Andrew led her out of the station and Rachel tried not to gape at everything. It had been so long since she’d been in anything close to an urban environment; the sheer size of the station with the arched glass roof of the train shed was enough to impress her. Then they hit the city streets, and the noise of the cars and buses and trams made her want to cover her ears. And there were so many people, women in smart work outfits and high heels, men in skinny suits, everyone with smartphones and earbuds and looks of bland indifference on their faces as they strode purposefully down the street, clearly going somewhere important. Rachel dodged out of the way of a woman who was walking like a ship in full sail, a huge Prada handbag swinging from one shoulder, nearly hitting Rachel full in the face.
“Good grief.” She pressed up against the side of the station and shook her head. “I feel like such a yokel.”
“Come on,” Andrew said, and took her arm. “We’ll walk through the park. The gallery is on the university campus.”
He slipped her arm through his, and it felt almost natural to walk arm in arm, navigating the crowded streets until after a few minutes they reached a quieter section of the city, the university campus with its vast swath of verdant parkland ahead of them.
Rachel had the urge to slip her arm from Andrew’s, because now that the pavement was empty, it didn’t feel quite so natural to be this cozy. But he was holding her arm quite firmly, and disengaging it would have required an awkward yank, and so she remained arm in arm with him, walking stiffly through Whitworth Park.
The sky was heavy and gray with the damp feel of rain in the air, and even in the park the air smelled of diesel and coal smoke. Even so Rachel felt exhilarated by how different everything was, how big and alive with possibility.
“I haven’t been in a city in years,” she confessed, and Andrew slid her a sideways, smiling glance.
“I can tell.”
“You travel all over the world, right? So Manchester must seem like nothing to you.”
“Cities can often feel the same to me, except for the infrastructure.”
“The infrastructure?”
“Bridges, dams, motorways. That’s the stuff that interests me.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Weird.”
“Yeah, I know. I had a girlfriend back in America who broke up with me because I kept going on about the highway system. Have you seen Spaghetti Junction in Atlanta?”
“Um, no. I’ve barely been out of Cumbria.”
“I mean in pictures. It’s amazing. An aerial view makes it look like a flower. Five stacks rather than the usual four, and ramps for four side roads. It puts the original Spaghetti Junction in Birmingham to shame.”
“You do realize you’re sounding like a complete geek now?” Rachel asked, and he smiled wryly.
“Yes, I realize.”
“But I admire your passion. Clearly you love what you do.”
“I do,” he agreed, and then gave her a wary glance. “And I realize what a privilege that is.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I’m not going to bite your head off about being rich. That would be rude, considering you invited me here.”
“Oh. Phew. Disaster averted, then.”
“Just.” Were they flirting? It felt like it. It also felt weird. Fortunately they’d reached the gallery, a huge redbrick Victorian building, by then, and conversation was taken up with the logistics of stowing bags and getting tickets before Andrew led the way towards the new photography exhibition.
Rachel had spent an embarrassing amount of time on the Internet reading up on photography so she’d have something intelligent to say now. Yet as she stared at the black-and-white photographs, every erudite observation she’d read fled from her brain. All she could think was that she’d appreciate a little color.
Andrew was, as she’d suspected he would be, the kind of person who stood in front of a photograph for an inordinate amount of time, lips pursed, one finger tapping his chin, as he studied it carefully. Rachel stood next to him, shifting her weight, wondering how on earth you could look at a single picture for five minutes. What was there to see?
“What do you think?” he asked after a few minutes, and her mouth dried.
“Um...” She stared at the photograph of a ceiling fan taken from above, so its shadow could be seen on the white floor. “It’s very...” She searched for a word. “Stark.”
“Yes, I think so too.”
“And very... monochrome.” She glanced at him, wondering if he really was this pretentious, only to see with relief that his mouth was quirking in a small smile.
“Yes, I agree. Considering it’s black-and-white photography, that is quite an astute assessment.”
