‘Another question.’ He bites my cheek this time. ‘This was my habit before I found you.’
‘This isn’t a habit, this is a hobby.’ I look at the paintings on the wall again, thinking that such excellence couldn’t really be classed as a hobby. These belong in a gallery.
‘Well, now you’re my hobby.’
I have a moment of comprehension, and I’m suddenly on the move, breaking free from Miller’s hold and making my way out of his painting studio, heading for the lounge area until I’m standing before one of the oil canvases gracing his wall. This one is of the London Eye, blurred but clear. ‘You did this?’ I’m speaking in sodding questions again. ‘I’m sorry.’
He approaches from my left and stands next to me, observing his own creation. ‘I did.’
‘And that one?’ I point to the opposite wall, where London Bridge is holding court, still keeping the damn boxers up.
‘Yes,’ he confirms, and I’m on the move again, back to his studio. I walk further into the room this time, surrounding myself with Miller’s art.
There are five easels, all holding white canvases with partially finished works. The giant wooden table running the length of the side wall is cluttered with pots of brushes, paints in every colour on God’s earth, and photographs scattered everywhere, some pinned on cork boards among the art. An old squidgy sofa is sitting in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the glass so you can sit and admire the view across the city, which nearly matches the magnificence of the paintings around me. It’s a typical artist’s studio . . . and it completely defies everything that Miller Hart stands for.
It’s expressive, but even more shocking, it’s an awful mess. I feel like I’m in a bit of a trance, an Alice in Wonderland kind of moment, and in a really silly fit of curiosity, I begin assessing everything more closely to try and establish whether there is some sort of method to his arrangement of things in here. It doesn’t look like it; it all looks very random and haphazard, but to be sure, I walk over to the table and pick up a pot of brushes, turning it casually in my hand. Then I put it down aimlessly before turning to see his reaction.
He isn’t twitching, he isn’t looking at the pot of brushes like it could bite, and he hasn’t come over to move it. He’s just considering me with interest, and after absorbing his gaze for a few moments, I break out in a smile. My shock has transformed into happiness because what I’m seeing in this room is a different man. This almost humanises him. Before me, he expressed himself and de-stressed by painting, and it doesn’t matter that he has to be super-duper precise in every other element of his life, because in here, he’s chaotic.
‘I love it,’ I say, taking another slow gaze around the room, not even the beauty of Miller keeping me from it. ‘I just love it.’
‘I knew you would.’
It’s suddenly dark again, except for the glow of London by night pouring in from the window, and he walks slowly over and takes my hand, leading me to the old worn couch in front of the window. He sits and encourages me down beside him.
‘I fall asleep here most nights,’ he says wistfully, pulling me a little closer. ‘It’s hypnotic, don’t you think?’
‘Incredible,’ I agree, but I’m more in awe of what’s behind me. ‘Have you always painted?’
‘On and off.’
‘Just landscapes and architecture?’
‘Mainly.’
‘You’re very gifted,’ I say quietly, tucking my feet under my bum. ‘You should exhibit them.’
He laughs a little, and I’m soon looking up at him, annoyed that he always chooses to do this when I can’t see him. He’s not laughing any more, but he’s smiling at me. It’s good enough. ‘Livy, it’s just a hobby. I have the club and plenty of stress. Turning a hobby into something more makes it stressful.’
I frown, not seeing his logic at all, at the same time hoping his theory doesn’t apply to me. I’m a hobby. ‘I was paying you a compliment.’ I raise my eyebrows cheekily, making him smile more, eyes sparkling and all.
‘So you were. I apologise.’ He kisses me tenderly and tucks me back under his arm. ‘Thank you.’