Page 21 of Ice To Meet You

“Yes. It’s said that each year the tree would only bear a single fruit. His family reportedly starved. Do you see the artist’s use of the splatter technique? Pure rage.”

Marianne shook her head slowly. I glanced over her shoulder to see Esmé staring at me with her mouth wide open.

“Oh, my goodness,” whispered Marianne. “How awful.”

I nodded. “Si. You think Van Gogh was bad for cutting off his ear? This man pulled up his entire orchard. Olives, peaches, lemons. They all died under his bloodlust. Eventually, the authorities removed him from his village in a straitjacket.”

A loud “tut” rang out across the gallery. Esmé sat down in her chair with her arms firmly crossed over her chest.

“Can you show me something less … violent?” Marianne asked.

“Of course,” I said, guiding her over to a minimalist painting that looked like someone had smeared a boiled egg over the canvas. “Behold,” I said, sweeping an arm towards the artwork.

“This picture may look simple, but the technique used is very intricate and time-consuming. It’s known as ‘the whisper of the brush.’ A remote community of monks in the Southern Alps perfected it.” I stepped toward the painting, hovering my hand over a lurid patch of paint. “The monks meditate for days before each stroke of their paintbrush.”

“That’s amazing,” Marianne said.

“Yes. This work took years to complete. And I believe they nominated one abbot for canonisation.” I stepped back, throwing my arms up theatrically. “Saint Marcus, Patron Saint of Bristles.”

Marianne’s eyes widened. “Bristles?”

“Absolutely. He used the finest squirrel’s tail gathered from the forests around the monastery. They even set up a rodent sanctuary in his name. Devout art lovers make a pilgrimage every year to pay their respects.”

A scrape of wood against wood rang in the quiet. Both Marianne and I looked toward Esmé. She stood in front of her desk, her chair pushed to the side. She’d drawn her brows tight together and her eyes flared bright enough to flay the skin off a man’s back.

“How tragic,” Marianne said, her eyes wide and serious.

“Well, as you know, beautiful art is often driven by great suffering.” I swept my gaze around the gallery once more, landing on a small portrait of a woman who looked on the verge of tears.

“Take this piece, for example. It’s very powerful. Look at the expression of longing in the subject’s eyes. It was said she ordered a croissant at a cafe, but it never arrived. Devastating.”

I could feel Esmé’s glare, the crackle of her discomfort in the air. I didn’t want to upset her, but who knew art could be so much fun?

Marianne stared at the portrait alongside me for almost a minute. Finally, she sighed, shaking her head. “How do you know so much about art? I thought Esmé was the expert.”

I nodded, guiding her away from the croissant picture. “I studied French provincial new wave medieval art at university. I’ve published several papers on?—”

Before I could finish, Esmé’s voice broke over mine and she linked her arm through Marianne’s, pulling her away. “I’m sure Marianne doesn’t want to hear about your research, Matteo. It’s a little dull, don’t you think?” The steel in her voice wasn’t lost on me.

I followed the two of them to a spot in front of the door. “Don’t underestimate the power of research. You’d be surprised what a good nude teaches you.”

Esmé’s eyes widened, and Marianne let out a chuckle. “Perhaps we shouldn’t ask.”

“Speaking of nudes,” Esmé said, her voice lofty and strained. “I have something to show you.”

Esmé led Marianne to the other side of the gallery. As she walked away, she gave me a blistering look, and my gut twisted. I’d tried to help entertain her customer and give her some down time. Only, I’d probably driven a bigger wedge between us.

With a sigh, I walked over to Esmé’s desk, sitting down next to Claudette’s makeshift bed. I longed for the easy conversation we had this morning before anyone else arrived.

Then, while we sipped our coffee, it felt like I’d known her my whole life. There’d been excitement, an unspoken tensionin the air between us. But I’d stupidly reached out and brushed her skin. I didn’t know why I did it, but standing so close, my body had burned to touch her again.

She reacted like I’d bitten her.

Claudette stood, arched like a bridge, and let out a small meow, weaving around the objects on Esmé’s desk. I tickled the soft fur behind one of her ears.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” I said to her. “Maybe you can give me some tips. How do I make your owner like me?”

A throat cleared behind me and I spun round to see Marianne and Esmé. Marianne had a smile on her lips. Esmé just stared at me.

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