see him. That’s only because I’m here on my own, I decide quickly. At events like these it’s always nice to see a familiar face, regardless of who it is.
‘The art or the champagne?’ he asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
‘Both,’ I laugh.
‘Hmm, well . . .’ He takes a sip from his glass and rolls it around his mouth. ‘I’d say the champagne is pretty damn good, better than the last opening I went to . . .’
I shoot hi�€ht">I shoËt hm a look. ‘And the art?’ I raise my eyebrows enquiringly.
He looks sheepish. ‘I haven’t looked yet.’
‘Adam!’ I cry, and whack him on the arm.
‘You remembered my name.’ He seems surprised.
‘Um . . . yeah, my memory’s not that bad.’ I laugh self-consciously, suddenly feeling awkward. ‘I think I need to hit you harder.’ I try rescuing myself by resorting to violence a second time and punching his arm again.
‘Ow, no.’ He winces, rubbing his arm. ‘I bruise like a peach.’
‘Serves you right.’ I smile ruefully. ‘I can’t believe you haven’t bothered to look at any of the installations. They’re supposed to be amazing.’
‘I was waiting for you,’ he says simply.
‘Me?’ Now I’m the one to look surprised. Not just by his answer, but by my stomach, which unexpectedly flips over like a pancake.
‘Well, I figured you might show up, being such an art lover . . .’ He trails off, smiling, and I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or not. ‘I thought I’d wait for you to talk me through it. You did such a good job last time.’
So it’s just because I know about art, I realise, feeling curiously deflated.
‘Compliments aren’t going to get you off the hook,’ I say, quickly hiding my disappointment. ‘Anyway, it’s your turn.’
He looks at me, his eyes narrowed, as if now he thinks I’m the one teasing him.
‘You want me to take you to a movie?’
‘Wasn’t that the deal?’
Abruptly I catch myself. Lucy Hemmingway, are you flirting? At the realisation I feel my cheeks flush. I am. I’m flirting. What on earth’s got into me?
‘Well, in that case, leave it to me . . .’ He nods and chews his lip, clearly deep in thought.
‘OK, whatever,’ I say with a sort of noncommittal shrug, as if I’m not really bothered either way. Well, I don’t want him getting the wrong impression and thinking I fancy him or anything ridiculous like that. Because I don’t. Obviously.
We start moving around the gallery.
In fact, thinking about it, I wasn’t really flirting. I was just being friendly. And jokey. Yes, that’s it, friendly and jokey.
‘Gosh, I’m starving,’ I exclaim, trying to be all jolly and normal and steering the conversation on to something safe. Spotting a waitress, I help myself to a tiny wafer elaborately piled with slivers of lots of things I’m not sure I know the names of. I pop it into my mouth in one go. Well, it was really tiny. ‘Mmm, this is delicious,’ I murmur. ‘You should try one,’ I tell Adam.
‘I’ve already had half a dozen.’ He grins, swapping his empty champagne flute for a full one. ‘But I suppose another couple wouldn’t hurt.’ Helping himself to more, we come to a standstill in front of a large red metal and mirror sculpture.
‘So what exactly is it?’ asks Adam, after a moment’s pause.
I glance in the catalogue. ‘It’s called Minanga.’
‘Meaning?’ Glancing at me sideways, he looks at me expectantly.
‘I have no idea,’ I confess with a giggle.
His face creases up into a smile, making his eyes crinkle around the edges. ‘How about getting some fresh air?’
‘Good idea.’
We weave our way through the clusters of people, out on to the pavement and further along the street, until we reach the edge of the crowd, where it’s quieter.
For a moment we both stand there, sipping our drinks. Then, after a long pause, Adam says, ‘So, is your boyfriend coming here tonight?’ with what feels like feigned nonchalance.
My chest tightens and I pretend to study the bubbles in my glass, but I can feel his gaze upon me. ‘We broke up,’ I say, forcing my voice to sound casual.
I sneak a look at his reaction. I might be imagining it, but I’m sure I see surprised happiness flash across his face. A split second and then it’s gone and we’re back to the feigned nonchalance.
‘Oh, what happened?’
At least I think it’s feigned nonchalance. Perhaps it really is nonchalance and he’s not bothered and I’m reading this all wrong.
I suddenly feel