Page 40 of In the Frame

“I hope you’ve put down linens too,” I tease them.

“Oh yeah, so much. It’s gonna be a dream to have new sheets.” Paul grins. “It’s why we had the whole gig.”

“And here I thought you’d have a registry at an art supply shop.” I smile. Which wouldn’t be a bad idea at all, frankly. Supplies are damn expensive.

“Hmm.” Paul looks thoughtful. “Is it too late to do that?”

“Too late,” Caden affirms. “Afraid you’ll need to scrounge as usual.”

“Right. Scrounging resumes next week. We’re getting ready for the show at the Rose & Crown.”

“When’s the show opening?” I ask.

“Next month. Listen, if you have any time, Matty, stop by and lend us a hand to hang some more stuff. We’ve got beer on offer. And we’ll need to get you showing your work soon.”

I make a noncommittal noise and look away. I’m making weird noises not because I’m opposed to helping—far from it—but I need to get paid for work, and I’m on the list for any spare shifts at Ivan’s. But more than that, my guts twist due to a healthy dose of imposter syndrome alongside the usual anxiety about the future. My friends are advancing in their careers already as artists, and I don’t even have a studio anymore to paint in, never mind have new work to show. I mean, I’m not sure I can even afford supplies at this point. “I’ll try.”

Florian gives me side-eye. The arsehole knows me enough already to clock my discomfort on the topic. And we’ve already had a conversation about trying and doing. He doesn’t say anything to call me out, which is merciful, but I can tell he’s made a mental note for later.

“It’s lovely to meet you both. Congratulations again,” says Florian with genuine warmth. I squeeze his hand. And he squeezes back.

We tour around the venue, making introductions to my friends, but not lingering long with anyone in particular. They all buy into Florian being my date, incredibly. I can’t imagine what they think I get up to in London, hanging out with investors.

Noah’s nowhere to be found, along with his boyfriend, which means they’ve probably found some mischief. They reappear in time for dinner, where I make more introductions, and the night soon moves on to the dancing and festivities.

Florian and I explore, going past the cordoned-off stairs up to the mezzanine that overlooks the hall turned dance floor, under the vaulted ceiling of the deconsecrated church. We find ourselves a spot along the burnished rail, overlooking the guests and celebrations below. We were clever enough to bring up fresh wineglasses from the bar, but I do a double take as Florian shows me a bottle of wine that’s seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

“Drink?” Florian offers smoothly.

“Where did you find that?” We had the wine on the table from dinner, and we’ve moved on to wine from the bar. And he hadn’t slipped off on his own, that I noticed.

He just smiles, shrugs, and offers the wine, and in turn, I present my glass to him and watch his skillful pour. Not a drop of wine wasted, something I can appreciate. Then he tops up his own.

Before thinking about it, I open my mouth. “I hope you’re not planning on driving back to London tonight.”

“I can always take the train back.” Florian looks unconcerned.

“But… what about your car?”

Another shrug. “Unfortunately, it can’t drive itself to London, so I will either need to return to fetch it, or leave it with you if you have a driver’s license, or have my assistant collect it if he changes his position on the M25.”

I give him a level look. “Florian. I’m not your assistant,” I protest. “We have an entirely different arrangement.”

“That we do,” he confirms. “You didn’t tell me if you have your license, however.”

“Yes, I do, but I’m scared to drive whatever it is you own, because I’m guessing it’s not a clunker, and I don’t want to wreck it.”

“Are you in the habit of wrecking vehicles?”

“Well, no, but… remember Richard’s accident? And we’re definitely beyond the M25. He’s not going to have it.”

Florian deliberately flicks an eyebrow at me. “Fine. You can collect my car, then. I doubt I will have time to return in the next few days to collect my car myself.”

“Or…”

“Or?” The eyebrow persists, damn him. I’m getting the familiar deadpan look, which must be killer in the boardroom because it’s leveling me right now.

“Um.” I clear my throat, glance over at the dance floor through the colored lights, and gulp down some wine for courage. “Or you could stay in Brighton. I mean, you’ve already stayed this long—why not just stay over? We could pull an all-nighter. Though I guess with the jet lag, that might be a bit messy.”