Merry Measure - Lily Morton Page 0,50

be different.”

“I probably should’ve asked before I bought the tickets for us,” he says, coming to a stop as we clear the stairs.

“Why did you buy them?” I ask, curious.

“I wanted to share him with you.”

“Why me?”

“There’s nobody I want to share my favourite painter with more than you.”

My mouth drops open and then he saunters off, his head at an eager angle and his gaze darting everywhere. I hasten after him.

Jack wanders from picture to picture, his eyes huge, and at first, I pay more attention to him than to the paintings, enjoying the views of his arse and the eager, passionate lines of his face. However, the museum starts to weave its spell on me. It’s beautiful—all clear lines and warm sunshine—and its peaceful air seems somehow appropriate to celebrate the life of an artist whose mind tragically never attained that state of calm.

Jack comes to a stop in front of the famous painting of sunflowers. “What do you think?” he asks, kindly stepping back so a party of schoolchildren can get to the front.

I eye the picture perfunctorily. I’ve seen the image hundreds of times. I open my mouth to make my usual flippant response, but his eager expression makes me look harder at the picture. And I begin to see so much more.

“It’s beautiful,” I say slowly. And it is. The colours are lush and vibrant, the oranges and lemons speaking of long, sunshiny days filled with the fragrance of flowers and growing things, and I have to wonder why I never noticed those details before.

Jack shoots me a smile, and I’m struck by how his pleasure reflects the radiance of the painting. There are no tense, worried lines around his mouth and eyes. His expression is jubilant. And there is my answer. He is why I’m looking at the sunflower painting—and at so many other things on this trip—with a fresh perspective.

I gaze into his warm eyes for a long moment before letting my eyes fall to his full, pink lips. I want to kiss him so much, and I’m pretty sure he feels the same about me. We smile at each other and turn to the next picture.

We wander the museum for ages, and at some point, his hand finds mine, and he doesn’t let go. It’s like being in a lovely dream, and I’m disappointed when we come to the end.

“But where was ‘Starry Night’?” I ask. “I want to see that one.”

“It’s on loan to the National Gallery,” he says. “I saw it in the art section of The Guardian the other day.” He hesitates for a second. “Perhaps we could see it when we get back?” he asks tentatively.

I don’t answer right away—the invitation was unexpected—but when he takes a step back, I put my hand on his arm. “I’d love that,” I say fiercely.

He nods slowly, his eyes wide.

“Which one was your favourite?” I demand, rushing to dispel the awkward moment.

He hums and glances back at the galleries. “The skull smoking a cigarette. It’s so stark and stunning and unlike any of his other stuff. What about you?”

“I still like the sunflowers the best,” I finally say. “I’ve got a soft spot for that one now.”

He looks as though he’d like to hear more, but he doesn’t press. A good thing because I’m not sure I can explain my revelation.

We turn to leave, taking the stairs down and coming out into the lobby.

“I just need to go to the loo,” I say.

He nods. “I’ll go and get the coats. Give me the ticket.”

I hand it to him and as soon as his back is turned, I race into the gift shop. Rifling through the postcards, I find one with the image of the skull that he liked. I stare at it. It would make a fantastic tattoo. I grab a small glass keyring with the same image inside and pay for them. I then shove them into my pocket and saunter back into the lobby.

He smiles at me and hands me my coat. “I’ll go to the loo as well,” he says. “Wait here.”

I nod and stroll over to sit on a bench where I can people-watch. A few minutes later, he finds me. “Ready?” he asks.

I stand, taking the hand he offers me easily. Holding hands with Jack is so natural I barely notice we’re doing it. With other men, it’s usually a bit awkward at first, like learning the steps to a dance. But with him, it’s fluid