Page 19 of Tilly in Technicolor
“How’s it going?” Mona asks, Amina beside her as they rejoin me.
“Excellent,” I say, scrolling through the photos.
“Love that one,” Amina says, pointing at a shot with a double-decker bus crossing Westminster Bridge.
I nod then glance up from my camera display. And find Tilly’s eyes on me. Slowly, she lifts the cup to her lips and takes a sip, then shoots me a small smile.
My own lips kick up at the sides, wanting to mirror the gesture, but I resist the urge.
I’m not about to set myself up to be embarrassed again by her.
For the next ten weeks, we’re colleagues. Probably not even that. We’re cordial strangers on a business trip.
It’d be best not to get any wires crossed.
Chapter 11Portrait of a Blur
OLIVER
We end the day in Shoreditch, an artsy part of East London with blocks of street art and graffiti. The entire area hums with color and I’m, quite simply, in heaven.
We’re stopped in front of what’s probably our fifteenth mural to use as a backdrop for photos. This one spans the side of a four-story brick building, massive flowers exploding across the rough canvas. It’s painted to look like streams of color are dripping from the tips of petals—the soft and chewy green of Pantone 13–0443, Love Bird, from the point of a calla lily. Pantone Ultra Violet falling (fittingly) from a posy of violets. Radiant Yellow from the curled edges of dahlia petals.
It’s miraculous.
And is providing endless hidden gems for my personal Instagram posts with all the tiny details.
“Take a picture, it will last longer,” Tilly says over my shoulder as I snap a shot of a small brick that has both Pantone Blue Grotto and Cool Gray on it. “Oh, wait. You’ve already taken nine thousand.” Tilly snorts.
“What a clever and not at all overused decades-old joke,” I say, straightening and turning on Tilly.
“Leave him be, Tilly,” Mona snaps. “I imagine it’s a constant job to create content for your page,” Mona adds, turning to me. Tilly rolls her eyes, and, at this rate, I do worry they’ll be stuck back there soon.
The day hasn’t been a total disaster (you know, no major risks to my life or limb this time around), and we’ve definitely gotten some excellent shots, but every time I lose myself in my own world, stopping to snap photos for my page, I catch Tilly staring at me, this odd… frown on her face. At least, I think it’s a frown. I originally assumed it was annoyance or the standard level of confusion I’ve gotten my whole life whenever I dip out of the “real world” and lose myself to whatever special interest is making my brain glow with happiness.
But I realize her look almost has a tinge of, I don’t know, sadness to it? Whatever that look means, it’s hard for me to decipher. She does snap out of it as soon as she’s realized I’ve noticed and at least has the decency to look a bit sheepish for staring.
“Alright, kittens, let’s wrap this up,” Amina says, snapping her fingers with a kind smile. “Happy hour’s on and I’ve got a date with a pint.”
“Got a date with anyone else, Amina?” Tilly asks, sidling up to her with a sly look.
Amina’s laugh is deep and husky and warm. If it were a color, it’d be the rich caramel of Pantone 723.
“Depends on who’s asking, love,” Amina says, tapping Tilly on the nose.
“Well…” Tilly says, glancing around. Her eyes linger a beat on her sister. Mona mouths the wordsstop itto Tilly over Amina’s shoulder.
I can tell I’m missing some sort of hidden meaning in all these, er, pointed looks, and I’m a bit bored standing here like a clueless git.
“We really better get on with it,” I say, clearing my throat. “While we still have good light.”
Mona grabs Tilly’s hand, jerking her to stand in front of the wall. “Go for it,” she says, pointing at me then walking out of the shot.
I turn on my camera and adjust the setting.
“Uh, I know I’ve been doing this all day,” Tilly says, “but I literally have no idea what to do with my hands for this shot.”
We’ve had Tilly holding various props at the other locations, but I don’t have a fresh idea that would flow with this background.
