by Lily Morton
I pinch his side. “Librarians do a lot more than shushing and shelving, and you very well know it.”
“I only know it because you bang on about it ad infinitum.”
“Mikhail Lebedinsky, have you swallowed a dictionary?”
He shoots me a wicked smile. “I suppose you’d consider that better than swallowing a cock?”
An old man gasps next to us, and I smile at him in mute apology before turning back to my best friend. “Well, it’s definitely better if it improves your conversation level. You’re like a caveman when we’re in a club. I wouldn’t be surprised if you just threw your conquests over your shoulder and grunted at them.”
“And yet still they fall,” he says in a singsong voice. He pulls me forward as the guide gestures. Removing his wallet, he smiles at her. “How much for two, please?”
“Oh, it’s free,” she says, her cheeks pinkening at the visible display of his charm.
Misha gapes at her. “Free?”
“Yes, sir.”
He turns to me, looking discombobulated.
I grin. “Art is free, Misha. Just as it should be.”
“Oh, now you’ve done it,” he says to the woman darkly. “He’s about to get on his soapbox. It’s too late for me, but you can still save yourself.”
She laughs, and I gesture him over to a clear Perspex box. “You leave a donation in here.”
“So, not free, then,” he says cynically. “Just forcibly voluntary.”
“Of course that would be your perception.” I shake my head as he forces a wad of notes into the box. “That’s far too much, Misha.”
“Not for someone who’s had to listen to so many of your weekly lectures on how our historical treasures and art should be free for the people. If two hundred quid stops that in its tracks, it’s cheap at half the price.”
“I take back the swallowing a dictionary remark,” I say as we walk up the stairs to the gallery. “You’re a Neanderthal with men and art.”
“I can’t remember the men. I haven’t had any since you’ve been gone,” he mutters.
“What?” I pull back and stop dead on the stairs, making a couple tut at me. “Are you telling me that you haven’t had a bloke for six weeks?” I whisper.
He shrugs, looking abashed. “Just haven’t felt like it.”
I stare at him. “Has there been a lunar eclipse or some other sign that the world is about to end?”
He shoves me up the stairs. “No more chat, Charlie,” he says grimly. “Let’s do art.”
I snort and pull him into the first room. The National Gallery is like a very elegant rabbit warren where you wander from room to room with the vague sense that you’re missing something. But it’s a gilded rabbit warren with honey-coloured wooden floors and beautiful wallpaper in opulent jewel colours that make the rooms glow like they’re inside a music box.
“You love it here?” he asks, watching me intently.
“I do,” I say with a smile. “I love art. I love that it’s free. I love that today we’re sharing this space with so many different people whose only similarity is that they love it too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look around.” I grab his arm and turn him. “That family over there is showing their children the pictures they love. Their kids will probably do the same one day for their own children. Then there’s the old couple sitting on that bench together looking at a picture that they’ve probably seen many times over the years. And there are the students who sit on the floor and sketch the pictures. This experience will be part of the story they’ll tell when they’re older and settled.” I shrug. “Everyone’s different here, but they share the experience of art. It’s nice.”
He throws his arm over my shoulder. “Okay, show me,” he demands.
I swallow. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me that just the simple act of his arm over my shoulder is making me hot. He’s done it thousands of times since we were little and it never made me feel like my skin is too tight for my body.
“Show you what?” I croak.
“Show me all of it,” he says in a very doom-laden voice.
I move out from under his arm, clasping his hand to soften the gesture. “You really mean it, Misha?”
He sighs, but there’s a smile playing on his lips. “I really mean it.”
“Okay, but don’t say you weren’t warned,” I say, spinning and dragging him after me.
“Wait,” he says from behind me. “Nobody issued a warning. What do you need to warn me about?”
I wink at him. “Hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes.”
“I want a cake after this,” he says darkly. “In fact, I want five cakes and a pint. No, I want ten cakes and at least seven pints.”
“I think you might be what some people call a snowflake.”
He laughs and follows me. Of course he does. We always follow each other. It’s understood and always abided by.
The gallery is busy, but there’s space to move around, and he shadows me like some sort of expensive-looking stray dog, stopping when I stop and moving when I do. I wander through the different rooms looking happily at the artwork and smiling inwardly because Misha is far more interested in the architecture of the building than he is in the pictures. However, he’s as patient as he always is with me, never rushing me and seeming to derive the same happiness in my company as I do with his. It’s an ease that I’ve never found with another person.
“What do you think?” I finally say.
He looks around the room. “I’m astonished at the fact that there are so many bare breasts on display.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Have you become a prude, Misha? Say it isn’t so.”
“No, just a realist. The women in these pictures seem to wander through life, getting their tits out at the slightest opportunity. Going to the market—thwap. Attending an execution—thwap. Dinnertime—out come the girls.” He gestures to a painting behind us. “Even in that one showing Diana at the hunt, she’s got her tits out when she really should invest in a good sports bra or she’ll have back problems in later life.”
I try not to laugh, but a snort escapes. I put a stern look on my face as we pause in front of the huge picture of Samson and Delilah painted by Rubens. “Well, what about this one? What do you see?”
“What do you see?” he says cautiously. “You know so much more about this than me, Charlie.”
I roll my eyes at him before turning my gaze to the picture. “I see Delilah watching Samson sleep with his head in her lap. She has her hand on him and looks like she maybe feels regret for cutting his hair, but she can’t express it because of the other man standing over them. It’s beautiful. Look at the colours of her dress and the glow of his skin.”
“Oh,” he says faintly, tilting his head to one side and studying the picture in a puzzled fashion. “Oh, right.”
“What do you see, Misha? I can’t wait for this,” I mutter.
He shrugs. “It looks like a threesome that’s gone drastically wrong.”
I can’t stop the laugh this time, and it comes out much too loudly. Several people look disapprovingly at me. I grab his arm and tow him out of the room.
“Okay, let’s try another one.” I position him in front of the painting of the execution of Lady Jane Grey. “What do you see when you look at this?” I demand.
“Really, Charlie? This is like a date with Andrew Graham-Dixon.” He looks at my mop of hair tied up in a lopsided bun. “Only he has better hair.”
I gasp and pinch him. “You wound me, Misha.” I wink at him. “But not enough to divert my attention from the art. Nice try, but what do you see?”
He sighs and gazes at the huge painting showing the poor Nine Days’ Queen about to lay her head on the block, while her ladies-in-waiting sob, and the axeman stares.
“Well, I hope it wasn’t really like this,” he finally says.
“Why?” I ask, slightly excited. Maybe he’s been struck by the terrible pathos of Lady
Jane’s situation.
“Just look at it.” He gestures at the painting. “Her ladies-in-waiting are prostrate and sobbing on the ground. If that had been me, I’d have been quite pissed off. I’d have said, ‘Ladies, this is really more of a me day than a you day.’ If you can’t have everyone’s attention when you’re being executed, then when can you?”
I stare at him, and he flushes. “Well, you did ask,” he says defensively.
“I really did,” I say faintly. “Okay, what else?”
He sighs long-sufferingly. “Well, look at the executioner. Weren’t they supposed to dress in black and wear a bloody mask? That bloke looks like he was about to go clubbing and got called into work at the last minute because someone was off sick.”
I look at the pouting axeman in his red tights and doublet and start to laugh. “Oh my God, you’re right.”
“I usually am,” he says in his typically modest fashion. “You should hang around me more, Charlie, and you might get some culture by osmosis.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it that. You’re like some sort of anti-art critic.” I take his hand and tug him toward the next painting. “Come on. I want to hear your views on some more priceless works of art.”
We spend the next hour or so wandering the rooms while he enlivens the day with more acidic commentary. I watch him studying a picture, his full lips pursed. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much on a date— The record immediately screeches to a stop. Back the fuck up, Charlie Burroughs, I scold myself. This isn’t a fucking date.
He glances at me and smiles, and I’m suddenly blinded. Like I’m staring directly at the sun. He’s so beautiful, I think wistfully.
“Charlie, you okay?” There’s an anxious tone to his voice like he thinks I’m going to have a turn.
I give his hand a squeeze. “I’m fine,” I say hoarsely. Well, as fine as you can be after realising your best friend is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. “Just tired all of a sudden.”
“Hmm,” he say doubtfully. “I think we’ll go and get something to eat. It’s way past lunchtime. We’ve done a lot of walking today, and you’re only just fit again.”
He’s possibly the only person in the world who’d get away with saying solicitous shit like that to me, and the look in his eyes says he knows it. But tiredness is pulling at my body the way it does when I’ve done too much, and I’m sad, because I don’t want to leave this place. I’m having too good a time.
His eyes soften as he reads my expression. “I tell you what,” he suggests. “I want you to show me your absolute favourite painting in this gallery. The one you’d take if you had the fool-proof chance to steal something.”
I straighten my shoulders and glance around, taking stock of where we are in the Gallery. Then I lead him through the different rooms until we end up in one with red wallpaper. We stop in front of a small ornately framed picture.
“This is it?” he asks curiously. His arm is draped across my shoulders and he tips his head against mine as he looks at the painting. “Why?” he asks. I shiver slightly at the feel of his breath on my face.
“Why, what?” I ask hoarsely.
He looks at me, concerned. “You okay, Charlie?” he asks. “Are you cold?”
I nod quickly. “I’m fine. You’re right. I am a bit tired, I suppose.”
He squeezes my shoulder and looks at the picture. “Okay, tell me quickly why you’d steal this picture.”
A woman standing nearby gasps, and I shake my head in apology at her. “He doesn’t mean it.”
I push my focus towards the picture and away from my wildly inappropriate desire to kiss my best friend. “Erm.” I stop and clear my throat. “It’s a picture of Gainsborough’s daughters. He painted it himself and never finished it.”
“So why do you like it?”
“Because they’re so real,” I say, enchanted by the lush golden colours of the painting. “It’s painted with such love and affection that you can feel it. They’re just so lovely, and they look full of life and slightly naughty. A bit like your sisters.”
He groans. “Poor Gainsborough, if he had two like Teddy and Anya. Bet he took loads of jobs away from home.” He narrows his eyes at the painting. “They look like they could step out of the picture and run around.”
“I know,” I say, excited that someone finally gets it. I’ve brought dates here before, and the men have, by and large, towed me around at top speed, giving me their own opinions and ignoring mine. “They look like they’re about to run off, and I can imagine him getting exasperated with them because they wouldn’t sit still.” I sneak a look at his face. “I also really like the fact that it looks like they’ve walked onto the pages of ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,’” I say almost shyly.
“What?” His brow furrows as he leans closer to the picture. “Is that the shape of a… cat in her arms?”
I nod and laugh. “He never finished the portrait, probably because they ran off to play. That’s their cat, but you can only see his outline, so he looks like the Cheshire Cat about to disappear.”
He grins, delighted with the discovery. “This is my favourite too,” he declares. “It’s got a bit of magic about it.”
“The most mundane things often do,” I observe and, without thinking, I raise my fingers and brush back the lock of jet-black hair that’s fallen over his eyes.
He looks at me in query, and suddenly his full lips are a few centimetres away from mine, his eyes huge and the pupils dilated. We both freeze, and the gallery falls away. All I can hear is our breathing, fast and far too loud.
I drop my hand, and, as he steps back, I see the quick rise and fall of his chest.
What the fuck was that?
“Okay.” He clears his throat. “Okay, time for the cakes and pints you promised me.”
He’s talking way too fast, but I cut him some slack because it takes me several moments to speak at all. “Yes,” I manage, my voice hoarse. “Definitely time to get out of here.”
Chapter Nine
One Week Later
Misha
I put down the stack of paperwork I’m supposed to be concentrating on and swivel my chair to look out of the window. It’s not a particularly inspiring view, consisting mainly of an office block and someone’s conference room.
However, it wouldn’t matter if this morning’s vista included a naked Channing Tatum cleaning the windows. All I can see is Charlie’s face in the gallery last week, all soft and warm. I can almost feel his hand on mine as he towed me around, lecturing me on whichever piece of art caught his fancy. I’ve visited plenty of museums and galleries with Charlie in the past. But Saturday’s visit was different because I spent most of my time observing Charlie—his bright eyes, lush mouth, golden hair—instead of the exhibits and tourists.
I also spent a highly inappropriate amount of time wondering if he was wearing lace knickers. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the images that come every time I let my guard down. Images of him wearing those knickers, his lean body glowing, his cock rising behind a layer of cherry-red lace.
Harry opened Pandora’s Box that night I’d dumped his case in the corridor, and now I can’t lock my thoughts away.
The knickers are in my bedside table drawer. I should give them back to Charlie or stuff them in his laundry basket while he’s not looking. I need to remove temptation, but I can’t return them until I’ve washed them.
I groan in despair. The first time I wanked over them was entirely accidental. Okay, not accidental. I didn’t slip and end up with them wrapped around my dick. But it had started out innocently. I’d been lying in bed, and, after deciding to take care of my hard cock in the usual way, I’d reached for the lube in the drawer. However, my fingers had encountered lace, and before I knew it, I’d drawn out the knickers. Sniffing them was probably a bit perverted and wrapping the lace around the length of my dick while I masturbated and thought of my best friend riding me was definitely wrong. It hadn�
��t stopped me though, and I came so hard I saw stars. I snort. Of course, it’s also entirely innocent that I called Charlie’s name at that moment and that I’ve done the same every night since.
“It’s a dry spell,” I say out loud.
I wasn’t joking when I told Charlie I hadn’t shagged anyone while he was gone. My libido has flipped a switch. It’s no longer on the Target Everyone setting, and has been firmly notched onto the Shag Your Best Friend setting, instead.
The last week has been difficult, to say the least. I’ve tried so hard to behave like normal, but fail constantly. Last night we sat on the sofa having a conversation about a film we wanted to see. He leaned into me and I inhaled his vanilla scent and my brain went completely offline to the extent that I couldn’t even remember my own name. It’s happening all the time. I keep looking at his mouth and forgetting my words. It’s full and looks so soft and…
“A dry spell,” I mutter again desperately.
“They say that talking to yourself is a bit of a bad sign,” comes a voice from the door.
I swivel my chair around and find Rupert watching me, a smile tugging at his lips.
“It’s not a bad sign when you consider the standard of conversation around here,” I say quickly. “It’s actually the sensible option.”
He laughs and wanders into the office, throwing himself into the chair opposite my desk.
I eye him. “Can I help you?”
“Why?”
“Well, you spend so long sitting in that chair, the fabric is conforming to the shape of your arse.”
He smiles good-naturedly. “Just checking that we’re still on for tomorrow night?” He groans when I narrow my eyes. “Misha, have you forgotten?”
I snap my fingers. “The club.”
He nods happily. “Eighties night.”
“How smashing,” I say wryly. “Loads of pissed-up people wearing far too much neon and bad music to accompany the experience.”
“And is Bethany still coming?” he asks in a woeful attempt at an offhand manner.
I grin. “Why, Rupert, surely you’re not coming because of her? And here I was thinking that the draw was expensive lukewarm drinks and squeezing yourself into a Frankie Says No T-shirt.”