‘They’re flawless. Your lips. That glossy shade of raspberry and the way they’re so precisely outlined. How they fit in the frame of yourface also, as if they’ve been added as a final touch. Unreal. I mean, they’re real, because you are, but I needed to double-check. Here, careful, it’s strong and piping hot.’
‘Thank you…’
Loris steps aside and Charles gulps a sip he hasn’t taken yet.
He’s used to laudatory comments on his looks. Flirty remarks from Elsy and praise from George, meant to boost his self-esteem. Or fawning flattery from his parents’ entourage – when Milton wants his son’s accomplishments to be acknowledged, and Alice is well aware she mothered beautiful children. Charles usually takes those shallow compliments serenely. They don’t make him feel like a fraud, unlike the ones expected by Milton.
Loris’ earnest words were an artistic observation and should leave him just as indifferent. But they came with a gaze, intense and burning like the coffee. If Charles couldn’t breathe properly while he was subjected to it, he now wishes he had revelled in it.
Two reactions that make no sense.
He shakes his brain.
‘You’ll have to multi-draw, then?’
‘Yeah, it’s exciting.’
‘And the reading? Exciting too?’
Loris groans with an exaggerated shiver that brings Charles back to the safer side of the risk.
‘I’m not sure I should pose yet.’
‘I agreed to read it, not to love it. And Pavel didn’t help your case, starting with a complete distortion ofSofia.BecauseSofiaowns my artist’s heart. Those details. With a brush! That is witchcraft!’
‘Sofia…’ Charles hides a satisfied smile behind his mug. ‘I see.’
‘Anyway, what are you wearing under that black jumper?’
‘A black t-shirt. You didn’t give me any directives.’
‘Yeah, my bad. Can I lend you something? I need your complexion emphasised with a warmer colour.’
‘Alright.’
Loris opens his wardrobe, and Charles puts the mug onto the desk to remove his glasses and jumper. He’s getting increasingly curious about Loris’ concept and less comfortable by the second now that the posing is imminent.
‘Would you wear this?’
Charles emerges from wool and static cling with a grimace that morphs into a repelled wince. ‘I’d rather go on live TV to criticiseTheMind of Wonders. What’s that thing doing here?’
Loris rolls his eyes and folds back an Arsenal t-shirt. ‘Gift from my friend Phoebe. You met her at the pub. She’s trying to convert me.’
‘Successfully? Because that’d be a deal breaker.’
‘I religiously don’t care about football. But why? You’re a Chelsea fan?’
Charles clasps the back of the chair with a retching noise. ‘Help.’
‘Spurs! Of course! Hugo Lloris!’
‘Yes, because of him and him only.’
‘Why Tottenham?’
‘It’s… a family thing.’
It was a Fred thing, a passion he had developed at school.
