From London With Love

20 | hard and harder times

Andrew had never liked dodgems.

Even as a child, Andrew never understood why anyone would want to climb into a motorized vehicle and voluntarily slam themselves at the wall. Or other people. Or the ticket attendant booth, if you were feeling particularly naughty.

But looking at Ophelia now, he understood.

She was laughing, her red hair flying about her face as she careened violently around the ring. Arena? Whatever. Andrew didn't care. All he cared about was the expression of pure joy on Ophelia's face right now.

God, she looked happy.

And beautiful.

He had noticed Ophelia as soon as she walked in, wearing that golden gown. He had never particularly liked the colour yellow — it was a pale, meek sort of thing — and he avoided painting with it wherever possible. But now, he wanted to paint sunrises over Italian vineyards. He wanted to paint sunflowers in July, and goldfinches pecking at a frozen pond in December.

Next to him, Eleanora pulled out a cigarette. Andrew watched as it flared, kissing the darkness with red, smouldering lips. Irritation prickled at him. For fuck's sake; his father was dying of lung cancer. She could at least wait until after the ball.

"Cigarette?" she asked.

Andrew gave her a long look.

"What?" Eleanora pocketed the package defensively. "I only smoke socially." She blew out a stream of smoke. "Anyway, I'm quitting in the summer."

"I thought you quit in January"

She frowned. "It isn't easy to quit smoking, Andrew; I wish you'd be more supportive."

Andrew sighed. This was Eleanora's latest line: be more supportive.

During their trip to Paris last month, Eleanora wished he had been more supportive by shopping along the Champs-Élysées with her for six hours. Or posting an Instagram photo of their love lock on the Pont des Arts. Or skipping pistachio macarons ("Do you know how fattening those are?" Eleanora said, pursing her lips. "You'll regret those in the morning, darling.").

Andrew hadn't even wanted to go to Paris. He hated that he couldn't understand any of the French street signs, and that all of the cafés in the city randomly closed at midday for a few hours. How the hell was one meant to find lunch?

But Eleanora had insisted.

"Paris is romantic," Eleanora told him. "I know we've had issues lately, Andrew, but come on." She kissed his cheek. "Don't you want to fall in love again?"

So Andrew went along with it. He had toted bags up and down the Champs-Élysées, and he had eaten leafy "salade Niçoise" instead of macarons. Hell, Andrew hadn't even complained when Eleanora announced that she had already been to the Louvre a million times before and had no desire to stare at paintings done by "dead white men."

Which, you know, hurt Andrew's heart a little.

Monet was rolling in his grave.

But none of it had worked — Andrew still wasn't in love with Eleanora.

Andrew could remember the moment he realized it. He had woken up early on the last day of their holiday, squinting in the pearl grey dawn. Eleanora was out on the balcony, barefoot, smoking a cigarette. She leaned against the wrought-iron railing and then shivered, wrapping her thin pink robe tighter around her white slip. The noises of Paris — cars shuddering over cobblestones, a policeman's whistle — rose above the street, getting tangled up in her blonde hair.