Page 37 of The Alpha Escort Agency
He stares straight ahead at the picture of him in his blue school uniform, but nevertheless he feels Alice's gaze flip to him.
"Of course," she says, withdrawing her arm and retreating to the sofa.
He makes a show of looking at his watch. "We'd better go."
"Don't be silly. Let the girl have her cup of tea."
"Alice needs to get home." His voice is stern. From the corner of his eye, he sees the way she's caught, clutching her saucer and teacup, unsure whether to stay seated or stand.
He starts to leave the room, patting his grandad on the shoulder as he passes and then squeezing his nan's.
Behind him, he hears the clatter of her cup and then the groan of the sofa's springs.
He's halfway down the hallway when his nan says, "You seem like a lovely girl. Not like that stuck up Joanna. She broke his heart in two, running off like that, the nasty little witch." There's a pause and his nan's voice is almost pleading when she speaks again, "Just be gentle with him. He looks tough, but he’s as soft as butter."
???
She's quiet when they're back in the truck. Is everything broken, now?
Soft like butter. Women don't want soft. They want strong and dominant. Providers.
He grips the steering wheel, trying to regulate his scent, trying not to give her an insight into the mix of emotions crashing through him.
“Those photos were really very good,” she says at last.
"You don't have to say that," he says gruffly, eyes fixed ahead.
"I'm not just saying it. They are genuinely very good."
He snorts and she shifts in her seat.
"One of my clients was a small, independent art gallery. Your photos are just as good as the pieces they exhibit."
"No, they're not. I submit them sometimes. They are always rejected." His voice is snappier than he’d like it to be but he can’t help it. The constant, never-ending rejection is exhausting.
"To art galleries?" She sounds genuinely surprised.
“No, wildlife magazines.”
“Well, maybe that’s different. I think your art would do well.”
“You know about art?” He thinks of the various prints of modern art he’d seen in her living room and in the bedroom, not the usual artwork you find in people’s houses, pieces he didn’t recognise.
She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, wrestling it down her thighs. “I studied it for a year at university before I switched to marketing.”
He considers. “When your dad died?”
She coughs. “Yes.” Her hands are still worrying over the corduroy. “I don’t want you to think it was some dramatic thing, though. I liked art — I mean, I still love art. But I was never going to be an artist. I never had talent to paint or take photos like you do, Rory. That’s why I love marketing. I’ve found my way to be creative.”
“I understand.”
“Would you let me send a couple of your photos to Hugo?” she says carefully.
“Hugo?”
“He’s the man who owns the gallery.” She peeks up at him and suddenly his hands feel sweaty on the steering wheel. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it? If he doesn’t like them, you won’t have lost anything.”
“I don’t know.” The traffic is busy, and he yanks at the gear stick.
