“Young? I feel fucking crippled. You’re gonna have to show me your bed one of these days.”
“It’s over there.” Kim jerked his head at the couch. “Pulls out to a tasty king-size when I remember to do it.”
I frowned. “So what’s in the back, then?”
“A mess, mainly, but it’s where I do painting and stuff—canvas, not wood. Ink designs that never make it to skin. I’ve got some of Brix’s work in there, and Calum’s.”
Calum. I’d heard the name a few times. If my memory served me right, he was Brix’s boyfriend. “Can I see?”
“See what? A bunch of old paintings and a pile of tarpaulin?”
“Yes.”
“You’re fucking weird.” But Kim got up anyway, grumbling, and led me to where the back of the trailer merged with the extension.
The space was brighter than I’d imagined, helped along by the stark white walls and large windows I hadn’t seen before as they were on the opposite side to the orchard entrance. I looked out over the miles of fields. In the distance, I could see Belly Acre Farm, and beyond that, the moody blue sea, shimmering on the horizon above Porthkennack’s cliffs. The view was stunning, inspiring, and only the insatiable desire to see Kim’s artwork tore me away.
And fuck, what artwork. There wasn’t as much as he’d led me to believe, just a handful of abstract paintings that had his block-like signature, but they were all stunning—full of tempestuous colour and chaos. One in particular drew me in to the point that Kim waved his hand in front of my face.
“Have it, if you like,” he said. “It’ll only end up on the bonfire.”
“On the bonfire?”
“I burn all my paintings.”
I opened my mouth. Shut it again. “Why?”
Kim shrugged. “They don’t come from a good place.”
My heart ached for him as I imagined the cloud of distress lurking behind each piece. Art therapy? Maybe. Whatever it was, the paintings would haunt me long after Kim had burned them on his fire.
“Don’t go,” Kim whispered.
The echo of Kim’s plea the previous night brought me back to the present, but his expression was playful now, devoid of the fear that had lanced my chest then. “Huh?”
Kim smiled. “My old man says I have the attention span of a drunk fish, but you take the piss, mate.”
It was an accusation I’d faced before, though it wasn’t entirely accurate. My attention span was fine; I just seldom focussed where I should. “Are you working today?”
“Yes, and a couple of appointments at the studio too.”
“How many days do you work there?”
“A couple, give or take, depending on how much I’ve got on in the workshop.”
I thought of the ever-growing list of work my family was demanding from him. “I’m surprised you have any spare time at all, to be honest.”
Kim grimaced. “I haven’t, really. I only took yesterday off because I thought Lena was going to leave.”
“And you were right.”
“First time for everything, eh? Are you hungry? I’ve got to get to the workshop by eight if I’ve got any hope of staying on schedule, but I’ve got time for a buttie.”
Eight? I checked my phone and saw it was barely seven. Damn. It had been a long while since I’d been awake and functioning so early in the day, and beyond being hungry, I was bloodystarved, a typical hangover from a Manning family dinner. “Tell you what, I’ll stay for breakfast if you let me cook. I can’t remember when I last ate a hot meal that hadn’t been cooked for me by someone else.”
“That’s kinda sad, bro. What do you live on?”
“You don’t want to know.” And by the disapproval already brewing in Kim’s expression, I’d said more than enough already.
