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)
“Very eloquent.” If you speak arty bollocks, which I’m not sure anyone really does. Plenty can blag it, though. “Tod’s show is on Friday. He’s very excited.”
“An art show?” Daisy’s eyes are suddenly as wide as dinner plates. “He must be very talented,” she adds, her ponytail almost whipping me as she spins back around.
“Oh, he’s a legend in his own mind,” I say, sliding him a smile that dares him to contradict me. “If you go over to that cabinet, it has paints and canvases. You can use them if you like.”
Just when I think her eyes can’t get any wider, they almost fall out of her head. “Proper canvases—like the real artists use?”
“Yep.” We had a few weeks of canvas and cocktail gatherings, which went quite well. I should probably run them again.
“And I can have one?”
“You can have as many as you like, doll. Knock yourself out. Or rather, don’t. The door to the cabinet is a bit wonky. I don’t want to have to explain to Uncle Raif how you got knocked out.”
She giggles. “I’ll be careful, promise.”
“Off you go, then. We’ll go to my office and set you up an easel in there.”
“How exciting!”
She dashes off in the direction I’d pointed as I ponder why she’s so excited about art supplies. She lives in a mansion—her bedroom is so pretty and full of all of the things little girls are supposed to like. I suppose it could be a perky girl thing. Primrose has a thing for stationery.
“So?” Tod says, running his hand up the back of his head. “How are you?” His eyes flick over me as though trying to ascertain any changes in me.
He won’t find them on the outside.
“I’m good. Really good, thanks.” I find myself biting the sides of my mouth again as I recall a jealous, handsy Raif this morning. God, when he’d kissed my neck, I’d turned all wet and hot and melty.
Married life is much more fun than I imagined it would be.
“Sorry?” I’m sucked back into the present, realizing Tod is speaking. “I was miles away.”
“Yeah, I know. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.” I pick my bag up from the floor and begin scouring it for my phone. “Why’d you ask?”
“Because you haven’t asked me how I’m doing. You know, after my traumatic weekend.”
“Tod.” I lean closer as I fold my fingers around the front door keys to my flat to stop myself from thumping him. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your weekend. Know why? Because your weekend changed the course of my life. Do you get that?”
“You don’t exactly look unhappy.”
“You want me to be unhappy?” I ask, rearing back.
“No. No,” he adds quickly. “That’s not it at all, but I didn’t expect you to come back married either.”
“You’d rather he would’ve just degraded me—shagged me senseless to pay back the three hundred grand you owed him? Do you have any idea how shocked I was when he said how much money you owed him? How the hell did you think I was going to cover it, Tod? How?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, his expression faltering. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I’d do anything to turn the clock back. Please believe me.”
The phrase that banana is already peeled springs to mind.
Act in haste, repent at leisure is another.
And I’m happy for him to repent because this could’ve worked out very, very differently.
Not that I would’ve let Raif rail me for money. Even if that’s all I could think about last night. In my current scenario, he’d be shagging me into oblivion for my money. Which is not the same as sex to pay of a debt that’s not even mine.
Or maybe I’m just kidding myself. Maybe I’d been destined to lose myself in his bed from the moment I walked into his office to find we’d already met.
“Is it really that bad?” Tod asks, his voice shaky with concern.
“Just be grateful you’re not his type,” I say, throwing my purse over my shoulder. “Or you might be standing here wearing this ring instead.”
And then I’d have to fight you…
As predicted, Monday is quiet. Tod hangs around the showroom like a wraith, scribbling on a pack of revision cards and moving his pieces, hither and thither, as Polly would say, as he attempts to get them in all the best spots.
I haven’t told him that Primrose will be in charge of Friday’s display. She has an eye for these sorts of things, and I know it makes her feel a sense of accomplishment when everything looks balanced and pleasing to the eye.
Type A through and through, that one.
If he gives me any grief, I’ll just threaten to make his solo exhibition a thematic group experience and involve other artists in his big night. That would piss on his Cornflakes.