Page 8 of A Sky Painted Gold

“I’m not boring!” I exclaim. “And I’m not the one who’s bored by all this. You are.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” is all he says. The blandness in his voice gives nothing away. I am certain this is deliberate, and I find it tooth-grindingly frustrating.

I exhale slowly. Perhaps I can use his lack of interest to my advantage; maybe I’ll get away with this, after all. I can wait for him to move – just a little bit to the right will do – and then I’ll have to jump down and make a run for it. I’m pretty fast so there’s a good chance he won’t catch me. At least he doesn’t seem too concerned by the fact I’ve gatecrashed his party, and there’s absolutely no need for me to tell him I’ve been breaking into his house for over a year.

“I think you must be my apple thief,” he says. “The one with a fondness for Agatha Christie novels.”

So much for that plan.

“I don’t know what you mean.” My voice has a slight squeak to it, and, even though he doesn’t move, somehow I know that he hears it and that it’s a point to him in this odd game we’re playing.

“You left apple cores all over the floor,” he says. “Next to a pile of books. It was either you … or we have extraordinarily literate mice.”

“That could have been anyone,” I say lamely. Silence again, as though he’s not even going to dignify that one with a response. “Well, you surprised me,” I huff then, giving up any attempt at denial and finding myself on the defensive. For whatever reason the profound sense of disinterest with which he seems to view my appearance makes something inside me crackle with anger. “Usually I tidy up after myself,” I add.

“Usually?” His voice is silk.

“I might have been once or twice before,” I grind out, and even to my own ears I sound like a sulky child.

“Hmm,” he murmurs non-committally, and that crackly feeling grows inside me.

“And, actually, I’m glad I did. I think it’s a crime having a library full of books that no one reads,” I snap.

He turns to look up at me again, and I refuse to be distracted by his stupid green eyes.

“Yes.” He nods thoughtfully. “Although I suppose some people might say that the breaking and entering was the real crime,” he continues, looking down again and picking at an invisible thread on his cuff with elegant fingers.

“Technically, the window was already broken,” I point out, and I channel Aunt Irene’s chilliest, most obnoxiously dignified voice. “So, if anything, it was only really entering.”

“An excellent point,” he agrees, grinding the end of his cigarette beneath his shoe.

“I wish you’d stop agreeing with me in that patronizing manner.” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “It’s so … so … disagreeable.”

“I know.” He looks up at me again, and the ghost of a grin appears on his face, but it is gone so quickly that I could have imagined it. “Do you think we might continue this on the ground?” he asks, his voice once more painfully polite. “It’s rather hurting my neck having to look at you up there, and I don’t think this get-up is the most appropriate choice for tree climbing.” He gestures towards his immaculate dinner suit.

“No, it’s not,” I say, trying to delay the inevitable. I feel anxiety humming in my chest as I realize that I am going to have to give up the relative safety of my tree branch. “I don’t suppose you climb a lot of trees,” I add.

“Not a lot of them, no. Not any more, anyway.”

“You’re missing out,” I mutter, and with a sigh I pull myself up on to the branch and clamber down, landing with a slightly dusty thump at his feet. I look up at him with what I hope is a defiant expression, pushing the tangle of my curls out of my eyes and wishing helplessly that I had not snuck out of the house in shorts and Pa’s oversized jumper.

(Oh, yes, my inner voice pipes up, if only you had gatecrashed his party in evening wear. Silly Lou, you should have dug out the Chanel.)

Close to, he is taller and even more impossibly elegant than I first thought. His suit fits him perfectly and he wears it with the ease of a man who spends a great deal of time in a dinner jacket. His face is intimidatingly severe, all sharp angles and firm lines. I try not to flinch beneath his appraising look, and I feel my knees tremble a little – not that I’d give him the satisfaction of knowing it. I glare back at him. Those inscrutable eyes finally hold a glimmer of surprise, and I rub my nose self-consciously before tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You’re older than I thought,” he says, and for some reason I feel myself bristle at this. Did he take me for a silly child? I pull myself up to my full height.

“I’m seventeen,” I say stiffly. After all, I am not so much younger than him, although everything about his manner seems much more grown-up.

He seems to consider this for a moment. “Then perhaps you would like some champagne?” he asks.

“Champagne would be delightful,” I say airily, as if I drink the stuff all day.

“Wait here,” he says, and he bends, just a little, at the waist. “I’ll only be a moment.” He disappears away in the direction of the crowd.

Every instinct is telling me that now is the time to make a run for it, but somehow I know that’s what he expects me to do and so instead I dig my heels in. If he thinks that he intimidates me, then I’ll show him how wrong he is. The fact that I shouldn’t be here in the first place has become inconsequential. His arrogance is like a challenge that I can’t refuse.

By the time he gets back I’ve almost changed my mind three times, but I’m standing firm, precisely where he left me. He doesn’t give me the satisfaction of looking surprised, just holds out a saucer full of champagne.