Gloating isn't as rewarding when you have an audience of zero.
The woman fingers a metal bookmark, the top of which has been laser cut into the shape of a robin, extracts it from the front counter display, and places it next to the mug like a chocolate-bar afterthought.
Shopper Psych 101.
I put the transaction through and once they've made their way through to the café and ordered their teas, I walk to stand beside Lutek. "Sold one of your bookmarks."
He beams. Lutek has always worked with metal, but it's the first time he's made anything quite so delicate.
They are ridiculously pretty, to be fair, and have all the makings of a gallery bestseller.
In the street, a classic silver Jag pulls up. I recognise it. The owner's not the only toff in the county to brandish a hood ornament like it's a trophy awarded for winning the being born extremely privileged lottery, but he is the only one to adorn it with the number plate WEPN.
"Brilliant. The Odour comes to honour us with his beneficent presence."
I should offer him more deference, seeing as I wouldn't be able to house my business without him, but he makes it so hard to like him. I have tried. I just gave up easily, because – and there's no gentle way to put this – he's an A-grade dick.
Theodore Pinkerton is the son of a minor peer. And maybe because he's twenty-six and has more money than he knows what to do with, but more likely because of his dickheadery, doesn't so much as swagger as parade.
He climbs out of his car and, I kid you not, props a leg on the bottom of the car door frame while he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. His gold watch catches the sun and flashes like the beacon of wealth it is. Then he grabs the jacket he doesn't need, due to it being the middle of a summer that's actually behaving like a real summer, and slings it over his shoulder, where it dangles from a single hooked finger.
In real life.
Shutting the car door, he briefly peers at his reflection in the window, beforeturning his face to the sky, closing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair!!!
To be fair, his mid-brown hair is thick and just long enough on top to require the odd bit of finger combing, but –
– come on!
The saunter he contrives for the walk to the gallery is, objectively, an exceptionally good one.
I walk in a perfectly normal fashion over to the gallery to meet him.
Jason Travers, one of the local lads with an inclination to drive faster than necessary, steps into his path and The Odour holds a finger up at me, as if I am to put myself on hold while he talks to him. Theo winds his arm back to do that hand slap-cum-grip thing white men do to look street, and claps Jason on the back. Then they turn to look at The Odour’s car.
I do not put myself on hold. I continue in my gallery duties as if two dudes waxing lyrical about a classic car has absolutely no importance to me. Which it doesn’t.
Several minutes later, shoes scuff against the bottom of the open gallery door.
"Chica!" The Odour throws his jacket over one of Jeanette's figurines, which gives him leave to open his arms. Before I can dive roll out of the way, he pulls me into a hug that is too tight and too long to be anything but presumptive and over-familiar. "You are looking as luminous as ever, my sister."
I should have seen it coming. It's been his way of greeting me for two years now, despite my singular discomfort.
"Theodore."
I give him a single tap on the ribs, which is the most I can manage from my arms-pinned-to-my-sides position and the most reciprocating I'm willing to do, and wonder how long before I asphyxiate in several-hundred-pounds-worth of eau d'ouche.
He rubs my back in ever-increasing circles, which prompts me to say, "I smell you brought your friend with you. How is Giorgio?"
The rubbing, mercifully, stops. "Christian Dior. Actually."
When Theo issues a descending hum on an exhale like he's settling in for the night, I say, "He's a bit bubble gum-y."
He drops his arms and I take a large step backwards, knowing his cologne will cling to the little hairs in my nostrils for hours afterwards and there's actually no safe distance out of its fall-out range.
"He's not bub– it's not bubble gum-y. It's a rugged, crisp blend of caramalised sugar and cardamom with notes of grapefruit and bergamot. Actually."
I don't say anything. I don't even humour a lip twitch.
