Chapter 16 #3
Turning back to the wall of photographs, I press my lips into a firm line. If I open my mouth, something mortifying might come out. Like a sob or a cry of pain.
After a few moments of staring at a black-and-white image from a famous shoot for an Italian fashion house, I manage to ask in a bright voice, “Why did you move into fashion photography when you left journalism?” Dean and Mal stare at me, sulky and haughty.
“It’s the furthest thing from what you were doing before. ”
I hear him sigh, but he comes to stand next to me, looking up at the picture.
“That’s exactly why. I was battered and permanently on edge.
The fashion world was clean, clear, and expensive.
No dirt, no mud, no blood. It was the furthest I could get from a warzone.
” He pauses, and his mouth quirks. “And then I photographed Mal Booth, and Syria suddenly looked calm and appealing.”
I snort and break into laughter, and after a few minutes, he joins me.
I come awake when the car stops. Sitting up, I knuckle my eyes. “Shit. I wanted to see the island.”
Reuben chuckles. “It’ll still be there on the way back.”
“I wanted to see the Highland cows.”
“Well, hopefully they’ll still be around too. Otherwise, the tourists will have nothing to photograph.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me.” I give a jaw-splitting yawn. “I’ve never slept so much in my life.”
“You must be catching up, then.”
I shoot him a wry look. “Thank you so much for not giving a complete rundown on my decisions in life.”
He shrugs. “I gave you my opinion. I don’t need to say it again.”
I regard him thoughtfully. It’s true. He’s not one for lectures—just says his piece and moves on.
You either pay attention or not. It’s up to you.
Which makes this whole situation so strange now I come to think about it.
It’s so unlike him to force himself into someone’s life and take over.
I realise how worried he must have been and feel a sharp pang of guilt.
Shoving it away, I look around. We’re in a small car park next to a white-painted, low-slung building.
The sign says it’s a cafe and an art gallery.
It’s obviously popular, judging by the steady flow of people walking into it and even as we sit here, a coach draws up disgorging eager groups of pensioners.
Reuben climbs out of the car. “I’ll give Moira the artwork, and then we’ll hit the beach.”
“Literally probably,” I say in an overly gloomy voice just to hear him laugh.
He obliges me and walks around to the boot to grab the stuff. I eye him in my mirror. He’s so fucking gorgeous. His long, dark hair lifts in the breeze, and his body looks strong and tall, his wide shoulders straining his jumper.
I shake my head. “Get it fucking together,” I say out loud.
“Did you say something?”
I jump and see him staring through the open door at me.
“Merely repeating my morning mantra.”
“Does it involve fucking me over in some spectacular way?”
“Sometimes.”
“It’s been remarkably calm this week. Does that mean I should anticipate some nuclear explosion that you’ve got brewing? Maybe naked country dancing along Tobermory high street.”
“Oh no. Don’t spoil the surprise,” I say gravely, watching with pleasure as he throws his head back laughing. He gestures to me, and I climb out and follow him into the building.
It’s lovely inside, with high-beamed ceilings and white-painted walls, on which colourful pictures have been hung, each with a sign indicating its price. To my left is a small deli already doing a thriving business, and ahead of me is a cafe. It’s full of happy chatter, and I feel myself relax.
The smell of coffee brewing fills the air, mingling with something sweet baking, and I look hopefully at Reuben, who rolls his eyes. “I’ll get you a coffee in a second. I might even treat you to a cake. Best on the island.”
“Not the cake. I’ll be the size of several houses by the time I go back to England. You’ll be able to hear the screams of someone in the YSL designer team from here. Do what you need to do first, though. I can wait for the coffee.”
“Can you?”
“Not really, but it sounded good when I said it. Like I’m a reasonable person.”
“You have never been that in your life. Don’t start now.”
I follow him down a set of flagged steps. We take a right and come out into a large, whitewashed space with wooden floors, the only colour being the artwork hung on the walls and the handmade sculptures positioned around the room. “Wow,” I say, and he shoots me an approving smile.
There’s a pattering noise, and a little cocker spaniel comes around the corner.
I immediately exclaim in pleasure. “Hello,” I say, crouching down and holding my hand out.
He eyes me warily but then comes close and sniffs my hand cautiously.
“Aren’t you a handsome boy,” I croon. “The handsomest boy in the whole wide world.”
“I thought that was me.” I look up, and Reuben is watching me, humour twinkling in his eyes.
“Not as handsome as this boy, and your nose is rarely wet.” The dog shoves his nose under my hand, demanding a pet. “So bossy,” I say fondly.
“How come it’s alright for the dog and not me?”
“He obviously has a winning personality. Try harder, Reuben.” He starts to laugh, and I grin up at him. “I like dogs.”
His mouth is soft and unbearably fond. “So why don’t you have one? I know it’s not impossible. Dean has his familiar.”
“Henry Ashworth Robinson is not a familiar,” I say firmly. “He’s a person in his own right.”
He bites his lip, trying to contain a smile wanting to break out.
I pet the dog, rubbing behind his ears and laughing as he contorts his head to get more pressure.
Realising he’s still waiting for an answer, I shrug.
“I don’t have the right situation for a dog.
Hotels don’t like them staying.” I huff.
“Which is fucking ironic because some of their human guests are far more badly behaved than any dog.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” he says grimly, undoubtedly thinking of Robbie.
“One day I will have a dog like you,” I croon to the spaniel, who creases his eyes like he’s laughing at me.
“Reuben,” comes the cry. Footsteps sound quickly, and I look around in time to see a small, dark-haired woman barrel into Reuben, hugging him around his narrow waist. “How are you?”
Reuben’s face softens. “Moira. I’m fine. You?”
“How was the South of France?”
“Hot but not as full of fucking tourists as here.”
She laughs. “Just one would be too much for you.”
She notices me, and I blink as she checks when she spots my face. I’m used to people recognising me. I’m on a great many billboards. But she looks like she’s seen a ghost.
“You,” she says.
I glance at Reuben. He meets my gaze and shrugs, so I hope that means she’s not homicidal.
“Me,” I say lightly, getting to my feet. The dog patters away, and I look after him regretfully.
“Xavier, isn’t it?” I nod, and she looks at Reuben. “How very interesting.”
“Not really.”
“Not at all,” I say. What is interesting is that a flush is rising on Reuben’s cheeks. I offer her my hand. “And you are?”
“This is Moira,” Reuben says and she shakes my hand. “She’s a good friend.”
I smile at her. “Nice to meet a friend of his that isn’t reaching for a straitjacket.”
Her loud, lusty laugh makes me smile. She pats my arm. “He’s just how you described him, Reuben.”
I look between the two of them, intrigued to see that Reuben’s face is now fully red.
“You’ve spoken about me. This is glorious,” I whisper.
He shoots me a sour look. “Oh, dear. Sadly, we should break up the conversation now. It’s time to discuss business.”
“Is it?” Moira asks blankly.
“It definitely is. Off you go, Xavier.”
I smile sweetly at him. “Of course. I’ll just be over there.” I wave a hand in a random direction and then lean close to him. “While you talk about me some more,” I say, low.
Reuben rolls his eyes and pulls a laughing Moira into an office, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Thwarted, I start to wander around. I love galleries.
I could spend hours in them, moving from one picture to the next.
In past years, gallery visits have been the only time I’ve felt any sense of peace.
As I make my way through a room of lovely paintings, I feel a flash of jealousy towards the artists, wondering what my life would have been like if I’d carried on with art rather than modelling.
I’d had a place at college to study it, but I’d passed it up in favour of fucking Reuben over and making some money.
Do I regret it? I have to admit I don’t. I’m not cut out for study, although having time to draw to my heart’s content would be lovely. As a teenager drawing relaxed me, but in recent years I’ve relied on drugs to stop the constant buzz in my brain.
Sighing, I continue to wander. I come to a room devoted solely to Reuben. The difference between his work and other artists is like night to day. He’s absolutely brilliant and completely original, and it shows in every photograph.
“Like them?”
I jump and turn to find Moira watching me. She’s alone.
“Reuben gone for a lie down in a dark room?” I enquire.
She laughs. “He’s getting you coffee and some cake.”
I groan. “I’m sure your cake is super, but Dior won’t be very happy when I don’t fit in their swimming costumes.”
She eyes me. “You seem very thin to me.”
“That’s because you’re normal. The fashion world is not.” I shrug. “I’ll just have to stop eating for a week. It might be worth it for a slice of cake if it tastes as good as it smells.”
“It does.”
I look around. “So, he exhibits here?”
She nods. “We met in the pub in Tobermory and got talking. We became friends.”
“I can see that.”
She looks surprised. “Can you?”
I nod, starting to walk again. “Yes, you’ll share interests with him. He’s an artist first and foremost, and he hates any fuss. You don’t seem like you’d fuss.”
“He told me about you.”