15. Fifteen

Fifteen

I nstead of waiting outside in the car like a normal person, Art insists on coming up to the apartment whilst I get ready, like some over-protective bodyguard.

I change into a short-sleeved pastel pink blouse, black capri trousers, and ballet pumps, apply minimal make-up, and pull my hair up into a high ponytail, ready for the day. When I walk out of the bedroom, he's leaning against the kitchen counter, idly scrolling through his phone. Something's different. I hadn't noticed before because I went straight into the bedroom to get ready, but now I'm further down the hallway I can see something's changed. The space on the wall beside my dad's painting is normally empty, but today a framed picture is hanging there instead.

I frown and stop in my tracks. "How did this get here?" My eyes swing to Art who's barely suppressing a smile. "Have you got something to do with this?"

He pushes himself away from the counter and sidles up behind me, sliding his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. "It's a gift. Look closer. "

I tilt my head and peer at the picture, admiring the skilful flicks of the oil and how the artist has worked the paint to achieve the right effect. It's an old-fashioned sailing ship caught in a squall out at sea and is all greys and blues and stormy skies. It's very atmospheric and looks similar to the works of J. M. W. Turner, Dad's favourite artist. My eyes travel down to the swirly brushstrokes of the artist's signature on the bottom right edge. I blink, drawing my head closer and my heart freezes mid-beat. It can't be. It's impossible.

"That's not what I think it is, is it?" I murmur unable to tear my eyes away.

"That depends on what you think it is?"

"It's not a… it can't be a… a Turner."

"It's only a print."

My mouth gapes open in shock as I stare in disbelief at the large, framed print. The gold Rococo style wooden frame itself must have cost a fortune. "You didn't have to buy me this. It's huge and no doubt really expensive."

He gives a dismissive shrug. "It's just money. It's what it represents that's invaluable. Your dad meant a lot to you, and this meant a lot to your dad. Do you think he would have liked it?"

And that does it. My face crumples at the mention of Dad and hot tears blur my vision and run down my cheeks. His gesture is over the top but so sweet and from a good place and no one has ever done anything like this before for me. He's lost his dad too, and he gets it. There's a void in my life that will never be replaced, all I can do is remember him.

He slides his arms around my back and gently turns me around to face him, pulling me close. I sob against his chest as he soothes me and strokes my hair. After a few moments my tears subside, and I tilt my face to his. God knows what I must look like.

Brown eyes, full of concern, hold mine. "I'm sorry I made you sad. I bought you this because I thought it would make you happy. "

"It does," I sniff. "Thank you. It's made me very happy; it's just brought it all back. I'm touched. This is such a lovely gesture. You're right, Dad would love it, but you still didn't need to buy it."

He cups my face in his hands and wipes the damp tears from my cheeks with his thumbs. "Yes, I did. When you look at this you'll think of your dad and have happy memories. It's important to have something to remember them by, because that's all we have left of them."

Something clicks inside my head and my eyes slide to the leather Rolex on his wrist that doesn't fit with the rest of his image. "Your watch," I say slowly. "It's an older design. Did it belong to your dad?"

His lips twitch into a thin smile. "He wore it every day. When I went to visit him in the hospice the day he died, he took it off his wrist and handed it to me. I wear it all the time. It reminds me where I've come from."

We stand admiring the painting for a few moments in silence. He curls his arms around my back and rests a hand on my shoulder gently stroking his fingertips across the base of my neck. "What happened to your dad?"

I heave a sigh at the memory that will forever haunt me. "He was driving home late from work one night. It was winter and there was black ice on the roads. A joyrider lost control of a car they'd stolen and ploughed into him. Dad died instantly. The other driver was eighteen. He was drunk and hadn't even got a proper licence. He walked away with a broken arm." I muse over something I've thought about most days since he died. "That morning Dad left the house, and it would be for the last time. He didn't know, we didn't know, but it was, and all our lives changed forever. Life's funny, isn't it?"

Seconds tick by and I'm waiting for him to say something, but he doesn't. His fingers have stopped stroking my neck. I glance at him, and he's staring straight ahead at the painting but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.

"Are you okay? "

He shakes his head lightly as if snapping out of a trance, and he removes his hand from my neck. "Yes, sorry, I've just remembered there's something I need to go and sort out. Are you okay to drive into work yourself?"

I frown at the abrupt change in conversation. There's definitely something odd about him and I can't put my finger on it. "Erm, yes, of course."

"Great." He hastily pecks me on the cheek without meeting my eyes and walks past me.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I call after him as he hurries down the hall.

"Fine," he throws over his shoulder and with that, opens the door and disappears.

"So, exactly how good are we talking?" Lucy watches me closely as she takes a sip of coffee and places the cup on the table.

I throw a furtive glance at Olly cleaning glasses behind the bar over the other side of the room to check he's out of earshot. "Very."

"I knew he would be." She gazes wistfully through the double doors of the Orangery out onto the sunny terrace. "You can tell just by looking at him he'd be good in the sack."

Given that it's mid-week, the hotel is fairly quiet apart from the usual couple of business guests. Lucy and I have seized the opportunity to have an afternoon catch-up in the Orangery and I'm thankful for the low footfall, as she's been grilling me like a Russian interrogator over my day with Art ever since we sat down at the table for two.

I tap the screen of my phone for what feels like the hundredth time today and nibble my thumbnail. Since this morning I haven't heard from him and there was something about the way he darted out of my apartment that's bothering me .

"I think he really likes you." I look up with a jolt to find my friend giving me a firm look. She's over-romanticising again.

"Oh come on, think about it," she carries on in response to the look of disbelief I throw her. "He's brought you a gift that he knew would mean a lot to you. He asked you to keep some clothes at his place, he's practically moving you in!"

I wrinkle my nose, uneasy. "I'm not sure. He took off like a shot this morning, muttering about needing to sort something out. I haven't heard from him all day." I stir my cappuccino and watch the white froth disappear into the muddy brown liquid. "I suppose us not walking into work together has saved us from the gossips in this place," I add, raising the cup to my lips.

"Think positive." Lucy tucks her curls around her ears and sits up. "Have you ever thought he might actually have business to sort out? And you'd just been talking about his dad. Maybe he got a bit upset, you know how men don't like to talk about their feelings." She tweaks the collar of her pale blue blouse and shakes her head. "Stop worrying."

I can't think positive where men are concerned. My brain automatically jumps to the worst-case scenario. I'm worried he's too good to be true, and now the novelty of the sex has worn off I'm worried he's thinking exactly the same thing about me.

Lucy sighs for the tenth time in fifteen minutes and stares out of the leaded window to the terrace.

"So, what's going on with you and Mark?"

She juts out her bottom lip and shakes her head. "Nothing that hasn't been going on for a while."

Not satisfied with her vague response, I push further. Through the five years Lucy and Mark have been together, they've had their ups and downs like every couple, but I've never seen her like this. "Is everything okay between the two of you?"

"Everything is exactly the same as it always has been," she says with a despondent shrug of her shoulders. "We go out to work; he goes out to the pub after and comes home late. He plays golf at weekends. We're like two lodgers living in the same house. Our paths barely cross. "

"You don't think there's anyone else, do you?"

Lucy gives a high-pitched laugh but there's no humour in her eyes. "I don't think he's got enough about him to do anything like that."

"You've been together a long time; things are bound to get a bit…" I pause. "Stale. And you've got the wedding in a few weeks. It's a lot of pressure for you both. Loads of couples have a wobble before their big day," I say, reassuringly.

"I know." Lucy picks up the white paper napkin from off her saucer and twists it in between her fingers. She looks outside. "That's what I keep telling myself."

There's doubt in her voice which doesn't leave me convinced, but we're interrupted by a flustered-looking George hurrying up to our table.

"Ah, there you both are. No Art again today, I see?" His eyes dart from me to Lucy questioningly.

"No, doesn't look like it, and I'm on my break," Lucy replies before he can ask.

George's forehead wrinkles at her defensive tone. "No, no. I know. Everyone's entitled to a break. Some more than others, it seems. Are you feeling better, Sophie?" He regards me with a smile, and I catch the smirk from my friend across the table. I doubt George has put two and two together.

"Yes, I'm feeling much better. Thanks, George," I smile sweetly.

"Good, good." He glances absentmindedly around the dead bar and fiddles with the edge of his claret and blue striped tie. "It's beginning to feel like old times with all this absent management," he mutters to himself hurrying in the direction of reception.

Lucy rolls her eyes, as we watch him scuttle away. "Old Georgie's on the war path." She throws her crumpled napkin down onto the table. "You'll have to warn Art. Speaking of which, where's he taking you to dinner tonight?"

At the mention of his name, I glance at my phone again to see I've had no messages and the uneasy feeling resumes gnawing away at me. I pick up my mobile and stare at the screen, wrestling with myself. To text him or not to text him.

I put my mobile back down on the table. "I've got no idea. "

Lucy rests her chin on her hand and stares off somewhere into the ether daydreaming. "I bet he's taking you somewhere really classy and expensive."

If the gift is anything to go by, then most likely. I curl my fingers around my cup. "I hope it's not anywhere too posh, I'll just feel out of place."

"Either way, you'll have to wear a dress and look absolutely stunning," she tells me. "And wear your hair down, it's sexier."

I roll my eyes at the advice. "Geez, thanks Mum. I don't need any advice on the clothes front. I know exactly what I'm wearing."

A short, tight little black dress, which I've never dared wear until now. Partly because I've never been anywhere nice enough to wear it, and partly because I didn't feel confident enough to carry it off before as a result of years and years of snarky comments from Theo about my appearance and my clothes making me look fat. Art makes me feel beautiful inside and out. An untouchable goddess on a pedestal.

I'm lost in my own little world and don't even realise I'm smiling until I glance up to find Lucy watching me from across the table. She narrows her eyes slightly. "You're falling for him, aren't you?

"Yes," I finally admit it to myself. Hook, line, and sinker. "Yes, I am."