‘Everyone’s got to start somewhere.’
I feel a flurry of nerves at the reminder that the career pathI’vechosen for myself is far less certain. How many figurative sculptors actually manage to carve out a living for themselves?
But I would sculpt even if I could only do it as a hobby.Sculpting is my passion. Doing it full-time would be a dream, but I have a lot of work ahead of me to make that happen.
For the next couple of months, however, my priorities are saving money and spending time with my friends and family.
I glance across at Rach and Amy and smile. Rach’s auburn ponytail gave up the ghost a while ago and Amy is wearing her hair down as usual. I can feel the haphazard bun I fashioned my hair into before I left my hotel room in Florence this morning coming loose. On impulse, I reach up to extract the last few bobby pins and my dark locks come tumbling down, almost to my waist.
‘Is there a hidden message in that gesture?’ Amy asks with amusement.
‘Rach told me earlier that I needed to let my hair down,’ I reply with a shrug.
‘Damn right you do,’ Rach asserts.
Finn’s low, deep voice comes over the mic to announce the last song.
I get full-blown goosebumps.
I have no idea what the song is called, but for the next three minutes, all I want to do is dance the hell out of it with my two best friends.
I need the loo, but I stupidly wait until the band have cleared the stage, a decision I regret once I see the queue snaking away from the women’s toilets.
The alcohol charging through my veins leads me past the line of women to the men’s. When I put my hand up to pushopen the door, it whooshes away in front of me and I almost stumble into Finn on his way out.
‘Whoa!’ he exclaims.
Whoa indeed.
‘Did you know this is the men’s?’ he asks with bemusement.
‘I’m desperate,’ I tell him.
‘Ah.’ He steps back to hold open the door, making space for me to pass through.
I feel the blush rising all the way from my chest to my scalp as I hurry past him and lock myself in one of the cubicles.
I’m desperate?
I’m still blushing by the time I emerge, only to find him standing in the doorway.
‘Thought I’d keep the riff-raff out,’ he says casually.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble, averting my red face as I wash my hands, my veil of hair an effective shield.
‘I’m Finn,’ Finn says, making no attempt to leave.
I glance up and meet his eyes in the mirror. ‘I know.’
‘And you’re Olivia Arterton.’
‘I know,’ I say again, shaking off my hands and turning around to face him.
His grin widens.
Holy hell, he has dimples. Big ones. Where didtheycome from? I feel as though the heat lamp beneath my skin has been turned up to the max.
People have always told me that my eyelashes are long, but his are something else. I can’t tell what colour his eyes are in this light, but they’re not dark enough to be brown. His nose is slightly crooked, and the lack of symmetry suitshim. I have an overwhelming desire to put my hands on his face and then recreate him in clay. Was he always this beautiful?
