about bad timing,” I mutter. And bad luck as the door swings wide, almost crashing from its hinges as Raif storms inside.