Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
I could cut her loose. Rewind. Return our lives to as they were last Friday afternoon. Only, a time before Lavender seems so long ago.
“…I’ve already called Gib.”
Gibraltar? At Lachlan’s voice, I surface into the present again.
“I spoke to Moreno. Told him to lock the documentation away until he hears from me.”
“Right.”
That she’s Brin Whittington’s sister was always secondary to my cause. It wasn’t even supposed to be her, but that’s on her brother. If he hadn’t fucked up, I would never have sought her out. She was just too good an opportunity for payback.
If she found out…
Fuck, I don’t even want to imagine.
“…and that’s five mill you’ll save at the end of the day. Not to mention your car.”
Could I? Humiliate her and dash her hopes? Not that I… No. She hasn’t built her hopes on me—her hopes and dreams are in an art gallery that isn’t even bricks and mortar but a glorified shipping container with a rent that’s still crippling her bottom line.
Could I leave her in that mess?
It’s not like she’s poor, I guess.
For the second time today, I experience that pinch of discomfort in my chest.
I feel protective of her, I realize with a jolt. And how I feel about that is…
Fucking perplexing.
21
LAVENDER
I want a driver, I find myself thinking as Antonio pulls away from the curb.
Riding the Tube when this is all over will never be the same.
I give my head a little shake. I feel like I’ve gone to sleep and have woken in someone else’s life. Someone with a hot husband all growly and demand-y, the kind that can make you do things that, if a mere mortal asked you to do, you’d tell them to piss right off.
“I’m not in the mood to let you watch.”
I bite the corners of my mouth to stop myself from smiling like a total looney. I’d left the bathroom, too! Did as he said. Then I’d heard the shower, and I almost died!
Raif, naked in the shower. Thinking about me—thinking about what we’d just done.
I had a very stern word with myself about rolling out of bed to creep in and watch. For one thing, I’m not a pervert. Second, if I’d gone in there, I know I wouldn’t be able to walk straight this morning.
I thought I’d need to pretend to be asleep when he came back into the room. I imagined myself watching him through my lashes as he dried and dressed and—
“So you’re here, then?”
I roll my eyes at Tod’s tart tone and pivot to face him.
“I know I’m a vision,” I say, sweeping a theatrical hand down my light woolen dress, “but I’m not really a vision.”
He huffs, and his eyes dip to the little blonde by my side.
“This is Daisy,” I say, pressing a reassuring hand to her back. “Daisy, this is Tod, my friend.” His eyebrows pinch, and I find myself thinking he’d better be my friend or he’ll be paying rent.
“Hello.” Daisy offers her hand.
Tod looks at it like it’s a wet fish until I frown. With menace. He takes it. Awkwardly.
“Tod is an artist,” I say, hoping to impress her. And bingo, her blue eyes fly wide.
“That’s so exciting!”
“Yeah, it is,” Tod says, sort of wanting to impress but playing it cool at the same time. Bloody artists and their artistic temperaments.
“Tod made that,” I say, pointing at a clay model sitting on a white plinth under a studio light. I see he’s taken it upon himself to move stuff around again.
Though he hasn’t said as much, I believe the piece is loosely based on The Statue of Ebih-il, the Superintendent of Mari, an alabaster antiquity dating back to 25 BC. The priceless piece currently resides in The Louvre, Paris. Tod’s version has the same wide eyes and goofy smile as the original, but his holds a mobile phone.
“Really?” Daisy glances up at me, unsure what to make of it.
“What does it make you feel?” Tod asks. “Art should evoke a response. A reaction.”
“It makes me feel… like I can be an artist, too. But it’s very wonderful,” she adds politely. Tod is too self-absorbed to realize the slight.
“Thank you.” He nods gravely and, linking his hands behind his back, he bows. Like he’s about to be bestowed with an OBE or something. “I call it Talk Like an Egyptian.”
Even though the original is Syrian…
Daisy nods as though she completely gets his artistic vision. Or maybe she’s just heard The Bangles hit from the 1980s. It’s one of Polly’s housework favorites.
“You see, my upcoming exhibition explores the relationship between the tyranny of history and life as performance. I’m fascinated by the divergence of the past and the present, from both a simple and a complex narrative.”
“I see you’ve been practicing for Friday night,” I put in.
He nods and grins. “How do I sound?”