I suddenly realise he’s not standing next to me but has moved ahead to where he’s looking through a wrought-iron fence. A square lies beyond, a garden of sorts, edged by buildings.
‘Then it sounds like I’d better apologise to the orchid on our way back into the office. I didn’t actually say you were exotic,’ he amends, those indigo eyes on me now. ‘But you are striking. What I’m trying to say, without much success, is you’re not a daisy or a rose, no common or garden variety that willingly invites admiration or touch. It’s like you’re beyond that. Or maybe too fragile. Either way.’ He turns his attention back to the fence, revealing part of it as a gate as he lifts the latch, pushing it open. ‘You’ve cultivated something unapproachable that keeps us all at bay.’
Do I want to know whousis?
‘I suppose that must why I’m here with you, is it?’ The pretty man pays me compliments, the kind of which I’ve never heard, and I pay him back with snark. It’s like I can’t help myself. ‘Because I’m unapproachable.’
‘Maybe you’ve decided I’m the exception. Or maybe you’re not really unapproachable but scared of what people think.’
Jesus. Does Archer Powell possess some kind of sixth sense? I have the sudden and debilitating sensation of being turned inside out—like the things I keep private are somehow now pinned to my skin. I don’t quite know how to feel. Sort of naked. Exposed. A little vulnerable, too.
And the worst is yet to come because it would seem now is the perfect opportunity for my big reveal.
Gird your loins, Bessie.
‘Are you coming inside?’
‘I was just trying to work out if you’d just insulted or complimented me.’ I trudge to the gate anyway, moving past him.
‘Let’s settle on appraised.’
My head does one of those silly double takes noting how he holds his eyes comically wide.
‘You’re such a creeper,’ I mutter, knowing full well it’ll soon become obvious that creeper is officially my role.
‘I had thought to liken you to glass.’ He closes the gate behind me, the latch clinking shut.
‘Because I’m so transparent?’
‘Because you’re sharp.’
‘Alsonota compliment.’ I throw this over my shoulder when unexpectedly, his lips are at my ear.
‘Sharp as in potentially a little dangerous.’ His tone low, as though he has a secret to impart. ‘And glass is so beautiful when it shatters.’
I shiver in response to how his words feel like both a promise and a threat. Worse, I’ve no idea what to do with those words—how to process or respond. Like a coward, I step away, parking this interaction to one side for inspection sometime when he’s not around.
‘What is this place?’ I project my voice a little too much to hide how my legs are suddenly like jelly, my insides currently like an Etch-A-Sketch shaken to infinity. Also, why are my nipples suddenly impersonating directional tools and pointing the way? Thank goodness for my coat.
‘You don’t know?’
‘I’ve never seen this place before. I usually come into work from the other end.’ I wave a vague hand in the direction we just came. ‘The coffee shop is about the farthest I’ve ever been up this street, discounting the time I got on the wrong bus.’
Hands in his coat pockets, Archer dips his head, rolling a small stone under the sole of his shoe. ‘This is Postman’s Park.’
‘Because the postmen of London are all buried here?’ My question is spontaneous and probably connected to the sudden awareness of the ancient-looking tombstones leaning against a stone wall. I look up, and up, then around, noting the odd little space is surrounded on three sides by Victorian-looking housing. Luxury flats, my guess. ‘Are we even allowed to be in here?’
‘Is it the spirit of dead postal workers or the more current residents that worry you most?’
‘Dead deliverymen aren’t going to call the police,’ I murmur, venturing a little farther inside.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t know about this place.’ He sounds amused. And a little pleased. ‘Did you ever see the movieThe Closer?’
‘Should I have?’ I swing around to face him
‘It’s just this place was featured in it.’
‘Then I’m pleased I didn’t. It would’ve spoiled the intrigue.’ I trot over to a narrow-roofed pergola, hooking my arm around one of the wooden posts and swinging around it in an action more school kid than stripper until I’m facing him again.
