Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
“And when you say carked it, you mean he…”
“Died,” he adds.
“Today is full of lessons,” I say, in a prim, Mary Poppins voice as if I’m mortally offended.
“You’re getting the full-on British experience, here.”
I laugh. “I appreciate it.”
“We’re nearly here.” He looks at me and his expression turns serious. “Before we get there, I just want to say that if you’re uncomfortable and you want to leave at any point, I’m not going to be offended. Just let me know. The car is going to wait for us the entire time, so it’s not like you don’t have an out if you need one.”
I’m touched at how thoughtful he’s being. It makes me feel…safe. “Thank you.”
“I’ve pulled in a couple of favors from a few people. I couldn’t get the entire place emptied. But only security and one curator will be in the building.”
“A curator?” I ask.
The car pulls to a stop and Beau dips his head to look out of the window. “Yes. In case we want information about any of the paintings. This is where we’re going. You ready?”
He’s dressed in a white shirt and jeans and still has his backpack with him. I slide on my sunglasses and we slip out of the car and into a building opposite the car. I can hear people either side of me, but I keep focused on the ground and following Beau. At some point he offers me his hand, but I pretend I haven’t seen it and ignore it. If the paps are out, the last thing I want is to be photographed holding some stranger’s hand.
We pass through modern sliding doors and into a huge lobby. I take off my glasses and turn three hundred and sixty degrees. I glance back at Beau.
“Have you guessed where we are yet?”
I shake my head.
“Come on.” He lifts his chin in the direction of elevators at the end of the room. “I don’t know if you’re into art.” We ride up the elevators and the door pings open.
“What kind of art? Are we going to be making pottery? I don’t want you going all Patrick Swayze on me.”
He chuckles. “We’ll leave pottery for another day. Here it’s more of the painting kind of art.”
We step out into another lobby and I glance left and right. We’re in an art gallery. “We’re here on our own?” I ask.
“Like I said, the security guards are here. But they’re trustworthy. Apparently, a number of the royal family like after-hours tours. They use the same setup for them.”
“Okay,” I say. He’s gone to a lot of trouble for me. It’s difficult to know what a normal amount of trouble would be, given I don’t want to be seen in public, but I’m certain this exceeds normal.
“You like art?” he asks.
“Honestly, I don’t know much about it. I’ve been famous for all my adult life. I don’t stop by art galleries much or ever.” It’s moments like this that I realize how much I miss out on. I wonder how many times Beau has been to an art gallery. I remember visiting the Art Institute of Chicago with school, but I don’t think I’ve ever stepped foot into an art gallery since. “It’s just not something that’s even ever been on my radar because some things feel impossible.”
“Let’s do a tour of the really famous stuff, if that works for you?”
I follow him as he leads the way through the maze of corridors. How had a guy around thirty managed to arrange for us to have almost-private access to a gallery like this? “Is this the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square?” I ask.
He grins. “Yeah, you’ve heard of it?”
“What the actual fuck, Beau?” I ask as he stops in front of a painting. I look up to find Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” in front of me. It’s an image I’ve seen a thousand times but looking at it here, in touching distance, the colors vibrant, the textures so defined, it’s wonderful.
“Van Gogh,” he says. “That’s the actual fuck.”
I laugh. “But how did you get us in here?”
“I know people. Believe me, it’s not because I’m a frequent visitor.” He spins around. “Although maybe I should be. It’s wonderful.”
It is wonderful and unusual and so thoughtful. I’m no dating expert, but I’m pretty sure doing something like this for a woman you’ve just met isn’t normal. Matt never did anything close in the twelve years we were together, and he could have asked my assistant to arrange it. And I would have paid.
Lyrics run through my mind.
A thousand pretty pictures and I only want to stare at you. Years of misunderstandings and you show me everything that’s true.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I started off this evening telling myself over and over that tonight wasn’t a date and now I’m standing here kinda hoping it is. No one has ever done anything so nice for me.