The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Eight

She nods and writes something down again. I wade through the contents of my brain to try and remember her name. I'm terrible at that, at remembering people's names right after they've told me. It's like a disease.

"And after your father died you moved to London, to live with your aunt?"

"Yeah, my mother's sister. She'd married a British Army captain years before and was outcast by the family for it. They had a massive house in Richmond and no children and so she took me in. Both my sisters were older and so chose to stay and finish school in Belfast." I'd escaped at the first chance I got.

"That must have been a world of difference from Belfast? Richmond?"

"Yeah, it was. We were two streets away from Hampton Court Palace," I tell her. "My aunt and uncle lived in the kind of place you see in Richard Curtis films. I always half-expected Keira Knightley to come skipping past my window on her way to a love triangle."

This makes her laugh, a husky warm laugh that settles some of the tension from her earlier "abuse" question. She stares at me a long time, the same look on her face Eloise had given me yesterday, before dropping her eyes and running a hand through her choppy brown hair.

"And now New York. How does that compare?" She asks.

"To Belfast or London?"

"Both I guess?"

"Well, New York is only partially more American than London, and only slightly less dangerous than the Belfast I grew up in." I offer her a smile which she responds to by nibbling softly on her slightly plump bottom lip. I shift, widening my legs a little, encouragingly.

Even though I'm not planning on fucking her, it still makes sense to get her on side. If she's attracted to me then she's more likely to write me a positive piece. That was my rationale anyway. And on a normal day, after this, I'm certain that French mouth of hers could do wonders with my cock — but this isn't a normal day. Not by a fucking long shot. And there's only one mouth I'm even remotely interested in, and it'll be here in less than fifteen minutes.

As the pretty journalist's eyes settle between my legs, I throw a pointed stare at Pat whose response is to hold up five fingers to me.

Just as he does this the sound of the intercom echoing loudly around the large loft startles everyone. She's early. Didn't help that The Circle were late. Pat goes to answer it as I look back at the journalist.

"I'm sorry are you expecting someone?"

"Yes, a client," I tell her. Feels weird calling Eloise that. Except that's all she is to you, mate, my head reminds me, in Pat's voice.

"Ah, I see. Ok, sorry we won't take much longer, just a couple more questions and then we're done. Can I just clarify some details about the exhibition? It's running for four weeks is that right?"

"Yes, until the 8th of next month. At a gallery in Williamsburg. The Weston."

"I saw some reviews this morning actually. Almost all of them were very positive."

"Ah, well, you can't win them all."

She smiles, nodding. "I'm heading there after we're done here. I can't very well write a revealing piece if I haven't seen what all the fuss is about."

"Not much to reveal, to be honest — I'm a pretty uninteresting guy," I say. She frowns in disagreement. "But if there is anything, it will be in those twenty-odd pieces hanging in The Weston."

I'm distracted by the front door. Pat is standing by it and I want to shout for him to go get the lift door for her because it's heavy, but I also want to finish this and get this girl and her grungy bespectacled assistant out of here.