Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Robert nods and returns to his cooking.
“I’m going to go take a shower, and then I’ll be back down so we can eat.”
“Yeah, sure, go ahead,” he replies, but he seems less warm than usual.
After taking my medicine, I spend a long time in the shower, washing off the day’s grime. When I get out, I style my hair in a French plait and put on a cream vintage dress with navy polka dots and a thin black cardigan, alongside a pair of navy ballet flats. Downstairs, I find Robert dishing up the dinner he made for us, which consists of duck confit with red wine jus, liquidised carrots, and caramelised parsnips.
Somebody definitely knows how to cook.
He’s still acting all silent and broody, and no matter how affectionate I try to be with him, it doesn’t work to change his mood. Once I’m done eating, I sit back in my chair, close my eyes, and soak up the last of the day’s sun. I’ve given up on trying to cheer Robert at this point and am just content to relax.
A few minutes later I hear him say, “Your hair looks pretty like that.”
I think the compliment is a roundabout way of him apologising for being unpleasant.
Opening my eyes, I glance over at him. “Thanks.”
“Do you want dessert?” he asks.
“Sure. What is it?”
“I made lemon sorbet.”
“Did you, now? Well, aren’t you just full of surprises.” I smile crookedly.
He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and rises to go fetch the dessert. When he returns, we eat in a less tension-filled silence than before, but it’s still not the flirtatious warmth I’ve grown accustomed to. Before we leave, we wash up the dishes together and then go to get our things. I still can’t believe I actually said I’d sing tonight just to cheer Robert up. Not only that, but it didn’t really cheer him up as much as I’d hoped anyway.
I grab a satchel bag and stick my wooden box and drumstick inside. They’re a crutch, but I won’t be able to sing without them. I also have a CD with the backing tracks to some of my favourite songs prepared especially for this momentous occasion. If Sasha knew about it, she’d tell me I’m a sad case – and she’d be right.
I walk into Robert’s room just in time to see him hanging his camera strap around his neck.
“You’re bringing your camera along?” I ask curiously.
He glances at me, nodding. “I’m in a picture-taking sort of mood.”
I wonder what kind of pictures he plans on taking.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me down the stairs. “I want to get out of here for a while. I’ve been ignoring my dad’s calls, and I’ve a feeling he’s going to show up so that he can berate me face to face. He’s been sending text messages saying I’m empty-headed and all I care about is my looks and trying to be a funny fucker.”
I gape at him. “He actually said that?”
“Yes. Very good parenting to insinuate your son’s a stupid, vain twat.”
Inside my head I feel guilty for a moment, because I used to have similar thoughts about Robert myself.
“Does it upset you that he said that?”
“Of course it does,” he exclaims, running his hand down his face. “All I’ve ever wanted was for him to be proud of me, but the only thing that ever impresses him is when I act exactly like him, or if I make him a shitload of money at work.”
I pull him into a brief hug. “You’re none of the things he thinks you are,” I whisper.
He grips me tight. “I know,” he whispers back, lips touching softly off my hair before letting me go.
It’s a warm evening as we walk toward the Tube station, hand in hand. It feels like the sun is fighting its hardest to stay up. One of my favourite things about summer is how it doesn’t get dark until really late. Sort of like you’re getting an extra bit of daytime thrown in free of charge.
Robert’s hand falls loose from mine, and I turn to find him holding his camera up and taking pictures of the ground. Confused at first, I look down to see that someone has smashed a glass bottle on the pavement, and it’s shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. The light of the sun shines through them and makes it look like the ground is glittering.
“Pretty,” I say, as I stand beside Robert to view the shots he’s taking. “But I thought you only liked to photograph bodies.”
He remains focused on his camera as he answers, “Bodies would be what you’d call my forte, but sometimes other things will catch my eye. I also like to take pictures of groups of people interacting. You can glean a lot from body language.”
“Hmm. That’s very deep.”
“Mum always used to say I think about things too much.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have thought that about you.”
His finger pauses on the camera as he gives me an arch look.
I backtrack. “Not in a bad way. You just seem like the kind of person who does what they feel without thinking it through too much. In a good way. You’re not tied down by inhibitions.”
“Yeah, well,” he replies, his voice a touch sad, “sometimes people work really hard to portray a certain picture when in reality the opposite is true.”
I study him now, thinking to myself that there is so much more to Robert I still have to learn. We continue on to the Tube and get off at Piccadilly. The bar is only a short walk from there. I don’t expect there to be many people out on a Monday night, but the place is jam-packed. Then again, that’s London for you. It’s the kind of place that feels like it’s constantly in rush hour, and if you slow down too much, you’ll get trampled on.
“The sign-up table is over there,” says Robert. “Go put your name down while I get us a drink.”