Page 94 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
‘That’s so impressive.’ I clap my hands together. ‘Your father must be very proud of you.’
At the mention of his dad, Leo swallows hard and swiftly changes the subject. ‘Tell me more aboutyourwork, Lucille?’
My work? Eek. I can’t exactly tell Leo that I’m a writer. He might make the connection to the publishing party and realize I’m the girl who called him a knob-prince. This is too important to just make up on the spot – it’s something I definitely need to check with Grandma.
I pretend to be distracted by one of the paintings.
‘This one’s beautiful,’ I say, staring up at a painting entitledVirgin on the Rocks. As I look closer, I realize that itisamazing. Breathtaking, actually. I don’t know why – it might be the intricacy, the attention to detail, or the way the skin of the subjects glows; I don’t quite know how to describe it, not being an art ponce like Leo Frost.
‘I love it,’ I murmur.
Leo gives me a sidelong glance. ‘That was my mother’s favourite too.’
‘Was?Did she change her mind?’ I laugh lightly.
‘I mean, it was her favourite painting before she died. She named me Leonardo after the artist. I come here a lot to look at it. More than I should, probably.’
My breath catches in my throat.
Leo’s mum died?
I didn’t expect that. It doesn’t quite fit into the ‘charmed life’ theory I had worked up for him.
‘God, I’m sorry,’ I say instinctively. It sounds empty and not nearly enough to express that I know exactly how it feels. He gives an almost imperceptible shrug, and his eyes flicker with an emotion I recognize instantly. One I’ve seen when I look in the mirror for too long. Loss.
‘My mum died too,’ I say, plopping down onto the bench behind us. ‘When I was eighteen.’
I shouldn’t have told him that.
I tell no one that.
I don’t even know him.
‘Fuck, I’m sorry to hear that, Lucille. I was young too − fifteen.’ He sits down beside me and smiles grimly. ‘Sucks, right?’
Taking hold of my hand, he gives it a brief squeeze. It feels warm and strong. My chest tightens. I know I was supposed to delve a bit deeper with Leo tonight, but this feels like much too much. And though he might be the only person I’ve ever met who even slightly gets what it’s like to lose your mum, after all is said and done, he’s a stranger. And I’m not supposed to be telling him real stuff about myself. I pull my hand away from his and place it neatly in my lap. I need to lighten the melancholy mood that seems to have spilled over the room like oil. But I don’t know what to say. What the bloody hell do you say when someone tells you about their dead mum. I’ve never been onthisside of that conversation before. Ordinarily, if this were real life, I’d just do one. But this is a job. I made a promise to suck it up and stick it out.
‘Well, she’d be proud about your award nomination,’ I say with a smile.
Leo fiddles with the stem of his champagne flute for a moment. ‘You know, I’m not sure she would. She loved my dad fiercely, but always hated commercial art, said it was soulless . . . ’ He turns to face me. ‘Want to hear something ridiculous?’
‘Always.’
‘I sometimes worry that my mother would be disappointed to know I joined my father in the ad business. Like I’ve let her down somehow.’
‘Not ridiculous.’ I shake my head. ‘Mums have a way of getting under your skin like that, even when they’re not there any more. And you love what you do, don’t you?’
‘I’mgoodat what I do, I suppose. You know, my mother always wanted me to be an artist. I won a school painting competition when I was fourteen and I’d never seen her quite as proud of me.’
He looks wistful for a moment. I think of that boat drawing.
‘So why don’t you do that then?’ I shrug. ‘Be an artist. If that’s what you love. You’re talented enough.’
Leo laughs out loud, a blast of a laugh that makes me jump. He runs a hand through his hair, mussing up the front of the quiff so that it loses its rigidity. ‘Ah, no, that’s just a pipe dream, the thing I think about before I go to sleep. Not something for real life. My drawings are just a mess-about, and I’m doing all right at Woolf Frost. Dad intends to give me the company one day and, well, no man turns his nose up at an opportunity like that. Everything’s lined up for me. I’m a very lucky man.’
He gives me a confident grin. It’s the grin he was doing in the paparazzi shots I saw. But it falters slightly.
‘Just because things are handed to you doesn’t mean you have to accept them.’ I say quietly. ‘And we both know that life’s too short and too unpredictable not to grab the things you really want.’
