TWO AND HALF YEARS EARLIER
I feel his presence before I feel his touch. The sensation of his eyes upon me. The tickle of his breath caressing the nape of my neck.
And then, his hands around my waist. His chin resting on my shoulder. His body, warm and familiar, pressed against my back.
I smile and cover his hands with my own.
'Do you know,' he says, his voice soft, close to my ear, 'that you've been staring at this painting for a good ten minutes now?'
'Getting bored, are we?' I say, rubbing my thumbs over his knuckles. I've always loved his hands. At times, I think I'm strangely obsessed with them. Tom doesn't get it, of course, but then again, men never seem to understand our fascination with these small details and Tom is the worst for putting himself down anyway. He thinks his ears stick out. He thinks his fingers are too thin. He's always fussing with his hair, which he's convinced is an entity in its own right because it won't ever style the way he wants it to. But I can't get enough of him. Can't get enough of the touch of his hands on my waist – or everywhere else for that matter - or of the weight of his hot stare running over me whenever we're in the same room.
'How could I possibly be bored?' he replies, pressing his lips to my neck. 'This is a great place to people-watch.'
Tom loves people-watching. He just loves people. In fact, I don't think I've ever known someone to be so in love with the human race as he is. He's annoyingly glass-half-full at times, whereas I have a tendency to see too much darkness in others. Crowds frighten me a little, but Tom adores nothing more than to just sit and watch people go by, and he loves making up stories about who they are, where they're heading, what they do for a living.
His new game, however, is slightly more risqué and oh-so-typical Tom Morgan.
'Ten o'clock,' he murmurs, angling his head slightly so I follow the direction of his gaze.
Standing in front of An Allegory of Venus and Cupid - and, it has to be said, staring a little too intensely at Venus' breasts - is a tall, suited man, possibly in his early-fifties, who looks as if he's stepped straight out of the City. The cut of his suit is admirable, as is the shine on his brogues and the immaculate side-parting in his salt and pepper hair. He screams of orderly perfection. I reckon, if I was to get closer, he'd smell of Imperial Leather soap and money.
'City dweller, successful fella,' I say, reciting the lyrics of one of Tom's favourite songs.
'City dweller indeed,' Tom agrees. 'And, quite clearly successful, but I'm waging under that expensive designer suit, he's wearing a rather naughty pair of black Victoria's Secret panties that he told the salesgirl he was buying for his young, beautiful model girlfriend, when in fact, he just loves the feel of the satin against his balls.'
I snort with laughter and the man's head turns sharply in my direction, so I twist around to look at Tom and press my face into his cheek to stifle my laughter. His fingers dance lightly over the base of my spine.
'Nine o'clock,' he says and nudges me to look to my left. There's a young woman, probably in her mid to late-twenties who almost looks more mouse than human. She hugs her arms around her chest, as if she's trying to curl inwards and not allow anyone to touch her. Dressed conservatively for her age, she has a pair of vintage-looking glasses perched on her nose and her hair is pulled up tight into a neat bun.
'Oh, Tom, be nice,' I chide him.
'Excuse me,' he says, pulling back to mock-scowl at me, but the mischievous sparkle in his eyes betrays him. 'I'm always nice.' Grinning, he nuzzles my nose with his own, and trails it over my cheekbone to my ear. 'Total dominatrix,' he whispers. 'Don't be fooled by her mild-mannered appearance for beneath her librarian exterior lies fire and control and a need to put all men in their place, which is usually on all fours so she can whip them soundly on the arse until they scream out the safe-word or cry for their mummies.'
'You, Mr. Morgan, are quite incorrigible, you know that?'
'I'd rather be charming and debonair,' he shoots back.
I link my hands together behind his neck. 'Don't quote me on this, but I think you have to be a 19th Century Jane Austen character to be charming and debonair. Or just be Colin Firth. I'm not sure a primary school teacher who spends too much time thinking about other people's kinks can qualify.'
Tom rolls his eyes. 'Damn it,' he tuts, with a cheeky smirk.
'So, if we have Mr. Silky Knickers over there and Madame Bookworm Dominatrix over here, what does that make us?' I ask, innocently.
The mischievous glint is back in his gaze again, but there's an underlying heat there now, something that stirs butterflies in my stomach and makes the muscles between my thighs clench instinctively. I want to empty the room with a click of my fingers. I want to magically transport everyone out of here, so that it's just me and him. I want them all gone, so I can have him all to myself surrounded by oil paint and canvas and art and beauty.
'Us?' He smiles. 'Oh, well, we're total deviants, of course.'
He kisses me then, nothing that's going to hit the mature rating I wish it would, but enough so I can taste him on my tongue. Breaking off far too soon, he glances at the painting again over my shoulder, a frown tugging on his brow.
'I'm not sure we should be having such carnal thoughts, while ol' JC is up there creating miracles and everything,' he says, nodding. 'Why do you love this painting so much anyway?'
I turn around and let his arms encircle my waist again, coming right back to where we'd started, with him behind me, us both staring up at The Raising of Lazarus. The colours are rich and lush. The brush strokes are confident and bold. I see something different every time I come to look at it. Some new detail that I'd not noticed until then. Each time, I see a new face, a character that I hadn't seen before and I wonder who they are and what they are thinking.
It dawns on me then that the way I look at paintings is exactly how Tom looks at the world. Looking for stories. Looking for hope. I find hope in this painting because this painting reminds me of him. Of Tom. Of a time that we shared that was like magic. Like a miracle.
'Remember that night in the Maria Luisa?' I say, softly.
'How could I forget?' he says, and I can feel his cheek muscles twitch. He's smiling.
Remembering.
'The pasta was amazing and don't even get me started on the wine,' he jokes.
He's right, the pasta was bloody sublime, as was the wine – of which we drank far too much – but he is joking, because it wasn't the food or drink that made that night one to remember.
It was when he asked me to marry him and I agreed.
'There was a small-framed print of The Raising of Lazarus on the wall behind you.'
'There was?' he says.
I'm not surprised he's surprised. He was a nervous wreck that night, but I remember every detail like it's tattooed on the inside of my mind. Etched onto my soul forever.
We remain like that for a while longer, and I let my head drop back onto his shoulder as his fingers find my wedding band, and he rubs his thumb over it, pressing his mouth against my neck again.
'Well,' he says, finally. 'The good ol' Maria Luisa, eh? Pasta, wine and art. That's three things that make it worth remembering... oh, and that maitre'd who looked like he had love balls shoved up his...'
'Thomas Morgan!' I gasp, nudging him in the ribs with my elbow, as he collapses into giggles. I grab his jacket and pull him towards me, loving the way his face lights up when he's laughing, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the scent of aftershave lingering on his skin. 'Colin Firth would never talk about love balls when in the presence of such beauty, you know?'
'Colin Firth wouldn't know beauty if it smacked him right in that annoyingly charming and debonair face of his.'
Wrapping his arms tightly around me, he kisses me again. Deeper this time. Harder.
When he breaks off this time, he looks at me so intensely, just like he did that night in the Maria Luisa, that it makes my mouth water with want.
Tom might be in love with the world, but I know that he's in love with me just as much as I am with him. He loves completely and it's a love that makes me see the beauty in a world tainted by darkness. It's a love that makes me believe in hope and miracles. It's a love that makes me believe that anything is possible. That there's more light than dark. That there's life after death.
That even butterflies can survive hurricanes.