Page 11 of Built to Last
“What about you, Eric?” Dad asks, saving me from further questions. For now.
“Busy.” He sighs. “We’ve got a couple of high-profile potential new clients but neither of them is quite ready to sign on the dotted line.”
“You’ll get ’em, just got to keep at it, son.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Eric smiles but it’s a little forced.
As we carry on eating, Toby tells us about what he’s been up to at school and Mum talks about the charity lunch she’s helping to organise. Dessert is a delicious sticky toffee pudding with custard and by the time we’re scraping the bottom of our bowls I’m stuffed.
“What’s everyone got coming up this week? Anything exciting?”
“Just work.”
“Just school,” Toby answers with a sigh, echoing his dad and making us all laugh. Oh, to be six again.
“Phillip?” Mum prods.
“Not much aside from the new project. Oh, and I’m getting drinks with Blake.”
“You must invite him to lunch again. It’s been too long since we’ve seen that boy.”
“He’s a grown man, although I can see why you’d forget,” Eric scoffs. He’s never liked Blake, and the feeling is mutual. Eric thinks Blake is a flighty, pretentious, prick, and Blake thinks Eric is an uptight arsehole. Neither of them is entirely wrong. Blake can be self-absorbed and Eric is sometimes a little judgemental but they seem to bring out the worst in each other. My parentsmet Blake at a dinner for my birthday a couple of years ago and when Mum realised he’s not close with his family, she decided to welcome him into ours—much to Eric’s displeasure.
I help clear the table while Eric and Toby head out to the garage with Dad to take a look at the bird feeder he’s working on. While the sink fills with warm water and bubbles I cover the leftovers and place them in the fridge and then start washing the dishes. Mum slips into the spot beside me to dry the plates from the rack.
“You seem awfully excited about this new project.”
“Yeah, it should be fun.”
“And you like the artist you’re working with, Rose was it?” She’s doing her best to make it sound like an innocent question, I’ll give her that, but my mother’s keen blue eyes are too probing for me to fall for her act.
“Like I said, I don’t know her all that well yet but she’s incredibly talented,” I reply, drying my hands on the extra dish towel. I pull out my phone, bringing up Rose’s website to show her. It’s possible I may have done some light internet stalking after our first official meeting. “She’s been taking a break but this is some of her work.”
Mum tosses her tea towel over her shoulder and accepts my offered phone.
“Oh,” she gasps. “These are lovely.” She scrolls through the online gallery of abstract portraits for a minute before passing the phone back to me. “I see why you like her. You’ve always been drawn to creative people.” She pats my cheek with a knowing grin.
“That’s not what this is. We’re just working together.” While I might secretly hope this time working with Rose will turn into something more, I don’t need my mother getting excited about something that may never happen. She tuts, waving me off.
“Only for one project. Then what? There’s nothing wrong with using this time to get to know her.” How do mums always know what you’re planning? Denial is the only way forward at this point.
“I’m not?—”
“Are you not attracted to her? The look on your face when you talk about her says otherwise,” she pushes.
“She’s very attractive but that’s not the point. I need to be professional here. Besides, I don’t get the impression she’s looking for something anyway,” I can’t help but add. Mum just scoffs.
“Some of the best love stories begin when we’re not looking. Your father and I didn’t expect to find each other when we did and look how that turned out. You won’t know unless you put yourself out there.” With that she sweeps out of the room, leaving me to finish the dishes in contemplative silence.
Chapter Seven
Rose
After half-an-hourof angry cleaning (like anxious cleaning but more forceful), I’ve sorted through my art supplies and pulled out the things I’ll need for the set project. I’ll have to pick up a couple more paint colours, but other than that I’m good to go and no longer feel the need to choose violence. Mostly.
With nothing else requiring my immediate attention, the urge to check my email to see if Phillip’s replied returns. Promising myself I’ll only refresh once before making lunch, I open the app on my phone not really expecting a response yet. I almost drop my phone, fumbling to catch it when I see his reply waiting for me. My breaths come in short, shallow gasps.Fuck it.I open the email.
