Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Maybe we can talk about our next fake partnering arrangement, aside from the art tutorial,” I offer gamely after a while. “What’s this charity thing anyway? You said it was a charity, right?”
“A gala. Yes. For Billy. In that it’s an event that Billy’s charity sponsors. And I told him I would attend as I have always attended, as I wish to be supportive of the initiative, despite our separation.”
“Right.” I nod, considering him curiously. He’s leaning on his forearms against the rail, shoulders relaxed. “And what’s the initiative that you want to support, exactly?”
“They do an annual gala as a fundraiser for rewilding projects. For the foundation.”
“Wow.” My eyebrows lift at that. “So, an environmental charity, then.”
“A not-for-profit, yes.” Florian gazes at me at last. He’s hard to read right now, his default impassive face.
“Billy’s always told me I should do something helpful and good with my wealth, so I do that.
As I’m very much into the for-profit business myself.
I tell him there’s more to be done with the profit part, but he won’t listen.
” He shakes his head, obviously exasperated, a familiar discussion to him.
“So…” I struggle to think of a good question to ask that’s not inane. Of course, I’d heard of rewilding, and I support the idea very much, the restoration of natural ecosystems and forests in clear-cut and overgrazed landscapes. “Does he plant any trees, then?”
“Not ordinarily. Only for press events, usually. He’s their chief executive officer.”
“Right. A CEO. Cool.” Damn if I don’t feel outclassed.
Aside from the fact that Billy is attractive too, and obviously, he’s very competent, what with saving the Earth and all.
Never mind having a good sense of humor and years of experience at Florian-taming.
Which just underscores the unreality of this situation, and my new crush on Florian will only remain a crush. “Have you planted any trees?”
I’m not sure why I ask, because it’s impossible to imagine Florian in anything other than a suit and an office in a steel-and-glass tower.
He smiles. “As a matter of fact, I have. And I’ve helped with stream restoration for trout. Projects in both the South Downs and Scotland.”
“That’s cool. I want photos, though,” I say lightly. “It’s hard to imagine you—” I wave a hand, “—out in the dirt.”
Florian laughs, a thrilling sound, and shakes his head.
He reaches for his phone. He scrolls, and after a couple of moments, I’m rewarded with the sight of a beaming Florian in a knee-high, newly planted sapling forest. He’s almost tanned and relaxed, his expression open.
And presumably, Billy’s the one taking the photo, and my guts knot.
He looks truly happy, at ease in an anorak, jeans, and with some mud on his hands and jacket and knees, pink-cheeked and very appealing. “Proof.”
I gaze in frank admiration at both his new look and the fact that he didn’t mind literally getting dirty. “Huh.”
He slips his phone away and raises his wine to me. “Judging books by their covers,” Florian tuts. “You can’t assume.”
I blush. “Well, yeah. I mean, first impressions are a thing, right?”
“And second impressions?”
“Um.” Wait. Is he actually flirting with me? I decide to offer a second cliché in return. “Still waters run deep. I guess.”
He laughs. “Alright, you’ve found out a little more about me and the gala next month. Now I’d like to know a little more about you.”
I shrug, giving him an uncertain look. “I’m not sure what to tell you. You know the key parts. I’m technically a bartender, but it’s a bit borderline, to be honest.”
Florian levels me with a look. “Matty.”
Oh shit. The way he says my name makes me go all melty, which is definitely not helpful.
“What do you want to know?” I counter. “Otherwise, the prompt is way too broad, and I can’t work under these conditions. Give me a thesis statement, at least. Something to work with.”
“Fair. Well, then, I would like to know why you’re not making your art if you’re an artist.” He gives me a very Florian expression.
Something that etches into the core of me and I’m very much perceived.
“You’re also a terrible bartender, or server, at the very least. I didn’t think bartenders provided table service. ”
“Usually, they don’t.” Then I tighten my jaw as his words sink in, and I open my mouth in silent protest before speaking again. It’s like a lapful of icy cocktails has landed on me instead with his sharp question about my art-making prospects. “Jesus, you don’t mess around, do you?”
“It’s not…”
“…efficient? Yeah, I’ve heard that somewhere before. I guess… I guess, well, it’s down to money. And not having it. Making art is expensive.”
Florian peers at me in a way that makes me think he’s never wanted for anything in his life. “Please tell me more.”
I sigh, exasperated. I wave a hand and begin to spell things out for him.
“You know… studio space, materials, all that. Expensive.” I shrug, uncomfortable.
But then, there’s no shame in starting out either.
Everyone begins somewhere. Even Florian.
He wasn’t born investing. “I mean, I just finished uni. I didn’t want to go to my parents’ home after my degree, so I tried moving to London, which, surprisingly, is very, very expensive.
And how I ended up at Ivan’s, because I know enough about bar work.
Plus, it’s a good wage for bar work. And I’m hoping, if and when I can get my feet under me, I’ll be able to have some space and afford to work on my art.
If I have the time off, that is. Maybe. Usually, you either have money or time—but not both. ”
Florian frowns. He mulls over my response before speaking. “That doesn’t seem effective.”
I look at him over my wine, holding out my glass again. He pours. The alcohol’s loosening my tongue. “Broke people have to survive, Florian. It’s just that way. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mean to be offensive.” Florian looks apologetic. “It’s just… that’s not a good way to make your way in art.”
I stare at him. The man’s clearly lost his mind. I’m hardly a CEO of some kind art empire. “And what do you suggest I do, then?”
“Make art? For starters.”
“Florian…” I want to explain this like I explain things to my little sisters when I’m home. Somehow, I’m out of words. “It’s impossible. I can’t.”
He arches the damned eyebrow. “You don’t know how? Or you won’t?”
I roll my eyes, wincing. “Obviously, I can make passable art—enough to get a degree in it, anyway.”
“And what exactly is your art?”
“I told you before—I’m a painter.”
“What kind of painter? And yes, you’ve explained you’re a fine-art painter, but not your subject.”
“Contemporary painting?” At his look, I sigh and continue. It’s hard to say how much he’ll understand, but I’ll try. “I like paintings with people in them. Figurative paintings. David Hockney is my hero, actually. I love his work. It’s stunning. His landscapes too.”
“And your work?” Florian asks pointedly. “I could read the Sotheby’s catalogue about David Hockney.”
“Yeah, well… I like painting everyday scenes with people in them. Modern life. Random things, like people paying for a train ticket, or alone in the city, or waiting for the bus. I think I want to do a series related to people in transit, actually. But—Florian, please hear me out. Oil paints are expensive. So are brushes and canvases. Oil paints need a well-ventilated space, which means I probably shouldn’t paint in my bedroom.
Especially the bigger canvases I really want to do. ”
“And you don’t have any oil paints, brushes, or canvases?”
I start to laugh, to the point where tears escape me. Because it’s a lot like talking to a brick wall, and he’s totally focused on me in a way that Florian’s trying hard to understand, but obviously doesn’t get it.
“Very limited supplies. Yes, I have a few brushes and some paint—”
“Then paint.”
“See points A through… hell if I know. I’ve forgotten the alphabet.” Words elude me. I frown at him. His gaze is rapt, and I can tell he’s trying to problem-solve my painting situation. Except I’m the expert on my life and its realities, not him. “Shit. Florian. I think I’m drunk, actually.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, fine.” It’s a good moment for blurting things out because outlining exactly how broke I am does nothing for my art, my mood, or the current situation at the wedding. Obviously, a diversion is in order. But it’s true enough, that I’m drunk, between the various cocktails, toasts, and wine.
“Let’s go get some water,” Florian offers. “And I have one last question.”
“Oh?” I look tentatively at him.
“May I see your paintings at some point?”
I stare at him as if he’s asked me round to his home on the moon or who knows what. “You want to see my paintings?”
“Yes. I would.”
My instant reaction is a grimace. A rising dread. I shake my head, sliding my hands into my pockets after setting my wineglass down. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”
“What? Aren’t they good paintings?” Florian frowns, looking concerned, and oblivious to the fact that he’s carved open an old wound in my chest. Me and Imposter Syndrome are best friends. “I assume they’re good paintings—”
Coughing for a double diversion, my eyes tear slightly. “They’re fine. Not like Sotheby’s. Also, I don’t know if seeing my art counts as fake boyfriending behavior in the rules. And—let’s get some water.”
At last, Florian takes the pointed hint, and we descend the mezzanine into the heart of the party on the main floor with a couple of hundred of Caden’s and Paul’s family and friends.
The room is moodily lit for maximum drama, people dancing at one end of the hall on the packed dance floor.
Others sit at the long tables that run through much of the hall.
There’re people loitering at the bar, and we join a queue for water.
And then, once watered, before I lose my nerve, I turn to Florian. “Wanna dance?”