Lace and Paint (True Colors Book 1) Page 6

  “Ok, so I’ll choose.” His voice interrupts my thoughts as he pushes a button and raises the volume. I recognize Fleetwood Mac’s, “Don’t Stop Thinking about Tomorrow.”

  “I like your taste,” I say.

  “Well, it’s not the SugaBabes,” he laughs, as the car accelerates down the road. He drives fast.

  “You’re not from here.” I smile slightly at him. He glances at me in surprise, then looks back at the road.

  “What gave me away?”

  “Your terrible accent,” It’s a heavy, familiar accent that floods me with an unforgettable yearning.

  “You’re familiar with it?”

  “Very. You’re from the north?”

  “Yes. From Barnsley. Danny mentioned your dad was from the north.” He smiles.

  “Yes. Wakefield.”

  “I know he passed away a few years ago. I’m sorry,” his voice softens. This conversation about my father, I didn’t see it coming. “Were you two close?”

  “No, unfortunately. Just another thing I missed out on.” I sigh quietly.

  He glances over and asks, “What do you mean?”

  “It’s common, human mistake, to understand things once it’s too late to change them.” Yearning for my father overwhelms me. I don’t like thinking about it and I definitely don’t like talking about it.

  “I have to agree with you.”

  “I think humans are the only creatures on earth who experience those feelings.”

  “What feelings?”

  “Missed opportunities, regrets,” I answer with a tight smile.

  “Interesting point.”

  “There’s a whole theory behind it.”

  “And that theory is?”

  “Basically.” I brush my hair back from my face. “That human beings are the only creatures aware of death, thus spending their entire lives fearing it.”

  “Again, I’m inclined to agree.” He turns and smiles slightly. He can be nice when he chooses to be.

  “Well, it’s not my theory.”

  “Why weren’t you in touch with your dad?”

  I can’t believe I’m talking to him about this. I don’t really speak to anyone about my dad. But somehow, he’s managing to get it out of me.

  “I was too busy fighting and being angry. Now I understand how stupid it was,” I reply.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because what good did it do? Does it matter who was right? I’d do anything to be able to tell him, even once, that he was right.”

  I choke up a bit. I miss my father. More than I’m willing to admit even to myself.

  “Talia…” I catch the look of concern on his face. He can see what this conversation is costing me.

  “Never mind, I’m fine. It’s such a beautiful day. It’s a pity to waste it on morbid conversations.” I’m desperate to change the subject before the tears come.

  I’m not going to let him see me cry. I don’t know him and, in any case, I’ve embarrassed myself enough in front of him.

  “Who taught you to cook?” I ask.

  “My mum.” His voice lifts and warms.

  “Your mother?” I’m not too sure why his answer surprises me.

  “Yes, I was Mummy’s baby boy. I used to stand next to her in the kitchen for hours.” The longing in his voice is tangible.

  “Baby boy…do you have any siblings?”

  “Three older brothers.”

  “Four boys?” I’m stunned. That’s crazy.

  “Yes.”

  “How did your mother manage that?”

  “With lots of clear rules.” He laughs. “When you raise four boys, it’s best you educate them from a young age. You know, to clean and tidy up after themselves, to take others into consideration.”

  “I don’t envy her,” I declare. “Four boys. I can’t even imagine it. It sounds completely chaotic.”

  “She managed. My dad made some successful investments and my mum stayed at home to raise us. It was a full-time job—driving us around, football, fights about school.”

  “Are your brothers married?”

  “The two elder ones are. Myles has a boy and girl at school and Gabriel has twins—a boy and a girl.”

  “You forgot one.” I smile slightly.

  “Jake. He’s thirty-two. He’s traveling the world and trying to make it a better place to live in.”

  I wonder what he thinks about that. He manages a real-estate company and Jake is traveling around the world. I have to admit that, to me at least, it sounds amazing.

  “Are they all up north?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “You miss them.” I smile and state the obvious.

  “Yes, I don’t see them enough. Their kids are growing up so fast. I can barely remember how old they are, or when their birthdays are.”

  He sounds really close to his family. The complete opposite of me.

  “Don’t feel like you’re unusual. Remembering dates is a girl thing.” I chuckle. Men don’t remember anything important. “Do you visit them often?”

  “As much as I can. My parents raised me to believe that family is the most important thing and they’ll always be there for you.” My heart sinks when I think how different we are.

  “I envy you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I only have Danny. My mother and I fight constantly. She’s basically the last person who’ll ever be there for me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. My mum is amazing, when she’s not constantly sticking her nose in my business.” He laughs his lovely laugh again.

  “Your mother, too?” I laugh, pleased the atmosphere in the car has become much more relaxed.

  “I think all mums are like that, don’t you?” He looks at me.

  I don’t know. I don’t think I can compare my mother to anyone.

  “My mom has made it her life’s project to meddle in mine.” I smile.

  “Really?” He seems interested to learn more.

  “Yes, every day it’s ‘Talia, learn something; Talia, maybe you’ll find a job; Talia, take your pills’.” I clam up. Ben turns to me, his expression expectant.

  My stomach tightens like I’ve been punched. I’ve said too much.

  “Pills?” He frowns.

  “It’s nothing,” I whisper, shaking my head. How did that slip out?

  “Talia?” He keeps his eyes on the road, but his tone is stern. Can’t he just let it go?

  “It’s nothing. Really.” My heart is beating so fast it’s scary. The familiar sensation of panic overwhelms me. I know exactly what’s going to happen, what always happens when they find out. Fuck!

  “Answer me.”

  Why didn’t I keep my stupid mouth shut?

  “It’s none of your business,” I grumble and stare out the window. My body is painfully tense. Every muscle tight.

  “Come on!” His fingers drum the steering wheel, jangling my nerves.

  Is he serious?

  “You’re really irritating!”

  “And you’re really deflecting!”

  “It’s none of your business!” I raise my voice. “Who the hell do you think you are anyway?”

  “Will you stop the dramatics! What’s the story?” He raises his voice back.

  “I have bipolar disorder, okay?” The words come out of their own accord.

  Damn.

  I can literally feel my cheeks pale. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, which worries me even more. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Do I even want to know?

  “Bipolar disorder?” He sounds surprised, and I wait for the horror that’ll follow his shocking discovery. In a moment, he’ll turn the car around and take me back to Danny.

  “Yes.” I look down, playing with my fingers, trying to peel off what’s left of the paint. The damn choking in my throat intensifies. How did I let that happen? Not that anything has happened with this guy—Danny’s boss. But I didn’t intend for him to find out.

  “So that’s the
big secret…” he says, almost to himself.

  “Yes.” My voice is a whisper. I’m still waiting for his horror.

  “Okay.” From the corner of my eyes, I notice him shrugging, and turn to look at him.

  “D-did you hear what I said?” I stammer.

  He glances at me for a second and I sit on my hands to hide my trembling fingertips.

  “Yeah. Bipolar.” He shrugs again.

  “Do you even know what that means?”

  “No, I’ll Google it later. If I’m interested,” Ben replies, his eyes back on the road, his shoulders relaxed.

  “If you’re interested?” I just don’t get him.

  “Yeah. So, you have problems. We all do.” The corner of his mouth rises in a tiny smile. “Now, if you’ve finished with your drama, Camden is awaiting us.”

  Is he serious?

  “You’re insane.” I shake my head.

  “So are you,” he replies with a huge grin and presses down on the gas to accelerate. I stare out at the window again and try to relax.

  I don’t know what to think. And I don’t know how to calm my heart. He’s just found out something I had no intention of telling him—the Big Secret. And he’s reacting with indifference, as though I hadn’t just told him I was crazy …

  I’ll Google it.

  We park at one of the back streets and I scramble out quickly, not waiting for him to open the door for me. Let’s avoid the gentlemanly gestures. I don’t need them. My defenses are up again. I just can’t read him. Irritating…and fun.

  My mood changes around him at a dizzying pace. One moment I’m laughing—a moment later, I want to strangle him.

  We’re walking down the street and the wind blows my hair all over the place. I take out a rubber hair band and tie up my wild mane of curls.

  “Why are you putting your hair up? Your curls are lovely.” I’m taken aback by his compliment. Lovely.

  “I’m still trying to get used to this relationship with my hair.” I shrug.

  “You have a relationship with your hair?” His laughter rolls out.

  “Yes, a love-hate relationship. You know, like in life.”

  “Yes. It’s complicated.”

  “What’s complicated?”

  “You know. Love. Hate.” Obviously, he’s not talking about my curls.

  “I am well aware of that.”

  So is he, I think. Something to do with a certain Jenny.

  “So how come you brought John documents on a Sunday?” I’m shocked by the idea someone would work on a weekend.

  “We have a lot of work.” His hands rest in the back pockets of his jeans, which pulls his shirt tight around his chest, emphasizing his muscles.

  “It’s crazy, you know,” I murmur.

  He steals a curious glance at me, “What’s crazy?”

  “That you’ve your own company at the age of thirty.”

  And also, that he’s so goddamn handsome.

  “I work hard for it,” he answers quietly.

  “How big is it?”

  “My company?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, workers, contractors, architects, probably a few hundred people.” He shrugs.

  It sounds like a lot of work. A lot of responsibility.

  “So you write and paint,” he changes the subject.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you write about?”

  My blog interests him.

  “About my chaotic life,” I give a tiny laugh.

  “Is it chaotic?”

  “It can be,” I answer mischievously. Again, my mood swings, like a pendulum I can’t control.

  He looks at me. “Can I read it?”

  “No! God.” I laugh again, but deep inside I’m appalled by the idea someone I know could read my blog. “It’s anonymous.”

  He grimaces. “Nobody knows it’s you?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  His eyes rest on my face. “That way, I can allow myself to be…free…”

  Seriously, Talia, are you flirting with him? Why are you doing this to yourself?

  “Now I’m dying to read it.” He wiggles his eyebrows and my cheeks flame a little.

  “That’s not going to happen,” I shake my head, grinning.

  “So what else do you do?” He’s still showing interest in me, despite the bombshell in the car, and I can’t stop wondering why.

  “I surf the internet, go on Facebook.”

  “Facebook?” He rolls his eyes in undisguised contempt.

  “Okay, don’t sound so horrified.” I’m uncomfortable again. Who doesn’t have Facebook nowadays?

  “I’m not horrified. I just never quite got it,” he shrugs indifferently.

  “What’s not to get?”

  “To me it seems like a waste of time. All of a sudden people don’t need to speak to one another. I read what you wrote. I saw from your pictures what you did with every minute of your day. I gave it a ‘Like’. Good night.”

  “That’s such a restricted way of looking at it,” I say, trying to defend my favorite hobby—surfing the internet for hours and hours. Is it a wonder I’m afraid of what this guy thinks about me? I don’t do much at all.

  “How do you see it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a good way to keep in touch. I can chat with my friends for hours.”

  “Really?” He looks skeptical. “Come on, it’s only Facebook.”

  “Stop sounding so horrified,” I insist. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

  “Chats?”

  “Yeah. It’s fun.”

  “Well, now you’ve got me curious.” He laughs.

  “Do you even have Facebook?”

  “Only if Zuckerberg wasn’t insulted by my lack of activity and hasn’t closed down my account. So, Facebook, an anonymous blog, and painting in the basement. Does somebody have a slight issue with intimacy?”

  His question takes me by surprise. I stare straight ahead at the crowded street, while trying to breathe normally. “You assume a lot, for someone who’s known me for about a minute and a half.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “Don’t know. It more or less meets my needs at this stage of my life.” I sigh.

  “Which are?”

  “To distance myself a little.”

  “Is that why you ran off to London?” he, annoyingly, asks again.

  “What’s the deal with that word?” I roll my eyes.

  “Come on. A break, running away. It’s all semantics.”

  “Okay. I think we’ve arrived.” I attempt to end the conversation about me. If he comes up with any more insights, it’ll be even more humiliating.

  At the North-West corner of the market there are dozens of shops with antiques and art objects. I lead the way to a store specializing in the art of glassblowing. I pull open the door and am astounded. Dozens of multi-colored glass objects, extremely thin and fragile, are arranged neatly on the shelves.

  I approach one shelf, my eyes checking out a delicate vase. From afar, it looks red, but once you get closer you can see it’s actually a blend of colors. It’s perfect.

  Ben is standing behind me. He’s so close I can smell his aftershave. God, he smells so good. It’s a definite recipe for disaster.

  I desperately try to focus on the vase. “What do you do when you’re not working late or walking around Camden with me?”

  “I play football in the park. You saw that…” He grins and I peek at his wounded eyebrow. It really isn’t that bad.

  “What else do you do?”

  “Go to the pub with mates.”

  I laugh. “How very English of you.”

  He laughs back. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Totally.”

  “And I like to build things in my shed.”

  My eyes open wide. “You build things?”

  “Yes.”

  “What have you built lately?”

  “A swing for Gabriel’s twins.”

/>   “Wow!” I enthuse. He’s talented as well. It can’t be that everything he touches turns to gold. There must be something he’s not good at.

  “It’s just a hobby,” he shrugs and looks embarrassed. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing him embarrassed.

  I look away and carry on wandering around the shop.

  He gets me. He hardly knows me and his directness shocks me. I still can’t believe he hasn’t run away like all the others. He found out the secret, found out that I’m crazy, and hasn’t gone anywhere.

  A huge, round mirror, with a frame made out of blue-and-orange mosaic stones, is hanging on the wall. Together the stones create an illusion of infinite spiral movements. I take a closer look at it.

  “Do you like it?” Ben asks behind me. I turn and meet his green eyes.

  “The color combination and the mosaics remind me of Gaudi’s work.” I turn back to the mirror.

  I can see Ben’s reflection, a huge smile across his face. He’s looking at me and a flush rises to my cheeks. I lift my head. I could easily stay here for a week and not move. I want to drown myself in the patterns and color.

  An opaque lighting plate hangs on the ceiling. Tens or maybe hundreds of thin, glass rays surround it and reflect the colors of the sun: red, orange, and yellow, from its center to every direction. It’s as though the plate is the heart of an explosion. I can’t explain why, but looking at it makes my heart burst. The color and the fragility crush me.

  “It’s as though it has a life of its own.” I hear Ben’s comment. He’s standing next to me, looking up and studying the plate. His eyes shine.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  The glass is marvelous. I feel inspired and can already picture the painting I’m going to draw today. He lowers his head, our eyes meet, and my heart misses a beat.

  “I really like your taste,” he says quietly.

  “Thanks,” I stammer.

  What is this guy doing to me?

  We leave the shop and return to the busy market. It’s packed with characters, color, and aromas. Shops offering clothes from the Far East stand adjacent to stands selling hot couscous. The market is filled with life-size sculptures of horses, a reminder of the old city stables that used to stand there. The original stone walls create narrow passageways through which we wander. I move my hand across the cold stone. A dank smell rises from it. Its coarseness reminds me of the Gothic Quarter in Barcelona.