The Art Guy (18+) COMPLETE, FREE to READ

Bonus Chapter! The Frantic Dash

"Lillian, I'm warning you!"

But she'd vanished, the corridor outside his room deserted. Kippy knew she wouldn't be in her own room, but he checked anyway. The door was locked, and he hammered both fists against it. "Lillian, Lillian!"

Her neighbour poked his head out. "Mate. Put a sock in it. She's not in there."

The phone? The halls had a payphone in entry lobby downstairs, but the lifts took too long to arrive, so he flew down the stairs, knocking into those coming up who yelled curses. As usual, a queue of folk waited for the phone—students making duty calls to parents and fated to wait too long behind those who wanted to speak to faraway boyfriends and girlfriends.

Lillian wasn't in the queue.

Outside, the sunset cast reds, pinks and purples in the skies—a rare, fine evening. People made the most of a rain-free evening, gathering in the seats and tables outside pubs and bars. There was another payphone at the end of the road and he ran for it, cursing his smoking habit as his breath came in desperate gasps.

The phone was in use though not for its intended purpose. A couple, the girl's back pushed up against its side as her companion, trousers around his ankles, thrust into her. You saw all sorts in Glasgow on a Friday night.

Where was the next phone? Or, and he prayed to the deity he didn't believe in, that Lillian hadn't taken herself to John's flat. It wasn't that far from the halls. Think. Where was it, the other payphone? Where?

He resorted to calling her name. "Lillian! Lillian!" The shout attracted attention, but no-one pointed or offered helpful advice about where she'd gone. At last it came to him, there was another payphone on Gray Street past Charing Cross, though it was farther away than John's flat. No, she'd have tried the halls payphone, the one currently in an alternative use and then gone to John's.

Please let him have worked out what she would have done. John's flat was in the opposite direction to Gray Street. And yes, definitely. Time to give up the fags, the white stick versions anyway.

He spotted her at the traffic lights where Great Western Road met Byres Road. Lillian's height made her easier to see than most women and he weighed up throwing his energy into bellowing at her to stop or running to catch her. He didn't have the puff left for both.

Getting hold of her was the best idea. The lights took ages to change where she was, thanks to their location on one of Glasgow's main thoroughfares. He drew in air and ran, long legs flying over the ground. He didn't have time for excuse me's or apologies, barging past those few unlucky souls that got in his way.

The traffic approaching the junction slowed as the lights turned to amber and then red. Lillian crossed with the mass of others heading towards Queen Margaret Drive or an evening stroll in the Botanic Gardens.

He got to the lights just as they changed once more, drew in deep, raggedy breaths and bolted across the road, as cars beeped at him furiously and a taxi swerved hard to the right to avoid him. The sound of horns caught Lillian's attention, and she turned, her mouth forming an 'o' at the sight of him. He didn't suppose made a pretty sight, red-faced, sweating and furious.

She was, he reckoned, about fifty metres ahead of him. When he reached her, he planned to push her in front of the traffic, the rotten, interfering cow. Any sympathy for her had evaporated ten minutes ago.

Perhaps Lillian saw something of the threat as she started to run too, widening up the gap between them. Lillian had the advantage. She wasn't the one who'd just ran here all the way from the art school halls. And she was as long-legged as he. Those feet ate up the ground in no time. She'd be at John's building and ringing the doorbell to his flat in less than thirty seconds.

It was a Friday night; his best hope John didn't spend his slouched on the couch in front of the TV.

"You... cow!" He spat the words out, their pronunciation laboured through breathlessness. "Gimme that."

He made a snatch for the picture, but she whipped it behind her back. "Kippy! I'm doing you a favour. You're in love with John and he isn't aware of it. You'll be perfect for him. And how can he fail to fall in love with you?"

Rage bubbled up inside him and he fought to keep his fists by his side. You didn't hit lassies, ever, but the temptation to belt her made his hands tremble, and he turned away appalled by himself.

"And you'll be happy."

The words, whispered and forlorn, melted him. The other half of that sentence had to be "unlike me". That frantic run had given him an adrenaline rush. The wellbeing that flooded his system extended to forgiveness too apparently.

"He's no' interested," he said. "And I don't want you to interfere. I know you're trying to help."

"Does telling Lillian not to interfere ever help?"

He spun around, horrified. John stood behind him, key in hand. They were only metres from his home and he must have been returning from a night out, his shirt and trousers casual but smart. Kippy had once thought only girls blushed. He was wrong. Prickly heat started at his neck and spread over his face though the redness remained there from that panicked run.

"Er...I..."

"How are you?" Those eyes. That rapid blinking.

"Ah...fine." Surreptitiously, he'd placed his right foot over Lillian's and pressed it down lightly, hoping she'd take the hint to keep her mouth shut.

"Is that a picture?" John tilted sideways. The incriminating piece of paper stuck out from behind Lillian. Why oh why hadn't he Followed his instincts and torn it up all those months ago?

"Is it one of yours?"

"No! Eh... something Lillian did." The lie was so stupid, red heat burned on his face once more. The hole he dug made things worse, not better.

"Yes!" Lillian exclaimed and pulled the picture out in front of her so John could see it clearly. "I did it! What do you think? I wanted to show you and get your opinion. I've come on in leaps and bounds in the last few months, haven't I? My tutor reckons this is the best thing I've ever done, so that's why I was so keen to show you!"

Kippy cringed. The over-the-top gushiness must make John suspicious. He was a criminal lawyer, wasn't he, used to listening to people lie to him? Over-bright speech and talking too made lies obvious.

John held the picture in front of him, his hands holding the bottom corners. Thanks to its few months under a mattress, creases marked the middle, exaggerating the closeness the eyes in the picture.

"Oh. Bit too flattering if you ask me. And my hairline's higher than you've drawn it. Did you know there's a religious belief, animism, where its followers don't believe in having their pictures taken because they fear the process sucks out part of their soul and imprints it on their picture? I'd rather have known if someone was going to draw me."

He'd started the little speech still staring at the picture, but as finished the last sentence, he raised his head and directed his gaze at Kippy. Another bit of rapid blinking followed.

"Sorry, sorry!" Lillian said. "I'll ask next time. Can we come in for a drink?"

John shook his head. "No, sorry. Tomorrow's an early start for me. I've got a big case on Monday, so there's a lot of preparation I need to do in advance."

He hugged Lillian and nodded briefly at Kippy. "Take care, both of you." And he was gone, the retreating steps too loud for Kippy. They mocked him—the man who walked away even when he'd looked at that picture, worked out its true artist and rejected him, anyway. His eyes prickled, and he wiped them furiously, determined not to cry in front of Lillian.