Page 30 of A Sky Painted Gold

My hand shoots to my mouth as if I can shove the words back in. I cannot believe I used the present tense when I know perfectly well that Robert’s parents have both passed away. Sometimes I forget that I know so much about him – that the gossip columnists’ darling sits in front of me. “I’m so sorry,” I say, and the words feel inadequate.

“Well, it was a long time ago.” Robert clears his throat. “And how is it that you are up and bright-eyed so early?”

“What time is it?” I ask, stretching my arms above my head and leaning back in my chair. “I have absolutely no idea. Time seems to lose all meaning once you’re here. It’s like Wonderland.”

“I believe it’s just gone eleven,” he replies.

“Eleven!” I exclaim. “That’s not early! I can’t believe I slept so late.”

“Anything before midday is practically the middle of the night around here,” Robert says. “And I shouldn’t think you got to bed much before four.”

“Eleven,” I repeat, shaking my head, but Robert has already returned his attention to his newspaper. No wonder I’m starving.

And then, as if by magic, Perkins appears again, carrying a tray full of dainty pastries and a steaming silver teapot.

“Thank you very much,” I say, smiling up at him in what I hope is a winning manner.

“Will that be all, madam?” His voice is icy.

Unfortunately, I have already stuffed one of the pastries right into my mouth. “Oh,” I mumble through a mouthful of food, realizing with a sinking heart that he is addressing me. “Yes. Thank you.” I swallow nervously.

Perkins disappears and I pour myself a soothing cup of tea, glancing up at Robert as I do so. Here, in the soft light of the morning, he seems much more relaxed, almost – dare I say it – friendly. I eye him suspiciously for a moment, but he just sips calmly at his coffee, his long legs sprawled in front of him.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, deciding to take the proverbial bull by the horns.

Robert sighs, carefully placing his coffee cup back in its saucer. “You make me sound like an ogre. I’m always nice to you.”

I snort.

“I am!” Robert retorts, nettled. “I’ve been perfectly polite. You’re the one without any manners.”

“And that’s you being polite, is it?” I ask. He looks put out, and I pick up another pastry and nibble at it. It tastes of honey and almonds. “You have teased me,” I start, counting off on my now sticky fingers, “you have been condescending and high-handed, and, worst of all, you made fun of something … something that is important to me.” I flounder a bit there.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” Robert says stiffly after a pause, and I can see that he’s really bothered that I insulted his manners. “I did try to apologize yesterday, but I can see that I didn’t do a very good job.”

“Oh, don’t,” I groan. “When you do that icy polite thing I think it’s the most obnoxious behaviour of all.” I feel my temper rising as I sit back in my chair and fold my arms.

“Well, then, I don’t know what you want from me,” he says, exasperated. It’s probably the most animated I’ve seen him, and despite my irritation I realize I am quite enjoying this.

“Noooo,” I say thoughtfully, deliberately stretching the word out between us. “It’s quite complicated, isn’t it? It seems like either way you make me cross. But then, I seem to make you cross too, so I suppose we’re even.”

“You don’t make me cross,” Robert says crossly.

“Mmm.” I make a soothing sound of agreement.

There is a pause as Robert glowers at me, and then he seems to catch himself, and he laughs – just a little, and very reluctantly.

We sit quietly for a while, and I look about me with interest. Now that all the gauzy white material has been removed I can see that the dining room has been left largely the same as it was. The pale, buttery panelling on the walls has been repainted, and there are new, spring-green curtains hanging at the side of the French windows, but it is still recognizable as one of the rooms I have haunted. It is a bright, cheerful space, perfect for long, lazy breakfasts, and as the sunlight spills across the table I wiggle contentedly in my seat.

“You always do that, you know.” Robert’s voice cuts through my observations.

“Do what?” I ask, turning to face him.

“Look about with those big eyes of yours like you’re taking in every single tiny detail.” He widens his eyes, presumably to demonstrate the way he thinks I goggle at the world.

I flush, and not just because he said I have big eyes. (Not exactly a first-class compliment, I know, but you have to take what you can get in this life.) “I’m just observant,” I mutter, unsettled.

“Oh, I had noticed.” Robert’s voice is dry. “I suppose it’s the writer in you.”