Page 52 of In the Frame

“I think I have an idea,” I say wryly.

Noah waves me off. “I think you like him too. And the fact is you’ve got some cognitive dissonance going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re blurring between what’s real and fake, and you’re scared. Which is normal, by the way. He’s probably nervous too.” He polishes off the rest of his sandwich. I haven’t touched mine since my stomach is doing a kind of tap dance the rest of me is very much not into.

“Florian doesn’t get nervous, believe me. He’s Florian.”

Noah laughs. “I’m sure he’s human like the rest of us.” Then his expression softens as he considers me. “Talk to him,” he advises, like it’s easy, “and slow things down.”

“I just need to focus on getting things normal. Arran will be back soon, and I need to find a room in London now that I’m getting paid. Then maybe I’ll feel a little better about making sense of all of this.”

“Just relax and enjoy.”

“Not in my nature, I’m afraid. I’ll take worrying for the win.”

He just laughs. “Do those things—skip the worrying and start planning your art date. You’ll have a great time, you’ll see.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The week comes and goes in a string of shifts at Ivan’s, and so does the next one. I work all my scheduled shifts and pick up a couple more. Staying far away from table service and safely behind the bar, my low-key confidence is growing. My grumpy boss, Alexander, even smiled once after I did a complex set of cocktail orders all from memory. Status so far: not sacked.

I’ve found a house share in Euston with four housemates, who all seem nice, but we’re on opposite schedules, so I don’t see too much of them. Which is probably an ideal setup. Except it’s kind of lonely. I’m like the invisible housemate, the kind that ghosts in and out, and I tidy after myself to leave no trace. My room is technically a double, and it has room for a table and a chair in a corner and a nice big window for natural light. I have my doubts about actually painting in here.

At any rate, my two suitcases’ worth of stuff and I have found a new home, now that Arran’s back in his Mayfair flat. It was great being within walking distance of Ivan’s. Now, at least, it’s a reasonable trip by public transport.

Behind my bedroom door is a full-length mirror. I give myself a critical look: sandy-blond hair, short-sleeve pale blue shirt, my best jeans. Firmly on the side of smart casual. Not too formal like the wedding or working at Ivan’s. But not too casual either. Smart casual for the art session with Florian tonight. I refuse to think of it as a date.

It took a little work to find a time that would work for both of us. And, to be honest, I needed the time to process our night at the wedding and everything that happened. We’ve been texting casually to make some fake arrangements between our work schedules. I run my fingers through my hair again.

Quit fussing, I tell myself. He’s going to look at the artwork, not me.

I head out into the late-afternoon commuter crush on the Circle line to South Kensington, where Florian lives. It’s hard to imagine Florian living anywhere. Like he just floats around on planes and hotel rooms and boardrooms. But he must lay his head down somewhere, and I’m going to find out. I’ve got to admit I’m curious, and a reasonable next step in our fake relationship is to see his home.

Faithfully following my phone to his home once I exit the tube, I find a beautiful redbrick Victorian terrace house on a leafy street. The evening’s warm, and I’m doing my best not to sweat, which is a challenge between the inferno of the tube, my nerves, and my bag over my shoulder. At least I was generous with the deodorant, and now I hope for the best.

I walk to the covered entry, up the step, across the black-and-white checkerboard Victorian tile, and under the elegant arch and press the buzzer, though I texted Florian a few minutes ago that I was nearly there.

It takes a minute for him to answer the door, long enough for me to start to second-guess whether this was the right house. He brightens immediately when he sees me, like he’s genuinely pleased. I can’t help the grin that comes. He’s also dressed more casually, thank God, in an embroidered shirt and jeans and sneakers.

“Thank God, thought I was totally lost,” I confess to him, adjusting my grip on my rucksack.

“You’re in the right place. Come on in.” Florian steps back to let me inside the beautiful entry. Thank God we skip the usual awkward greeting phase of do we hug or kiss or what exactly the deal is for fake boyfriend greetings. It’s not in the rule book. “Let’s get back to the kitchen. I promise to give you the full tour later.”

I step out of my shoes and follow him through and up some steps to a huge kitchen. The scent of something delicious hits me, and then the proof he’s in the middle of cooking dinner with pots on the stove. He’s playing remixes of dance music. “I hope you’re hungry. And like pasta.”

I blink. “You’re cooking dinner for me?”

Cue overwhelmed again. I wonder if I can secretly text Noah for some advice on what to do in this scenario. I imagine his advice: eat.

Florian laughs. “And for me. I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

“I could definitely eat,” I admit.

“Wine, beer, water?”

“I’ll take a beer, thanks.” And soon, he pours two lagers and passes a glass to me. I settle down on a stool at the giant island, with my rucksack on the seat beside me. I glance from him to the view over the generous private garden outside. “This place is amazing.”