I screw up my face in annoyance. “Well, you should have bought it then. Back when you had the damn chance.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be sightseeing or something?” he mutters, annoyed. “Where are you from? New Zealand or somewhere?”
I narrow my eyes. “Australia, actually. You know, criminals and all,” I snap. “And besides, I am sightseeing with my boyfriend, actually.” My eyes flicker outside to the other rude pig sitting waiting for me. God, it goes from bad to worse around here.
He looks outside. “Where is this supposed boyfriend?” he sneers.
“None of your business.” I wrap my cardigan around me protectively. Go to Hell, asshole.
He walks to the window and peers outside. “Oh.” He smiles to himself. “Him?” He gestures to Mark sitting on the bench.
Oh, that’s it. “Yes. Him,” I reply, outraged.
“That’s your boyfriend?” He smirks. “Mark White is your boyfriend?”
Oh no, he knows him. “H-he could be,” I stammer as I feel myself go red. It’s even embarrassing calling Mark my boyfriend, heaven forbid if he actually was.
The old lady interrupts our impending fight. “I will need your details, dear, in case we get any more information on the ring.”
“Can I not persuade you to sell it to me, please?” he asks again.
“Yes, of course.” I reply to her, ignoring him as I hand over my license to the dear old lady. “Please, stop talking,” I eventually say as I turn to smile sweetly at him. “You are ruining my London experience.”
He raises an eyebrow and I know he is holding himself back from being sarcastic in front of the old lady. He shakes his head and places a white business card onto the counter and my eyes glance down at it. “Call me if you want to sell the ring. I will pay good money for it.”
* * *
STAR
042455130510
My eyes meet his and I bite my lip to hold back my smile. What kind of fucking name is that? “Star? As in twinkle twinkle?” I smirk.
He shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips in frustration.
“Take your card back. I’m not ringing you, Mr. Twinkle Star.” I smirk as I take my ring and card from the lady.
I turn and start to walk out of the shop.
“Call me when you want to sell it,” he shouts after me.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I reply, and then I have a thought. “Actually, do hold your breath and do us all a favor.”
“Very funny,” he sneers.
“I thought so.” I smile as I open the heavy door. That felt good. What an asshole.
Alastar
I pull into the driveway of my terrace house and sip my coffee. I watch a family walk past in the rain through my rearview mirror and wait for them to pass. The only annoying thing with this antique sports car is the windscreen wiper speed. It’s either so slow it does nothing or so fast it nearly cracks the damn screen. Currently, it’s choosing the fast option, making it sound like the car is about to take off into flight at any given moment.
The family finally disappear out of sight, and I open the trunk to remove my large package which is wrapped in a woolen blanket before I make my way into the house. As I walk through the large, black glossed double doors I am reminded of just how much of a good thing photography has been to me. What started out as a teenage hobby now has me photographing international top models and designing editorial layouts for the most glamorous magazines in the world. My home is opulent, just like my life. The expansive floors are dark polished wood and my lounges are all chocolate leather. Artwork and bookcases line every wall.
I walk straight down to the basement and flick on the overhanging antique pendant lights. The walls are completely covered in black and white photographs that I have taken over the years. A huge mahogany desk sits in the corner of the room. I put my parcel onto my desk and unwrap the precious cargo from its blanket casing.
I smile broadly as I drink in its beauty.
A painting of a naked brunette woman from years gone by. Its true value is unknown to someone else, but that doesn’t matter; it’s priceless to me. I run my finger down the shape of her body knowing the man who painted this woman was madly in love with her. I can feel it so deeply within the brush strokes. No time for dreaming, I take a tool out of my top draw and turn the painting over and immediately start to unclick the staples that are holding it in its frame. One by one they fall ever so carefully as I try my damndest not to damage it. Thirty minutes later and I finally remove the encasing of glass and smile broadly as I stare at the picture again. Oh, this was a find. I can’t believe I actually have it. I turn it over and retrieve a different tool from my top draw and start to unpick the canvas from the frame. It’s a tedious job, one that takes me over an hour to complete. Until, at last, it’s free from its canvas and I can read the hand written note on the back in lead pencil:
* * *
The Object of My Affection
* * *