Working With Heat (5 page)

Oh.
Milla sat back and looked around the Darmayne Gallery. Nina Darmayne had a reputation in the art scene, but Milla had eavesdropped on enough conversations to know that after three generations of family ownership, the Thurlows were art-world royalty.

Charlie Tanner’s ex-wife was
Chelsea Thurlow
?

Eventually the archives of one of London’s infamous tabloids coughed up what she needed, a replica of a two-page spread gleefully detailing the rise and fall of Chelsea and Charlie. Couched in the typical “sources say” and “friends of the couple agree” language that could mean an actual source or could mean the reporter was talking out of his ass, the article said that after university Chelsea went through a rebellious stage, moving to the East End, befriending up-and-coming artists, arranging guerrilla installations, drinking, partying and marrying a very young-looking Charlie.

Milla studied the picture. She’d never seen Charlie smile like that, a hell-raiser, I-don’t-give-a-damn look in his eyes, and was that a hint of smudged eyeliner? God, she’d pay good money, even dip into her Orient Express fund, to get Charlie alone in punk rock clothes and makeup. Chelsea, wearing even more eye makeup than Charlie, looked stoned, or maybe it was just rich girl, rage-against-the-machine attitude. Without a close-up of her pupils, Milla couldn’t tell.

So what happened?

Those ubiquitous “sources close to the couple” dragged Charlie’s image through the gutter. Chelsea regretted a decision that caused a complete break with her parents. He embarrassed her in public—his clothes, his accent, his table manners.

Milla scrolled through to the key highlight: Chelsea had started an affair with her current husband, Eddie. What began as friendly tweets quickly got flirtatious, then got mysterious and dark and emotional, and then got blatant. Some incredibly savvy reporter had screen-capped the tweets, saving them for all eternity.

Best
lunch
ever
, with a pic of the Dorchester, a Park Lane hotel, and the hidden Table Lumière.

Lots of tweeted pictures, taken by an unnamed companion, of Chelsea looking wistfully into the distance, the profile shot, chin braced on hand. Lots of smiley faces tweeted to Eddie for no apparent reason.

According to the all-knowing sources and the helpful timeline, there was a period of reconciliation that matched up with a tweet of a red-eyed Chelsea:
That
was
hard.

The tweet stream dried up, went back to chipper promotional tweets for the gallery. No pictures of Charlie. Despite the reconciliation, in Chelsea’s online life, he ceased to exist.

Then, a tweet for a charity ball hosted by Eddie. A quick search and Milla turned up a picture of Charlie and Chelsea at the ball, Charlie looking uncomfortably furious in an evening suit, Chelsea not bothering to smile. After that it was only a matter of weeks before the affair picked up again, followed by a series of tweets from Chelsea:

I have a right to be happy. I have a right to be free.

A selection of @ replies affirmed her statements. Chelsea’s friends were early social media adopters. Then, several weeks later:

Why should youthful mistakes be borne for the rest of one’s life? Why not claim the second chance?

Then things really got ugly:

There is no reason to stay married to a useless no-talent who’s sent so much coke up his nose he’ll never paint again.

Hundreds of replies this time. The separation, the divorce, the engagement announcement an unseemly three weeks later that went viral on social media. After the wedding, the only mention of Charlie was in a sidebar. His scholarship had been revoked for poor performance, and he’d dropped out of the Slade.

Milla sat back and looked around the empty gallery. If that’s what Chelsea said about Charlie online, what was she saying about him privately, to her parents? To other gallery owners and agents and museum curators?

No wonder Charlie had never tried to get a gallery in London.

As a master of the internet, she had to respect Chelsea—the way she’d respect a cobra—because the social media campaign could not have been more perfectly conducted to win sympathy for herself. Under the beating heart and quickened breath of star-crossed lovers—
Eddie
+
Chelsea
=
TLA
—ran an ice-cold river of calculation designed to extract her from the life she didn’t want and set herself up for the life she did want. It wasn’t enough for her to get divorced and remarry. She needed the approval, sympathy and loyalty of the online world, too. She needed to be right, and in order for that to happen, Charlie needed to be wrong.

Milla knew exactly the word she’d use to describe Chelsea, except she’d never, ever use it.

He’d said nothing about it. Milla had been on plenty of dates with men who within ten minutes were blaming their exes for all their woes. Charlie said nothing at all. He went to the pub quiz, came down for breakfast, walked her home.

Took her to bed with a passionate intensity that stole her breath, then looked at her with the hungriest, wariest eyes imaginable. No wonder he doubted her. She was making her way in the world using the same social media platforms Chelsea had used to destroy him.

* * *

Friday night found her pedaling furiously back to Fitzrovia, where she would meet this week’s banker for a drink at the Fitzroy Tavern. She was running late, having spent the afternoon making arrangements with a particularly nervous artist for their opening, and traffic out of London for the weekend was brutal.

She pedaled up onto the pavement outside the tavern, locked her bike to a convenient planter, snagged the pannier from the back rack and darted inside. She wore red skinny jeans cuffed at the ankle, her black ballet flats and a sleeveless white eyelet blouse that gathered under her breasts to give her the illusion of cleavage. Her hair was admittedly a bit flattened by her Bern helmet, but a quick scrunch of her fingers to her scalp remedied that. The bar held a nice mixture of suits and casual clothes, so she wasn’t too worried about being underdressed.

She bounced up on tiptoe to scan the crowded room, then checked her phone. She was five minutes late.

I’m here.

The reply came immediately.

Window corner. I’m waving.

She turned, looked, and there he was, tall, dark haired, exactly like his profile pic but with a different tie, gorgeously loosened and the top button of his crisp white shirt unbuttoned. Milla waved back and wormed her way through the crowd.

“Peter?” she said.

“So they tell me,” he said easily, then bent to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I needed to box up a shipment and the delivery service was late.”

His gaze flickered over her, then outside to the street where she’d locked her bike. “You rode here?”

“Yes,” she said with a smile.

“That’s very nice,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said, pleased. “It’s a really nice way to see London, and saves on Tube fare.”

“What can I get you?”

“I’d love a lemon drop martini,” she said. “Thanks.”

He raised his hand to get the server’s attention, then ordered the drink and an appetizer platter. “Do you work near here?” she asked when the server headed for the bar.

“In the City,” he said. Even after two years in London she still had to mentally translate “the City” from New York City to the financial district in the City of London. “Long, brutal days staring at spreadsheets. Dead boring, really. You?”

“At the Darmayne Gallery,” she said. “And I run a website about travel.”

“I’ve read it,” he said.

“You have?” Milla said. This was by no means a foregone conclusion in Milla’s experience. She leaned back to give the waitress space to set the drink and plates on the table. The sugared rim was miraculously intact, and Milla smiled her thanks.

“Indeed I have.” Peter’s phone vibrated on the table. After reading the text, he thumbed in a reply, then looked out the window at the sidewalk. Milla took a selfie framed by the bar’s open window and posted it.
Best
seat
in
the
house
on
a
gorgeous
London
summer
night.

“Sorry about that. Where were we?” he asked, but whatever the text was about, Peter’s enthusiasm had dimmed.

She’d taken two sips of the martini. “Problem at work?” she asked.

“No, no, nothing of the sort. I’m sorry. So. You just got back from Stockholm. Did you see the Fotografiska?” he said, making an obvious effort to refocus. It didn’t compare at all to Charlie’s intense look.

“The view from the café is amazing. Have you been there?”

“Last summer,” he replied.

The conversation continued. Despite the ominous tie, he was funny, self-deprecating, well traveled thanks to a gap year backpacking through Europe and Asia. But every few minutes, his phone would vibrate, he’d peer out at the street and his smile grew ever more strained. Finally Milla followed his glance and found a woman standing across the street, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Oh, dear. “Ex-girlfriend?” Milla asked.

“Um. It’s complicated. I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s probably best if we got together another time,” Milla said. Then she swung her legs over the window sill, trotted to her bike, unlocked it. By the time she had her helmet on, the girl was in Peter’s arms and he was stroking her hair, making shushing noises.

Herein ends another bad date
, Milla thought and set off for the Fire Spell.

Chapter Four

Mobiles were thumping onto the tables at the Fire Spell by the time she reached the bar. Charlie, Kaitlin, Elsa and Billy were clustered around a table, empty pint and half-pint glasses encircling the pile of mobiles. Milla slid onto the bench seat by Kaitlin and helped herself to a swallow of her Dark Star before posting a pic of the pints on the table.
Time
for
the
pub
quiz!
#
Thefirespell

“You can’t be serious,” Kaitlin said. “Already?”

“Already,” Milla said. “Including time to bike from Fitzrovia to the City and the City to here.”

Charlie looked at his watch. Everyone else at the table looked at their phones.

“Don’t say it,” Milla said. “And I was running late.”

“What happened with this bloke?” Billy asked.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Milla succinctly.

“What, not over her yet? You learned that in thirty minutes?”

“She was outside the bar, crying.”

Elsa winced. Kaitlin stopped tapping her pen against the wooden condiment caddy. “Sad crying or angry boil-your-bunny crying?”

“Sad crying,” Milla said, and risked a glance at Charlie, leaning back against his chair, hands folded behind his head, watching her. “I felt bad for her. I don’t want to be the other woman muddying his waters,” she said. “
C’est la vie.
What’s the topic?”

“Trains.”

“Our luck holds,” Milla crowed.

“We have no luck,” Kaitlin groused. “No luck at all. I want one of those T-shirts!”

“Kaitlin,” Milla said, “you should be wearing one of those T-shirts all the time to advertise your design business.”

“I would if they were for sale,” Kaitlin said. “These only go to winners. If I can’t win one, I won’t wear it. I will not diminish the value of the T-shirt.”

“You ridiculous thing,” Elsa scoffed fondly. “What are you going to do if we don’t win one?”

“Perish the thought,” Kaitlin said. “Why are we lucky?”

“I’ve been researching trains all week,” Milla said, and pinched her fingers close together. “I’m this close to funding the Orient Express trip.”

“What do you know about trains?”

“I know about the Orient Express,” Milla said.

A chorus of groans.

“There’s bound to be one question about the Orient Express! It’s the most famous train ever! It’s glamorous and full of history, and it’s incredibly romantic.”

Charlie sat back, one hand on the table, the other on his hip, and smiled at her. She hadn’t seen him since their breakfast and walk to work. His beard was bordering on wild mountain man, which meant he’d spent the week in the hot shop. She mouthed
hey
,
stranger
at him, and smiled.

He smiled back, slow and conspiratorially. Circles darkened the skin under his eyes, but the look on his face was one of deep satisfaction. If he was working on brilliant new pieces at his hot shop, maybe he’d take the next step and make a foray into the London art scene again. Knowing what she knew about his past, Milla felt both a twinge of guilt and a real desire to cheer Charlie on while he stuck his thumb in Chelsea’s eye.

“One question out of ten,” Kaitlin said. “It’s a start.”

Milla held out her phone at arm’s length. “Budge together, everyone.”

Everyone except Charlie squeezed into the frame. Milla snapped the picture, sent it off into the social media clamor. Still no emails from the various potential sponsors. She’d almost given up.

“So, what happened this time?” Elsa asked.

The quizmaster’s spiel about benefiting the Spitalfields Trust cut off Milla’s chance to answer. “Mobiles down, ladies and gentlemen. We run a clean quiz,” he said, and waggled the jester’s hat. “Except for this, of course. This hasn’t been washed since Henry the VIII’s fool wore it. Don’t make me drop it on your head.”

“Eww,” Elsa said, wrinkling her nose.

“First round, trains. The questions are global,” the quizmaster added. “We’re not going to ask you what time the London to Edinburgh express leaves after noon on Saturday.”

“Twelve thirty! Arrives just after five,” someone in the room shouted out, to general laughter.

Milla found her lucky pen. Kaitlin sat with her typical energy, poised on the edge of the bench, eyes expectantly on the quizmaster. And under the table, Charlie’s work boot nudged against Milla’s ballet flat—clad foot.

She glanced at him, found him hunched over his paper in much the same position she imagined he’d adopted as a schoolboy. But then he looked at her through his lashes, a grown man’s desire in his flashing blue eyes.

If this was anyone else, in any other situation, she’d have her phone in her hand, texts at the ready.
Missed you
, she’d send. Or
How very bold of you
. It was strange to hold back like this, to restrain herself, play it cool, especially when the heat from his leg traveled through his jeans and hers. She wanted more. She wanted his skin against hers. If he wanted cool, she’d be cool, even if what she really wanted was to brush her lips over that wiry, curling beard until they tingled.

“Which rail station has sixty-seven platforms?”

Milla startled. Charlie’s leg flexed against hers, and humor flashed in his eyes.

“Uh...what’s the busiest station in the world?”

“Busiest or biggest?” Charlie said. “It asked about size, not about traffic.”

“Good point,” Kaitlin said.

“I think Grand Central, but I can’t be sure,” Milla said.

“Grand Central it is,” Kaitlin said.

“Who was the leading actor in the following train films?
North by Northwest.
”

“Cary Grant,” Kaitlin whispered.

“
Trainspotting.
”

“Ewan McGregor.”

“Yum,” Elsa added.

“Really?” Charlie said.

“You look a lot like him between films right now,” Elsa said, cupping her chin to indicate the growth of Charlie’s beard. Milla laughed at the look of horror on Charlie’s face.

“
Transsiberian.
”

They all looked at each other. “Got me,” Milla said.

“What’s his name, the bloke from
Cheers
,” Charlie whispered.

“Ted Danson?”

“No, the other one.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” Milla said, snapping her fingers. “Woody Harrelson. You know
Cheers
?”

“It was a phase,” Charlie said.

Kaitlin scribbled the name on their paper.

“
Unstoppable.
”

“Chris Pine,” Milla, Kaitlin and Elsa all said together.

Charlie rolled his eyes. “And Denzel Washington,” he said, but the quizmaster had moved on.

“
The Darjeeling Limited.
”

“Never heard of it,” Charlie said.

“Got me,” Milla said again.

They left the space blank. “What’s with the modern films?” Kaitlin groused. “I know classic films. What about
The Train
, or
Breakheart Pass
?”

“Maybe you should come up with the questions, so you can get a T-shirt.” The quizmaster was wearing one of the shirts under a blazer.

“Cheating,” Kaitlin said fixedly. “Win or go home.”

“Where does the famous Orient Express terminate?”

“Istanbul!”

“Or Constantinople?” Charlie said.

“Either,” Milla said while Kaitlin hummed the song. “The city was renamed Istanbul in 1923.”

“The modern name will suffice,” the quizmaster said, catching the general tone of the questions in the room.

“Istanbul.”

They ended the round in the middle of the standings. “Next round’s on me,” Milla said and went to the bar. When she came back, three presents sat on the table, and they were all wearing party hats.

“Oh my gosh, you guys,” Milla said as she set the half pints on the table.

Elsa puffed a noisemaker at her. “Happy birthday, you silly goose! Did you think we’d forgotten?”

“I didn’t think you knew,” she said. A flush crept into her cheeks, overlaying the one from a pint and a lemon drop martini and an hour of playing footsie with Charlie.

“Come on, open them!” Kaitlin said, and pushed a box wrapped in vintage paper and tied with a fabric bow in Milla’s direction.

She put on a party hat and unwrapped the paper. Inside the box was a slender red rod with a clamp on the end. Milla burst out laughing.

“What’s that?” Charlie asked.

“It’s a selfie stick!” Kaitlin said. “Come on, give it a go!”

Milla secured her phone to the clamp, set the timer and then extended the stick a couple of lengths. Kaitlin and Elsa squeezed in on either side and flashed big grins. The camera clicked. Milla showed the picture to Charlie, then posted it.

“You can’t be serious.”

“You must have seen them in Brick Lane or the markets,” Elsa said.

“Oh, I’ve seen them,” Charlie retorted. “If anything I’m surprised you didn’t have one already.”

Milla shrugged absentmindedly as she refreshed Twitter and Instagram. Replies were already coming in. “I’d talked about getting one before I left,” she said.

“Mine next,” Elsa said, and nudged a box toward Milla. “You can exchange it if it doesn’t suit.”

The box contained the travel wallet she’d been eyeing, smooth leather and perfect for her passport, phone and credit cards. “Elsa, you shouldn’t have.”

“I know you travel with that rucksack, but I thought this was just right for the Orient Express.”

“Who’s this one from?” Milla asked as she picked up the third box.

“Me,” Charlie said.

“You?”

“Me.”

The box was wrapped with metallic brown paper. No ribbons or bows, no card. Milla’s heart pounded as she slid her finger under the tape, being careful with Charlie’s gift, loosening the tape without tearing the paper. Inside was a basic shipping box, the sort he’d use to ship something to a buyer or gallery, taped with shipping tape. She opened the flaps to find brown shipping paper, lifted it away and set it on the bench beside her, then lifted out the object.

The object, shaped like a squat capital T, fit in the palm of her hand and was made of a deep gray glass. Miniature links of thick glass chain in a slightly lighter, more translucent gray wrapped around the base up to the crossbar, then draped over the top. One single link hung free and clicked against the base as Milla tilted it.

“It’s a cleat,” Charlie said into the silence. “You tie boats or ships to them, down the docks, back when there were docks in the East End.”

“It’s beautiful,” Milla said. The light in the bar didn’t do the glass justice. She knew when she got it into natural light the glass would reveal itself to be meticulously crafted. It looked nothing at all like Charlie’s current work, colorful and elastic pieces designed with the consumer in mind. “Did you make this?”

He lifted one eyebrow and one side of his mouth. “Yes, love, I made it.”

For a moment her heart thudded in her chest, until she remembered the English used “love” as a form of greeting as well as in the more traditional, meaningful way.

“It’s just so different from what you’ve been selling,” she said as she passed it to Kaitlin.

It was his turn to shrug, although the movement was studiously casual, his gaze focused on his pint glass. “I’ve been on a bit of a burn,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, and waited until he lifted his gaze to hers. “I love it.”

“I’m glad,” he replied, his voice soft and rough.

They looked at each other a little too long that time, then Charlie cleared his throat. “Next round’s mine,” he said and got up.

Kaitlin nudged Milla. “Pretty spectacular gift,” she said with a nod at Charlie’s box.

Milla’s fingers strayed to the box, tucked carefully into her pannier at her feet. “Yes,” she said.

“Do you think he’s planning to sell those?”

“No idea,” Milla said. But she planned to find out.

The quizmaster took the stage again and announced the next quiz: Romantics, then and now. “Anyone know anything about seventeenth-century poets?” Elsa asked.

“Just enough to know the Romantics are nineteenth-century poets,” Billy said.

Kaitlin groaned.

* * *

They played a few more rounds, but Billy’s knowledge only boosted them to a top third showing. Elsa was thumbing away at her phone. “A friend has tickets to see Enter Shikari at the Roundhouse. Want to go? Should be a pretty good show.”

Milla knew she should go. She loved music and always had a good time with Elsa’s cooking school friends. But Charlie looked knackered, to steal a British phrase, and something about the noise felt wrong to her. “I’m pretty tired,” Milla said.

“I’ve been burning the candle at both ends,” Charlie said. “I’m out.”

Elsa and Kaitlin headed for the Tube. Charlie and Milla waited until they were safely inside, then set off through the long summer twilight, Milla riding slowly in the street, Charlie seemingly content to walk on the narrow sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, watching her dip and circle along the street, pedaling away from him, then turning back to circle behind him.

“You’re always in motion,” he said.

“I was a high-energy child,” she said as she rode at his side for a few seconds before pushing hard on the pedals to make a high arc around the Victorian figure in metallic makeup poised to scare tourists posing for pictures.

“No wonder your dad set you to writing a blog,” Charlie said.

“In hindsight, Dad was pretty smart. I used to get so sad, because every time I got used to a new base, a new school, we moved. It gave me something to do when we were transferred,” she said, pedaling alongside him. “Kids are resilient, but moving every eighteen months, on average, takes a toll. Exploring and blogging about each new place taught me how to find my way around, how to trust my instincts, kept me busy and from being too homesick. Now it’s automatic, the way I process the world. Like art is for you.”

He looked at her strangely, as if he’d never considered why she did what she did, then held out his hand and beckoned.

“What?” she asked.

“Give me your phone.”

She handed over her phone, resisting the urge to show him how to use the camera, the video option, opting instead to enjoy the sensation of being pleasantly tipsy and riding a bike through the East End. She was, she realized, happy. Not blissfully, not blindingly, just slipping through the lingering gold in the air, coasting from moment to moment without effort. She was vaguely aware of Charlie holding the phone up as he walked, but for once the mechanics of the shot, the angle, the view faded into the background. She just rode on the bricks, weaving from one side of the street to the other, enjoying the dip and sway of the bike.