“How’s the studio?”
“Good. I finished the commission for the Whitfield people. They want two more.”
“That’s amazing, Andre.”
“It’s money. Which is useful, since my ranking is about to fall off a cliff.”
Blake was quiet for a moment. “Are you okay with that?”
Andre considered the question. “I think so. I think I’m more than okay with it. I think I’m relieved.”
“Then I’m happy for you,” Blake said, and Andre could hear the sincerity in his voice, layered over something else — something quieter, more complicated — that neither of them was ready to name.
The following Tuesday, Andre was at the cafe, his hands wrapped around his espresso, a streak of cadmium yellow drying on his left wrist. The afternoon crowd was thin — a few students with laptops, an older man reading the Guardian, the barista wiping down the counter.
The door opened, and the woman walked in.
She was alone, her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She wore jeans and a oversized jumper, and she looked tired in the particular way that performers look tired — not physically exhausted, but emotionally spent, as if she had given away pieces of herself on stage and hadn’t yet gotten them back.
She ordered a tea, turned to find a seat, and stopped.
Her eyes landed on Andre.
For a moment, she just looked at him, her head tilted slightly, a frown of recognition forming between her brows. Then her face cleared, and she smiled.
“You were at the VIC,” she said. “Last Tuesday. The Crucible.”
Andre blinked, startled. “You saw me?”
“I spotted you in the lobby during the interval. You were standing by the bar looking like you were trying to decide whether to flee or order a second drink.” She paused, her smile widening. “You also come here almost everyday. Double espresso, no sugar. You sit by the door and you stare at your phone like it has personally offended you.”
Andre laughed, a genuine, surprised sound.
“I’m not staring. I’m reading.”
“You’re staring.” She extended her hand. “I’m Talia.”
“Andre,” he said, shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, her palm warm.
“I know who you are,” Talia said, sliding into the chair across from him without waiting for an invitation. “You’re the tennis player. The French one. You and your boyfriend were all over the news a few years ago.”
“That was a while ago.”
“It was romantic. Liam cried watching the video. He’ll deny it, but he absolutely cried.”
“Liam?”
“My partner. The ginger disaster. You’ve seen him — he’s hard to miss.” She took a sip of her tea, studying Andre over the rim of the cup. “He’s at a voice lesson right now, otherwise he’d be here annoying both of us.”
Andre smiled. “I’ve seen you both. At this cafe. For weeks, actually.”
“I know,” Talia said simply. “We’ve seen you too. Liam wanted to come over and introduce himself ages ago, but I told him to wait. You always looked like you were thinking about something important, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“I was probably thinking about paint.”
“See? Important.” She set down her cup, leaning forward slightly. “So. Andre the tennis player who sits alone in cafes and goes to matinees at the Old Vic. What’s your story?”
Andre looked at her — at the warmth in her dark eyes, the easy, open curiosity in her expression — and felt something loosen in his chest. A tension he hadn’t known he was carrying. “It’s a long one,” he said.
