Page 53 of In the Frame

“Thanks. When it came up on the market, I couldn’t resist.” He stirs a pot, then glances at me. “Any food restrictions? The pasta’s gluten-free, just in case.”

“I’ll eat anything. No restrictions.”

I can’t imagine that in my lifetime I’ll be able to afford a single room of this place, never mind the whole house. In South Kensington. I turn back to Florian. Pretend I’m Raheem. He’d be so relaxed. Also, Raheem’s posh, which helps too. He’d know what to do.

Meanwhile, Florian’s seemingly in his element, cooking away. He has a six-burner stove. Before long, he’s straining pasta and dishing up our meal. We take two plates to the table in front of the window, which is already set, in the eat-in kitchen.

When I take the first forkful, I’m impressed. My parents run a gastropub back in the village, and they can both really cook, though they ordinarily hire chefs. Florian’s pasta is al dente, and the tomato sauce, with the newly added prawns, is incredible. “This is really delicious.”

Florian laughs. “Don’t look so surprised,” he teases lightly. “I have to do something other than work once in a while.”

“Hard to imagine.” My mouth flickers into a smile. “I suppose I did see you at Ivan’s. Proof that you leave your office once in a while, I guess.”

I remember all too clearly that the reason he was out was for Billy’s birthday. And in need of a suit after my cocktail attack to continue with the celebrations.

“Mm. It does happen.” Florian smiles. “How’re things? You’ve been tough to catch the last few days.”

“Yeah, sorry. I’ve been working a lot at Ivan’s, speaking of. And I moved into a house share. In Euston, so not too far from work.”

“You should have told me, and I could have helped you move.”

My fork stops midway to my mouth. I gawp at him. “Florian, you definitely have better things to do than help me move.”

He shrugs. “I have a car and can borrow an SUV if needed.”

“It’s okay, thanks. Everything I own conveniently fits in two big suitcases, so I’m all moved in now.” I say it lightly. Of course, this doesn’t include any art supplies I have from my degree back at my parents’ home. “The room came furnished and with a bed. Which is, surprisingly, comfortable.”

Florian nods. “Well, if you need anything picked up, please let me know. I’m happy to help.”

“That’s really kind of you.” Next thing I realize, I’ve devoured the whole meal. So has Florian. We go back for a second, smaller round. I’m starting to relax, between not being hungry, the lager, and how at ease Florian is in his home. “Are you ready to learn about art?”

“As ready as it gets.” Florian chuckles. We clear our plates, and he wipes down the table. “Let’s tour you through the main reception room. We can set up at the dining table there.”

The butterflies are going wild at the prospect of giving Florian an actual art lesson.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Whatever I was expecting, a large room with a wall of built-in bookshelves around the fireplace, full of small art objects and a whole lot of books, isn’t quite it. Especially given Florian’s stance on art from our night at Sotheby’s. At one end, there are two sofas facing each other, flanking the hearth, along with a couple of chairs. At the other end is a dining table with eight chairs and room for two more at the ends. Opposite the long wall with the built-ins is a wall with tall windows, flooding the room with light. The views are out over the leafy street and the redbrick terraces opposite. Needless to say, it’s stunning. The exact opposite of my digs.

Florian looks sheepish at my reaction. “I occasionally host events here for work and needed space.”

“Wow.” Who has space in London?

He leads the way over to the table, smiling. I hesitate. It’s beautiful, sleek contemporary oak, with black, minimalist wooden chairs. “I don’t know, Florian, this is too nice.”

“The table’s meant to be used. Don’t worry, we’ve spilled wine on this table before.”

It just tumbles out, the “we.” And of course, my mind races instantly to Billy. Did they have this table? Did Florian take it when their relationship ended? Also, why do I care? Get it together.

Florian doesn’t notice my internal flail, thankfully. He pulls out a couple of chairs for us, facing the windows for the view. I missed it somehow, but he has a grand piano in here. I wonder if it’s for aesthetics or if he actually knows how to play.

We sit down with our drinks.

“Well, where should we begin?” Florian asks, studying me. His expression is open, his attention fully focused on me. There’s a lightness in his gaze. “I hope to not embarrass myself, but I make no guarantees.”

“Let’s start with a little art history. I brought a couple of books, actually.”

Florian’s intrigued, which is a promising start. I brighten. I reach into my rucksack and pull out two art books. He’s already leaning in, curious to see the covers.