Page 42 of Leaning In

Mum turns to me. “Claire, darling, you should speak to her too. Her husband works in art.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Really?”

“Yes, dear. I know you enjoy your art.”

I can’t help but smile. Maybe she has been listening when I talk about wanting to move into the design space in marketing.

Sophia gives me a small look over the rim of her drink, like she can see exactly how much that tiny comment affected me.

I glance out across the garden. Lanterns hang from the trees despite the fact it’s still light outside, and pale cream cushions adorn the outdoor furniture. It’s exactly the sort of thing I’d love to take a photo of and then edit, softening edges, maybe blurring the lights.

My phone buzzes and I see a text from Kath.

Kath: I hope you’re having a fun “soirée”. I found a photo of us from Reading festival and I need you to know that we both made terrible outfit choices, and I can’t believe they are immortalised in digital form.

I laugh, my first unmonitored sound of the afternoon, and start replying, but then I catch Mum’s eye and hastily put my phone away.

Alexander’s still chatting with Dad, his expensive-looking watch glinting in the sun. One hand rests easily on the handle of the barbecue lid while Dad talks him through whatever incredibly serious grilling technique they’ve now bonded over.

Dad waves me over. “Claire, honey. Alexander was just telling me about his time in New York. It sounded amazing.”

Alexander chuckles. “I loved living there.”

“Is your mother having fun?” Dad asks as he opens the barbecue back up and flips a burger.

“Yes. She told me to go and speak to Mrs Ambrose because her husband works in art,” I say.

“Interesting,” Dad replies, though he seems more focussed on the burgers than on me.

Before I can respond Alexander’s attention shifts to me. His gaze travels briefly over my dress and a smile tugs at his mouth.

“You look lovely, by the way,” he says. “Your dress is beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I reply automatically, relief flickering through me.

Which is ridiculous. I’m twenty-eight years old. A man complimenting my dress shouldn’t feel like passing an exam. And neither should the fact that my mum likes him and things feel simple. But it’s nice for something not to feel like a fight.

Annoyingly, I can’t help but think someone else would’ve thought of a compliment that was more meaningful, and not just about the way I looked. I push that back into the box where it belongs. Then I lock the box and attempt to throw away the key.

***

Later, after dessert has been eaten off tasteful plates, I grab my things to walk home. Alexander offers to come with me.

“See you next week.” Sophia squeezes me into a tight hug.

Mum appears behind her. “It was so lovely to have you both over.”

She kisses us both on the cheek. I love the smell of the perfume she wears in the summer, it reminds me of school holidays and the beach. I inhale one last comforting lungful before leaving the house.

The sky has softened into dusky blue and the heat of the day has finally begun to lift. The two of us walk in silence for a few moments.

“I think your dad likes me,” Alexander says.

I laugh. “He does. You helped with the barbecue, that basically guarantees approval.”

His hand brushes against the small of my back as we stop to cross the road. I can’t work out how I feel about it. Which is a problem because mere weeks ago a man reached past me to fix some bunting and I had to physically stop myself from leaning into him.

“You know,” Alexander says, “that barbecue thing with your dad reminded me of this dinner I attended in the Hamptons a few years ago. This hedge fund guy insisted on cooking steaks himself because apparently he’d done some masterclass in Argentina—”