It was a cold day in Covent Garden market. The sun had given up trying to come out and was hiding behind some big, black blowsy clouds. Business was slow despite the calendar creeping steadily toward the start of the tourist season proper. Weather was the main thing that kept them away, Christian decided. That and the ridiculous prices that now made London one of the most expensive capital cities in the world.
When you could easily pay more than a fiver for a glass of cheap plonk in an overrated wine bar, having a stunning, original portrait in charcoal by a talented but as yet undiscovered starving artist for not much more was a bloody bargain. Christian shifted on his triangular canvas seat and carried on sketching aimlessly. None of the street entertainers were busy today. Even the best of the magicians had only attracted meager audiences. Today, you would have to be prepared to sweat blood to make enough to cover the price of your pitch.
And he was pissed off to start with, anyway. Ali had slept with her back to him all night again. So he, in turn, had slept with his back to her. It was like going out with Rebecca again. And he’d sort of expected older women to behave differently. He didn’t know in what way, but he didn’t think they’d sulk.
It was fair to say that they’d been very cool with each other since last week, when she’d found out about the dope business. And he could see Ali’s point, it was just that he could see his own point rather more. Rebecca and Robbie thought it was hilarious, and he had to admit it made him smile to think about it. Ali had made out that it was all seedy and sordid, but it wasn’t. He and the kids had enjoyed a bit of naughty, forbidden fun, nothing more. Where was the harm in that? He could see that it looked bad, of course—particularly when the little buggers had tried it out again for themselves. Kids these days!
He didn’t know what to do to win her round. She’d been very gloomy—going to bed early, not saying much, sitting in the corner with one of her self-help books rather than join in the conversation. If he was the sort of bloke who bought flowers, he probably should have gone and bought her some flowers. This is what he hated about relationships, and was more than likely why he was crap at them. It was all very well when it was swimming along all lovely and floaty, but it was when the hard work of keeping it all together started that he found it all a bit much. Should it be an effort to love someone? Christian sighed inwardly. He looked over to the Covent Garden Café, the place where it had all started. Perhaps Robbie was right. Should he have let it drop then? Before they were too entangled. Before he had realized the solid blocks of responsibility that built her life. It wasn’t the age difference between them that mattered as such, it was the commitments one seemed to acquire with the passing years, the developed sense of duty, the family ties which seem to tighten with age rather than slacken off, the upsetting of the apple cart of a well-defined place and status in society. If Ali had been thirty-eight, single and unencumbered, where would the problem be?
Ali seemed so special, so beautiful, he thought that all they needed to do was hold hands and they could fly to the moon together. And now all they were doing was getting bogged down by the daily grind of simply existing together. Did all relationships end up like this?
Christian clapped his hands together. His fingers were cold. Perhaps he should go and have a coffee at the Covent Garden Café for old times’ sake.
“Hello.” A voice broke into his thoughts, and he looked up, hopeful at long last of a customer. “It’s me,” the girl said.
“Oh, hi.” It took him a minute, but it was the one with the black Lycra from the nightclub. The one he’d taken home the night that Ali had turned up out of the blue.
“It’s Sharon,” she said shyly, as if she was sure he would have forgotten. Which he had.
“I was just passing. Shopping,” she said by way of explanation. “New shoes.” Sharon studied her feet. “I’d forgotten you worked here.”
And he wondered absently if she had.
Grinning, she pulled her coat round her. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Christian said. She looked different from how he remembered her. There was little makeup in evidence and her face was naturally pretty now that it wasn’t overpainted, with a small upturned nose. Her hair was mousy, parted in the middle, and she swept it back with her hand. Christian wondered if she had changed the color. The flared denims and sheepskin jacket she wore were more hippie chick than vamp and it suited her better. She seemed less certain of herself, more vulnerable. Not like a Sharon at all. She looked younger too. Nineteen at the most? Maybe eighteen?
“Are you still with that older woman?” she asked too brightly.
Christian paused for a moment, tidying his charcoal. “Yes.”
“Oh.” A shadow of disappointment crossed her face. “That’s nice.”
“Yes.” Christian returned his gaze to his sketch. “That could have been a bit…awkward for me,” he said. “Thanks for being so…understanding.”
She shrugged. “That’s okay.”
“I appreciate it,” Christian said.
“Anytime.” They both laughed at the absurdity of her offer.
“Maybe not,” Christian acknowledged ruefully.
“Well, it’s been nice talking.” Sharon chewed her lip. “I usually go to The Gallery on Friday nights or The Ministry of Sound. If you’re ever around.”
“I’ll remember that,” he said, and she looked at him as if to say fat chance.
“See you then,” she said, and turned to walk away.
Christian let her take three or four steps. “Sharon,” he called after her. “I was just going for a quick cappuccino. Want to join me?”
She looked back, grinning. “Yes. I’d love to.”
Christian picked up his pad and, with his charcoals, tucked them in his rucksack. He balanced his Back In Five Minutes sign on his easel. “Come on, then,” he said, and he took her arm and steered her briskly toward the Covent Garden Café. “If you’ve got time,” he said, “I’d like to sketch you later. On the house.”
“I’m not busy.” She was trotting to keep up with him.
“It’s good for business if people see me at work.” Christian’s mouth spread into a slow, lazy smile. “You have a very beautiful profile,” he said.