Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
In the end, my phone’s safely stowed away because I don’t feel like I have the right to text one very busy Florian De Ligt, what with his world-class business domination.
Or, at least, he’s a serious up-and-comer in London.
He’s got to have a few million under his belt.
Thank you, internet. Because doing internet searches on one’s fake date is totally normal behavior.
I can’t imagine he did an internet search on me. If he did, what would he find? My Instagram, I guess. I don’t do other social media, so he’s not going to find lots.
Since I’m spoiled for location right now, staying at Arran’s, it’s only a ten-minute walk over to Sotheby’s. Just to be sure, I arrive five minutes early.
Guests arrive and enter, once checked in by the woman at the door, which is flanked by impressively large trees in willow planters, and enough planters of various sizes in front of the windows to make a lush container garden.
Cars and taxis pull up to the curb, dropping passengers off, while others arrive on foot or from public transport, which is often the easier choice in central London.
I hang back, instinctively checking my phone.
Of course, there’re no texts from Florian.
It’s just as well. Glancing at the guests queued neatly at the entry, I’m relieved to see it’s a mixed bag when it comes to dress code.
Most people have fallen into the smart-casual category, a few outliers on either side in the formal and informal categories.
As for me, I’m in charcoal trousers and a lavender shirt, both of which are presentable enough, along with a few colorful leather bracelets that my sisters gave me, and my black-painted nails.
Glancing around, I try to figure out how to pass the time waiting. Do I join the queue to see if I’m on the list? Would Florian already be inside?
He’s too busy to be here already, I tell myself. And more or less at seven, a black car pulls up, and Florian emerges, dressed in a pristine glass-free suit, presumably coming directly from work. Wherever that might be.
Even though we don’t really know each other, aside from the strange reality of having been stuck together in an elevator for hours, followed by him showering at my flat, that is.
And even if he is a spiky cactus, like Noah diagnosed, he’s the cactus I’m meeting tonight.
Plus, I’m weirdly relieved to see him, otherwise left conspicuously alone on the pavement in the cool spring night. Not that anyone paid me any mind.
We walk to meet each other at the edge of the pavement. About the same height, we stand eye to eye. I hesitate for a moment, not sure how to greet him. With Noah or my friends, it’s a hug. Well, with most people I know, it’s a hug. Because hugs are great.
Florian and I definitely don’t have that sort of relationship. Plus, a handshake seems too formal. Instead, I hover awkwardly as the next option.
He gives me a curt nod of acknowledgment as if we’ve bumped into each other by chance at some work function in some parallel universe. “Good evening, Mathias.”
“Please, call me Matty. Everyone does. Except at the doctor’s or the licensing center when I had my road test.” Hazarding a smile, I shrug for good measure.
“I don’t want to be overly familiar.” As ever, he has an amazingly neutral expression, and his stunning green eyes—or are they hazel?—give nothing away. It would definitely be awkward if I loomed in to check for sure.
“You can be familiar. I mean, you’re supposedly my fake boyfriend, after all. Familiarity, as they say, goes with the territory.”
“I wouldn’t go so far. And I prefer the term partner. We’re not in school.”
“Taking it up a level, I see. And here I thought you didn’t care,” I can’t help but tease him, since Florian’s so terribly deadpan and flawless in his tailored suit, doubtless from Savile Row a few streets over. “Since feelings are inefficient and all.”
Wow, I actually used his own words against him. Go, me.
Of all the unexpected things, Florian reddens slightly, and his gaze flickers away before he focuses on me again.
Oh my God, did I just make Florian De Ligt blush? Clearly, I’m imagining things.
“Sorry.” I look as contrite as I can, but inside, my heart’s thumping. “It’s just that if you want people to buy into the fact we’re a couple and not just two business acquaintances, I’m afraid we’ll need to be familiar. And there’ll be a little bit of touching, if that’s alright.”
He chews his lip, gives a short nod.
I feel a little sorry for him because I’m obviously picking up that he’s got issues either with me or with intimacy or quite possibly both. And even during fake boyfriending, I don’t want him to be uncomfortable.
“Here, let’s try this. Give me your hands.” I reach mine out to him, palms up. Tentatively, he takes my hands. They’re frozen. Without hesitation, I press his hands together, between mine, in an effort to warm them up.
“Are you always so cold?” I ask in amazement.
His blush returns, and he opens and shuts his mouth without saying a word.
“Sorry, I mean…” It’s my turn to redden. “I mean poor circulation, not anything else.”
“I don’t have any issues with my circulation.”
“Evidence to the contrary. Though I’ll give you that it’s cold out.
And see, we touched, and the world didn’t implode.
” With a smile, I nod over at the queue.
“C’mon. Let’s join in before everyone drinks all the wine before we even go in, and you turn into a popsicle.
” With a gentle tug on his hand, I lead him over to join the tidy queue of guests.
When it’s our turn, Florian’s all business again. His hand is still in mine. Which I can’t believe, but he hasn’t let go.
“For Florian De Ligt,” he tells the woman checking names on her list as he gives me a sidelong glance. “And my partner, Matty Gowen-Smith.”
Heaven help me, it’s all I can do to keep from my jaw dropping. Fuck, he’s a quick study. And he’s done something funny to my insides, hearing him call me my true name for the first time in the same breath as partner. I know this is all make-believe, but still.
I squeeze his hand in acknowledgment and give him a heartfelt smile.
Again, he doesn’t give anything away on the outside, but… he squeezes back?
Oh my God. I suppose the good news is that he’s trying to be convincing. Very convincing. No notes.
Inside, there’s a gathering crowd when we reach the gallery, with people laughing and mingling over drinks, exploring the impressive artworks in the gallery.
“Want a glass of wine?” I offer, noticing the serving station to the side of the room. Another tidy queue as the gallery fills up. On the opposite side of the room, a DJ plays upbeat music.
The bar area is decorated with stunning, colorful floral displays, which dot the room on tables and flank doorways.
And the art is amazing. Truly amazing. Sure enough, there’s an Andy Warhol not more than three feet from my elbow. I stop dead in my tracks en route to the bar to gawp, because Andy Warhol. And I truly gawp like a tourist, because frankly, I have no chill when it comes to art.
In my peripheral vision, I’m aware Florian’s stopped beside me.
But what I see is a Warhol self-portrait, all pop art appeal, bright colors, and sharp contrasts.
Most of all, I’m intrigued by his expression.
About what he sees, and who he is, and what it would have been like on the avant-garde edge in the ’60s.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, considering the piece, with Florian a silent shadow beside me. When I come to my senses again, I glance over at him curiously. “What do you think?”
“I want to know what you think,” Florian says simply, his gaze still fixed on the work. “Obviously, I know who the artist is, but the way you stopped… I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
What? Florian didn’t want to interrupt me?
I turn more fully now to face him, with shock all over my face, I’m sure.
Unlike him, I have a terrible poker face.
“That’s… very considerate. I was just thinking, what it would have been like to live at that time, pushing back against the status quo with experimental works and helping inspire a movement.
Did he even know that’s what he was doing?
I mean, he had the Factory. I can’t imagine being in his shoes, but it’s cool to think about.
I can’t imagine I’d ever be in the same position, but…
” I give him my best side-eye with a smile to know I’m teasing, “it’s not because I’m an unsuccessful artist.”
Damn, second dig in tonight. I should watch myself.
Florian presses his lips together into a line, which transforms into a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
I shrug. “Well, I guess it’s partly true, at least. I mean, true right now, not necessarily true forever. I just finished uni, in fairness to me.”
He blinks at that. “You did? How old are you?”
And somehow, his question cuts. Or maybe it’s the way he asks. The result is that my stomach’s in knots again.