Page 13 of Painted Return
“Show me what you’re working on.”
Andre hesitated, then pulled a large canvas from behind a stack of smaller pieces. It was the painting he had started the day he met Talia — the abstract in blues and grays, now shot through with streaks of vivid green.
Talia stood in front of it for a long time, not speaking.
“It’s not finished,” Andre said, suddenly self-conscious.
“It’s beautiful,” Talia said quietly. “It looks like the sea during a storm. Or maybe the sky just before one.”
“I don’t know what it is yet. Sometimes I don’t know until it’s done.”
“That’s how acting works too. You start with the words on the page, but you don’t really know the character until you’ve lived inside them for a while.”
They spent the afternoon in the studio, Andre painting while Talia sat cross-legged on the floor, running lines for the next production. The silence between them was comfortable, productive — two people engaged in their separate crafts, drawing energy from each other’s presence without needing to fill the space with words.
At some point, Talia set down her script and said, “I want to cook for you.”
Andre looked up from his canvas. “Cook for me?”
“For all of you. You and Blake. At our flat. Liam and I have been talking about it. A proper dinner. I’ll make my mother’s moussaka.”
“I would love that.”
“Good. Saturday. And I want to bake something for dessert, but I’m usually terrible at baking. Mostly everything I make comes out flat and sad.”
Andre set down his brush, wiping his hands on his jeans. “What do you want to make?”
“Scones. Proper English scones. My grandmother used to make them, and last year I worked hard trying to follow her recipe to the letter. They have to be exactly right — crisp on the outside, soft in the middle, and you absolutely cannot overwork the dough.”
“I know a little about dough,” Andre said, amused.
“A little?” Talia raised an eyebrow. “You grew up elbow-deep in flour. You told me you could make a croissant before you could ride a bicycle.”
“French pastry, yes. English scones are a different animal. My father considers them an insult to butter.”
“Your father is wrong,” Talia said firmly. “Scones are magnificent. And you, with all your bakery training, are going to learn how to make them properly. I’ll teach you what I learned from following my grandmother's recipe. I’ll trade you — what I've learned about scone technique for your father’s croissant recipe.”
“Deal.”
They shook on it, both grinning, and Andre felt that same lightness he had felt the first time they talked in the cafe — the simple, uncomplicated pleasure of connection.
The match at Queen’s Club was on a Wednesday afternoon, a second-round encounter against a young German player ranked forty-third in the world. Andre had decided, at the last minute, to play — partly because Doug had insisted, partly because Pierre had given him a look over breakfast that communicated, without words, that skipping another tournament would result in a conversation Andre did not want to have.
Blake was playing on the adjacent court, a first-round match against a veteran Spaniard. They had kissed in the locker room before going out, a quick, fierce press of lips that tasted of nerves and adrenaline.
“Good luck,” Blake had said.
“I don’t need luck. I need my forehand to work on this stupid surface.”
“Your forehand is fine.”
“My forehand is designed for clay. This is grass. Grass is an abomination.”
Blake had laughed, squeezed his hand, and walked out to his court.
Andre’s match was a struggle from the first point.
The German was young, fast, and fearless, with a flat, penetrating game that was perfectly suited to the low-bouncing grass. He attacked Andre’s serve relentlessly, stepping inside the baseline, taking the ball early, rushing Andre into errors.
