Chapter 4.
I arrive a little late, having lost track of time on revisions for the fit-out of a two-storey barn conversion that dropped into my inbox last-minute from the developer, asking for a tight turnaround.
The gallery is quiet. The artist is talking. I slip in at the back and take a warm white wine from the table next to me. The exhibition in question is oil on canvas, each piece a mass of muted colours, their subjects obscure.
It’s then that I see him. On the other side of the room, also cradling a glass of white wine. He’s listening intently, but for some reason, as I’m looking at him, he turns his head.
Our eyes lock. The world takes a breath. I feel the heat of his gaze lick through me like a flame.
My whole life, there’s only been one other person who’s looked at me like that.
I realise it is the lightning-strike guy. Parveen’s new work crush. He’s semi-famous locally, in the same way as you might be if you’d survived a shark attack, or a rhino charge. But I don’t know the details. If I were to search for the events of that night, I know I’d stumble across the other accident that happened mere moments away, just one street across. And I don’t ever want to look at any of those news reports again.
The artist stops talking. There’s a polite smattering of applause, which gives way to a thick hum of conversation.
Across the room, I watch Ash start to move past the paintings, pausing by each one, giving them time and consideration. He cuts a solitary, thoughtful figure among the buzz of bodies. I find myself tracking him around the space, my eyes only on him. I am so absorbed, I don’t even register him getting closer until he literally comes to a pause by my side.
And then. It barrels into me like a train: the scent of Tom Ford Noir. It is unmistakeable. I’d know it anywhere.
I try to collect myself. He’s tall, I realise, even taller than me. He looks like he’s just left off work too, in a pair of dark jeans and pressed shirt.
I decide to introduce myself, since I’m starting to suspect he’s the one who gave Parveen the invite.
‘Hello,’ I say brightly, switching into work mode. ‘I’m Neve Lambourne. From Kelley Lane Interiors.’
His expression lifts. He turns to face me. ‘Oh. Hi. Parveen said you might drop by.’
I smile to myself. Did she, now.
He puts out a hand. ‘Ash Heartwell.’
We shake. His grip is firm and warm. Somehow, it hits every touchpoint in my stomach.
He nods at the painting in front of us, perhaps to avoid the risk of an awkward pause. ‘What do you think?’
The space is small and hot, and packed with bodies. Every surface is floodlight-bright. I feel a prickle of sweat against my back, the sensation of being assessed.
‘Very... visceral,’ I say, firmly. (This is my go-to adjective for describing abstract art. It usually buys me enough seconds to pivot topics, or failing that, segue to a respectable exit.)
‘Visceral,’ he repeats, nodding. Then, ‘For me, it’s all about the colour palette. The way it connects to both light and dark, you know?’
This is why I am allergic to art galleries. People expect articulate analysis. The truth is, I’d much rather be back at the office right now, working on that barn conversion.
‘Mmm,’ I say, nodding and wishing I’d at least found the time to read the catalogue before I clocked off earlier.
Ash dips his head towards mine. ‘Just joking. I know zero about art.’
I laugh with relief, take in his bright, steady eyes, his firm jaw. The trace of laughter lines. The faintest hint of mischief in his smile.
He sips his wine. ‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing here? If you’re such an art-phobe, I mean.’
‘It’s not like that. It’s just that I feel quite... neutral about most of it.’
‘Everyone has at least one artist that does it for them.’
I feel his eyes on me. He’s right, of course – there is one artist who does it for me. Whose paintings make me feel close to Jamie again somehow. Who always has. ‘Well,’ I concede, ‘I guess... Edward Hopper. There’s this one painting of his—’
‘ Nighthawks ,’ he says, without missing a beat.
I stare at him. My breath is a storm cloud suspended in my throat.
‘I actually have that painting in my apartment. Well, a print of it, obviously.’
‘Me too. I have one at home.’
As I take him in again, inhaling the Tom Ford, a woman wearing a tweed suit that might be Chanel approaches us. I know her via Kelley; she’s a property developer and director of a local arts charity. ‘Hello, Neve,’ she says warmly, air-kissing me. ‘How are you, my darling? Can I be terribly rude and borrow you for a moment? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
I glance at Ash and smile apologetically. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Of course,’ he says, and then I am swept away.
After Kelley’s contact introduces me to her friend, I start working the room, making introductions of my own. KLI is high- profile locally, and I know virtually everyone here, even if only indirectly.
Occasionally, I sense Ash watching me. I haven’t fully recovered from our interaction earlier, or managed to work out why it didn’t quite make sense.
An hour or so later, he catches me by the door.
‘I’ve got to go now, but... this is me.’ He hands me a business card.
Despite my faint unease, I smile. ‘You want to... continue our discussion about art?’
He laughs, softly. ‘Yeah. Exactly that.’
I catch his eye. ‘It was nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’