save your tears | kate

friday 16th april

Charlie finished drying the saucepan and put it back in the cupboard next to the stove— paused, still bent over, as his line of sight was brought down to the stack of plastic containers on the bench, again. He sighed and shut the door, sighed again when it didn’t slam and provide him the satisfaction he’d been seeking (soft-close cupboards).

He hadn’t put them away, so it was his own fault — he’d forget about them if they were stored away in his own shelves. And he couldn’t just throw them out, because they were Tupperware branded and he’d heard enough about the parties his mum went to—and his dad’s subsequent complaining at the cost of them—that they weren’t cheap. Not that Kate couldn’t afford new tupperware (nor his parents, with a little help from him), but still, he wasn’t that immature. Mostly.

Charlie looked at the clock on the wall, at the darkening sky out the window, then back to the stack of clean containers, scowling.

Fifteen minutes later he had apparated to a lane near Kate’s townhouse, in Chelsea, with a Bag for Life. He walked up to the peach-pink front door and rapped his knuckles on it, rather than using the knocker. He shoved his hand in his jacket pocket and looked around at the street behind him. It was empty. He could just leave the bag on her stoop — bit cowardly, but easier.

The door opened and Kate was standing there, the warm glow from within casting her silhouette. “Er, hi,” Charlie greeted her awkwardly. She opened the door a little wider and his gaze flicked down briefly at the shorts and tank top, then back up to her face. “Sorry I—” He wet his lips. “Been meaning to bring these back but…” he trailed off, thinking busy was a cop out — nevermind the questions it would spark (how could he be busy, he didn’t have a day job?).


@Kate Baker

Kate’s brow was furrowed deeply as she sat, hunched over her desk in her office, toiling over some letters she’d been neglecting to write--mostly to her work contacts here, and a couple friends that she had been terrible keeping contact with while she’d been back in San Diego. Funnily enough, she couldn’t write poems in here; the environment was too structured and sterile, and it cut all the flow to her emotional… state.

The sun had just gone down fifteen minutes or so ago and she felt like the darkness outside was dampening her mood and lessening her productivity, so she set her quill down with a light click on the wood of her desk and sighed. Time to give up for the night, maybe to change into some more comfortable clothes and make herself something to eat for the first time since… maybe breakfast. That was bad.

Kate padded up the stairs to her bedroom and chose some shorts and a tank top to lounge around the house for the rest of the night in, and thought about how perhaps she should go outside sometime later this week before she retreated back to California, try to make contact with some friends and be social. That would be good for her, right? To see living beings besides Simon?

She hadn’t been in London much over the last couple of months, not after she’d been scared shitless in San Diego that things would go public with her book, but she was here to send those letters, check on her house and clean it, and run some other errands that could only really be done in London.

Then there was a knock at the door, which scared her. Who was coming to see her at this time? Unannounced? There was only one non-scary option she could think of, and the timing would have been uncanny, if so, because she’d just gotten here last night--but it tended to be, with him. Kate crept down the stairs, quietly enough that a stranger wouldn’t know she was home, and made sure to look through the peephole.

Fears dashed(that kind, anyway), she unlocked the deadbolt, swung the door open and said “Hi,” back in a suspiciously relieved tone of voice. Kate decided not to pursue the rest of his words further and shook her head, “Not a big deal. Come on in,” She shuffled to the side for him and swung the door open wider, closing it behind them as soon as he was over the threshold.

“You want something to drink?” Kate asked, beelining straight for the liquor cabinet.

He only hesitated for half a breath before he stepped over the threshold, past Kate, into her foyer. He’d been here before, knew his way vaguely around, but wasn’t about to brutally remind her of that, even if he was sure she hadn’t forgotten; he waited for her to lead him through to the living space. A proper guest.

It was an open plan layout, similar to what he had now but on a fancier scale (they were in Chelsea, after all). Everything in here was warm and rich though, in contrast to the cool monochrome palette of his new home — which was no longer that new, he realised, he’d been there a year now.

The small lights in the kitchen were on but there was no suggestion of her having cooked dinner — none of the spicy aromas he was used to associating with her cooking infiltrating his nostrils. Did he want something to drink? “Er,” she was already halfway to the liquor cabinet before he could convince himself he shouldn’t, so he gave in easily; “Yeah.” He wet his lips and set the bag of Tupperware on the bench. “Just the one,” he added, mostly to himself.

His line of sight lingered on her backside as she bent into the cupboard, before he forced himself to look away. “Sorry I should’ve—” He wet his lips, arms folding across his chest. “If you’re still to have tea I can shove off?” he suggested, giving her the out for them both; she was inviting him in to be polite, he had accepted her invitation to be polite. This didn’t fit with how they operated now. 

He was acting sort of like a scared animal, lingering between the kitchen and the door, jumping the gun a bit and offering to leave if she wanted him to. She didn’t, but she wasn’t inclined to believe he wanted to go that bad either, especially considering he’d come all the way over here to return Tupperware she could’ve easily bought more of (and would have, soon--she wouldn’t have had the gumption to ask for these ones back).

“No, don’t be silly, have a seat,” Kate told him and gestured to the stools tucked neatly under the island in the middle of her kitchen. This was weird, right? Not bad weird, just… unusual. She’d come to his place to give him the food she’d cooked for him, but then it had been a much heftier excuse not to have sex, because, well--his leg had been broken. That was the only other time they’d been around each other without the influence of drugs or alcohol present, except for the time they’d run into each other at the market, and that hadn't been private like this, so they were starting off on a different foot. Whether or not they’d stay sharp, of course, remained to be seen. The night was still very young.

Kate’s slender fingers drummed on the glass of her cabinet for a moment and she changed her mind on a little whim. Since he was sober (or mostly, anyway, she didn’t know if he’d slammed anything before he came over here to lubricate the situation at all), perhaps he’d notice a bit more if she chose something special. She pulled a bottle of his favorite pinot noir from its position on the wine rack and set to work screwing the cork out. “I’m just going to let this sit for a minute,” Kate commented and set out a pair of glasses, “but feel free to pour your glass when you’re ready. Are you hungry?”

Mexicans, like most Latinos, ate dinner later than Americans and Kate preferred that; she’d always made food kind of late when they’d lived together and she wondered idly if he still did certain things that had rubbed off on him during their relationship. She obviously did, her house was full of Muggle appliances and knick-knacks.

“What sounds good? I just went for a grocery shop, so I can do whatever,” She was standing across the island from him and stealing glances, up through her dark eyelashes, as she fixed her own (deliberately small) glass of wine. This was his favorite, she could drink something else.

Don’t be silly, she said, have a seat. Charlie stared at the stool for a moment—almost as if it might bite—before moving to pull it out and slide onto it, jacket still on. He pushed the bag of Tupperware out of reach, out of his personal space, then hunched over and folded his arms on the counter.

Kate brought over a bottle of wine instead of the glass of whiskey (or tequila, knowing her) he’d been expecting, and set about uncorking it. Charlie half-watched out of the corner of his eye, half-made-a-show-of-not-watching, scratching behind his ear. Kate announced her intent to let the wine ‘sit’ and Charlie’s eyes flicked to her, wondering if that was some sort of hint about his eagerness to pour the moment he opened a bottle. Then, as she set out a pair of glasses, she said he could pour when he was ready; he decided that maybe he was reading into everything a little too much — but then couldn’t he read into her opening a whole bottle when he’d said ‘just the one’?

Charlie sat up a little straighter, one hand splayed on the cool marble countertop. “Erm, no. I’ve just eaten,” he admitted, immeasurably relieved that he wasn’t going to have to accept another meal from his ex-wife. He almost divulged what he’d made, as if he needed to prove something to her, before deciding that was stupid (curry, using a jar). He reached to grab the bottle of wine and a glass—stretching from his stool—and poured himself a serve. “You should eat, though,” he said, putting the bottle back, “don’t bother me.”

Charlie watched Kate pull things out of the fridge and the cupboards and had a long sip of the wine, licking his lips appreciatively (the wine, not the view). He set the glass down, his fingers still loosely cradling the stem, and pulled at his collar with his other hand, warm still in his jacket. “Thanks for erm, bringing that stuff ‘round,” he said, mostly as a distraction as he slipped out of it and draped it over the stool beside him.

Charlie was still wearing his jacket, but knowing how freezing cold he kept his house, that wouldn’t last long. Kate had been able to stand the temperatures of the Arctic with a built-in furnace to warm her up, but as it was just her and Simon in her townhouse now(she couldn’t do much, she was a small cat), she kept the thermostat around 68-70 degrees Fahrenheit, depending on the time of day. In the winter, a few degrees warmer perhaps, but it was a little balmy out these days, as summer was just around the corner, and so all that wasn’t necessary.

Oh, he’d already eaten. Hmmm. Kate’s mouth twisted while she stared into the fridge and tried to piece together what she might want to eat. Her appetite was strange and fickle, and eating was a nuisance of a chore when she was doing it alone. With someone else participating in the meal, like a group activity, it was more rewarding, took less thinking to complete. She knew as a Latina she should appreciate food more, but the only thing that had really rubbed off on her from that rich part of her culture was enjoying feeding other people. Kate could almost picture the disapproving stares and tongue clicks she’d get from her (particularly nosy) tia for only consuming a comparatively negligible amount of the gigantic spread that was always available at family functions.

“Oh, great. I’ll just have some pasta, then,” Minimal effort, good source of carbs, and tomato sounded like it would be great with the wine, too. It only took Kate a few minutes to pull all the ingredients out from the fridge and the cupboards and she set to work, multitasking to carry the conversation, as usual. She had many fond memories of Charlie being around in the kitchen while she cooked, just to keep her company, or to have a glass of wine with her in the interim, much like they were doing now. That stung, to notice the parallel, but Kate’s frown seemed justified as she concentrated on dicing the tomatoes for the marinara.

“You’re welcome,” She answered quietly, even though she hadn’t been expecting (another) thank you. Kate wondered if her ambiguous departure was part of the reason he was here, but she supposed she’d find that out soon enough. “Would you mind pouring me a glass? Don’t want to lose my momentum,” She grinned and glanced up at him briefly, though not briefly enough, because after a second she’d managed to slice the side of her hand with her (very sharp) knife. “Ouch,” Kate hissed and let the knife clatter onto the marble of the counter as she scrambled around for a rag or a towel to compress the clean cut.

Charlie nodded once, softly — that was that, then. He glanced around the room, his brown eyes lingering on the artwork on the walls—new, since he’d last been here, or perhaps he just hadn’t paid attention—before coming back to Kate as she asked for a top-up. “Yeah,” he said, reaching for the wine without offering a grin in return — everything felt too off, as though someone had taken the time to go through your home and move every piece of furniture an inch in one direction.

He had just wrapped his fingers around the dark, opaque glass of the bottle when he heard Kate inhale sharply— His eyes went to her face, first, then the knife as it rattled on the counter— She was already holding a tea towel to her hand by the time Charlie had dithered over whether he was meant to do anything. “Are you alright?” he asked, half-rising from the stool before hesitating, then getting fully to his feet after another second.

Charlie moved around to Kate slowly, watching her draw her wand and healing the cut with magic before he could really be much use — as if he could be, anyway. In an effort to seem helpful without crossing any sort of line, he picked up the knife she’d been using and rinsed it under the tap, wiping it (carefully) on his shirt rather than hunt for another towel.

Kate came closer, as if to pick up where she’d left off, and he waved her off (unintentionally threatening, with the hand holding the knife). “Leave it,” he said gruffly, taking her place and slicing the tomatoes (thicker than she had been, and slower, too). “You can just tell me what to do,” he mumbled as the knife thunked against the chopping board.

The stinging had taken a few seconds to set in, anyway, and she was getting blood on her towel, so, best to nip this in the bud. “Um, yeah, fine,” Her voice was trembling slightly, though not necessarily from pain, more from being startled at her own clumsiness. This was like something in a movie, when a teenage girl’s crush came over to have dinner and she made a cutesy little oopsie like this.

It was dumb, though, because Kate had cooked a million meals in front of Charlie without mutilating herself, and she didn’t see why this would be different--except, of course, from the whole fact she’d been unable to take her eyes off his not-unfortunate, now-jacketless silhouette. He was even better than she could imagine him in her mind’s eye, and she was sure that translated to her art as well. Maybe she felt dissatisfied with pieces featuring him because she only had her imagination and stored memories to reference, rather than this, his actual self, right in front of her living and breathing and existing.

He came over to where she was and she stepped around him, not to flee but to get away from the appliances so they didn’t short-circuit when she used her wand. Her skin melded back together after she jabbed the tip toward the wound and she turned on her foot to stare at him. “Did the muggles get to you or something?” Kate smiled again, to let him know it was a joke and she wasn’t actually poking at his slow reaction time, but it was true that normally he’d have been at her side quicker than that.

If any other person had brandished a knife at her she would’ve had the opposite reaction, but she softened when Charlie did it, because she knew he was threatening her…. Affectionately. If that were possible, that's exactly what he was doing. Kate lifted both her hands and showed them to him as a symbol of surrender, trying but unsuccessfully to smother another grin. Maybe now would be a great time to put a dent in her glass. “I wrote down the recipe there,” She pointed to the notecard on the other side of the cutting board, “But basically when the tomato and the basil and garlic are all cut up, you just put all that in the pan with some oil and simmer it for awhile. I can do that part, so you can enjoy your wine,” Kate took a long sip of her own and made a noise of approval, “I think I can stir without injuring myself. Maybe.”

Kate said she was fine and Charlie pressed his lips together in a line. Her voice was tremoring, but he could tell even from here that she wasn’t about to bleed to death — she was just in shock. He knew that feeling well enough — the few seconds he’d regained consciousness after the accident — and then before that, the time he’d seriously splinched his leg.

Charlie’s brow furrowed, confused by the question. “What?”

Kate acquiesced to his threat and picked up her wine. Charlie paused chopping to glance at the recipe— without bothering to read it when she elected to give him verbal instructions. “Alright,” he mumbled, back to focusing on chopping the remaining tomatoes, before moving onto the garlic. “How much?” he asked in his Northern drawl, cracking the bulb between his hands to get to the cloves — his eyes darting to the handwritten ingredient list and feeling an unwelcome pang as he recognised the cursive.

He inhaled and frowned softly, focusing on slicing the garlic, then the basil. He could hear Kate pottering around him, getting water and putting it on the stove to boil. His chest felt tight, suddenly, and he leant over the counter to pick up his wine from where he’d left it, gulping the whole glass down. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and twisted to look over his shoulder; Kate had set a pan on the heat with oil in it. Charlie scooped the garlic in first, letting it sizzle for a moment. “You just putting tomatoes in?” he asked disapprovingly.

It was clear that her joke hadn’t landed, and subsequently that he wasn’t connecting the dots. Kate pondered whether or not to let it be where it was and not to answer him, but that would be mean, right? “I meant, uh,” She cleared her throat roughly, “When you… when they. Took you in for your leg,” The gestures she made with her hand had no clear point, and she scratched the side of her mouth for something to do. “I was kidding. Cause you kinda just stood over there for a second.”

Her breath caught in her chest as she watched his fingers pull apart the garlic and now it was her response time that was delayed. “Um,” Kate started as filler, trying to let her brain catch up with her mouth before she said anything else, “Like… three cloves garlic should do it, I think. Tomatoes look good. Couple tablespoons of basil.” The recipe was right there like she’d told him, but for some reason he’d looked kind of disturbed looking at the notecard.

She was worried he would notice her mouth hanging just barely agape, eyes trained on his hands if she didn’t find something else to occupy herself with, so Kate pulled a pan out of the cabinet near Charlie's leg and filled it up, water, salt, and a dash of oil, to let it boil for the pasta. His little passive-aggressive inquiry surprised her and she raised one groomed eyebrow at him, settling back on her heels. “Since when are you the expert? Chef Charlie?” Kate teased him, “I could maybe add some cooking wine, but Roma tomatoes are good without much else. They just need to cook for a few minutes with all the other stuff.”

Kate had a violent urge to escape to the bathroom to collect herself, consider her choices for the next hour, agonize over what the hell they were doing here (being friendly? She could tell herself that story if she wanted to be disingenuous), but it didn’t seem to be the appropriate window yet. “Did you have a different suggestion?” She asked, and refilled his glass with wine while he was distracted chopping.

He looked down at his leg, as if he needed to see it to remember how it had been encased in plaster not so long ago, then back up at Kate when she told him he’d just stood over there. It took Charlie another couple of seconds to realise what she was getting at: he hadn’t rushed to her side, scooped her up, and whatever other reaction she’d plucked out of a romantic comedy for him to fulfil in her imagination. Charlie averted his gaze back to the chopping board rather than say aloud what he was thinking — that maybe this was another sign that they didn’t meet one another’s expectations.

He let his eyes flick back to Kate when she spoke again and he nodded once; three cloves, easy enough. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to measure tablespoons of leaves, but figured she’d stop him if he was chopping too much from the bunch — it wouldn’t be like her not to tell him what to do.

Chef Charlie. He met her gaze and looked away just as quickly; he’d just been about to mentally chide himself for being a prick—he didn’t have to demonise everything she said and did to stay on the straight and narrow—but her familiarity was making him uncomfortable. Excluding the last time he’d seen her, every other interaction since the divorce had been fueled by being drunk or high or both, and hadn’t required them to be civil — hadn’t required anything other than the physical. He wasn’t here for that — he’d genuinely just wanted to return her fucking Tupperware and now he was making her dinner for her. “I’m not.”

He glanced at the bottle of wine they were drinking from, wondering what was wrong with just using that — other than, he supposed, wasting drinkable wine by burning the alcohol off. Wouldn’t that be for the best, though? The less they drank, the less they could fall into something they shouldn’t.

“No,” he replied, his voice a little more gruff than before, not missing that she was topping him up when he’d said just the one — really, was any of it his fault at this point? Honey’s voice burst into the forefront of his mind—probably shouldn’t have fucked her after your divorce, then—and he frowned as he added the tomatoes to the pan, squashing them with the wooden spoon. She—Kate—had played the victim card last time he’d been here, and he had accepted his role at the time, but the more he thought about everything, the less inclined he was to keep accepting it.

“What next?”

Kate busied herself further, retrieving the container of spaghetti noodles she had stored in a different cabinet, and left them sticking up, resting on the side of the pan, to boil. He asked what next but Kate sensed a roboticism in his movements, maybe even a reluctance, so she shook her head. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll finish,” It was kind of him to offer to help cook the food, but she’d invited him in so it seemed impolite to allow him to continue.

She shuffled around to the other side of the counter and slid the bottle of wine, about half gone now, to the middle of the marble for easier access from either side. A few minutes later and the pasta would be ready to eat, so she couldn’t leave the kitchen to show him anything new she’d done in the house or pick something to listen to.

“You want to put a record on?” Kate asked, jerking her head gently toward the small sliver of wall the record player rested against. It was up on a cart and the vinyls were stored underneath in a small drawer; she had more in the closet but these ones seemed to be the crowd pleasers. It might be nice for some background noise, to lift the mood a little, even to provide a buffer of sorts. There was a lot of pressure to know all the right things to say and the right way to act, and before when they’d been able to communicate things differently--or even just more fondly--it hadn’t been that way.

“Sorry about the wine, I just had a bottle of that one and I know it’s one you liked,” She wouldn’t presume to know whether or not he still liked it, but she was apologizing she’d refilled his glass after he’d told her just the one--historically, however, that had never been true so she didn’t know why it would or should be now.

Kate’s food was done boiling, so she finished fixing her plate and left some food in the pot, just in case he changed his mind. She wasn’t going to mention it so as not to pressure him, but it was there if he wanted it.

“I have other ones, if you’re not feeling any of those,” She offered, talking about the albums. “But the closet is kind of a mess. I put them in there with all the art I just took down to make room for the new stuff.” Kate neglected to tell him most of “the new stuff” was hers.

Charlie looked at Kate—properly—for the first time in a few minutes, and felt the now-familiar sensation of guilt settle in his gut. He stepped aside and rested his backside against the island, hands gripping the counter either side of his hips, watching her surreptitiously from this new vantage point.

He blinked at her. “Erm,” he glanced over his shoulder at the cart with her records and player. He didn’t really want to make things less awkward, but he also didn’t want to make things more awkward by declining. He swallowed and nodded, pushing off from the bench to saunter over. He crouched and began flipping through to find something that didn’t have any residual… well, feelings or whatever attached to it, or able to be drawn from — the last thing he needed was for her to think he was trying to tell her something.

Sorry about the wine, she said from the kitchen. Charlie kept his head down for a second before lifting his chin and looking at Kate, then at the glass of wine she’d repoured for him — sitting, waiting. “S’alright,” he said, trying to ignore the rest of her sentence (I know it’s one you liked). “I can help you finish it,” he offered casually — meaning it as innocently as someone like him could mean polishing off a bottle of red wine with someone. He’d never known it to be her favourite—rosé was more her speed, sickeningly sweet—and if she had it just laying around— no, he wasn’t going to read into that.

Kate clattered around in the kitchen, serving herself up, and spoke again. Put on the spot, Charlie picked out Too Low For Zero (had skipped past all the Queen, and The Smiths, and some artists he genuinely didn’t recognise — new and American, he assumed) and set about getting it out of the sleeve and putting it on the turntable; “No, this’ll do,” he said. The needle hit and a moment later the piano seeped out from the speakers. Charlie adjusted the volume, pausing as Elton began singing. He dropped his hand to his side and strode back to the kitchen, picking up the glass of wine and having a long sip.

Kate had perched herself on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Charlie stayed on the other side of the island, sipping again because he didn’t know what else to say or do. He glanced around the room — at the art she took down to make room for the new stuff. His eyes lingered on a frame on the opposite wall, housing a scribbly line drawing on what looked to be thick white paper — but it wasn’t a juvenile scribble: there was purpose about it. Intent. It was also unsettlingly familiar. Charlie inhaled and exhaled deeply, still staring at it as he drank again. 

I can help you finish it, he said, and her gut lurched. She couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or uncertainty, but definitely nerves, all the same. Good ones or bad ones--that was the part that remained to be seen. Kate smiled at him instead of letting him in on her private little considerations and swallowed a bite of food, frowning and saying “Mm,” in surprise. She knew she’d really done most of the work, but she was impressed at how well the sauce had turned out. Not that she was going to tell him that, either--he’d see it as a backhanded compliment and that wasn’t how she meant it.

“Sure, yeah. That would be great. Got plenty of red wine, so it’s nothing,” Kate gestured behind her without actually looking at her stockpile of wine, “I’ve recently come around to it. Still have more rose than anything else, but,” Her smile reappeared but it was sheepish this time; she wasn’t sure if he even wanted to hear this but here she was, rambling about anyhow. “Guess my palate is improving with age. Or something.” Or she was just drinking more alcohol than usual.

Too Low for Zero. Elton John was a soft spot of Kate’s, because the only instrument she was really talented at playing was the piano, and of course that was Elton’s instrument of choice as well. Kate admired his life and humble beginnings: an exceptional talent coming from an unexpected family reminded her of Charlie a little bit. His discography was also incredibly varied and interesting, and this was one of his sadder songs. A frown flickered across Kate’s pretty features and she tried not to read into Charlie’s selection any further than a simple appreciation for the artistry.

He wandered back into the kitchen after a minute and while she was finishing her food, Kate noticed him staring, quite intently, at one of her framed pieces sitting on a wall in the front room. Charcoal line art: one of her most favorites to do lately. There was something about a piece being so simple and feeling so complete at the same time; there was no room to consider if she’d done something wrong, chosen an off color, or missed the mark anywhere else. It could just be without any big or lingering doubts. Kate cleared her throat roughly to make sure she didn’t sound thick and phlegmy from the pasta. “I made that.” She told him plainly, and tried to meet his eye a second afterward.

She had plenty of red wine — of course she did. Charlie’s eyes flicked up at the ceiling, before he closed them for a long blink in an attempt to reset. She attributed her growing collection to her palate maturing and he tried not to let himself overthink that, either — it was only now that she was a little older (and he, too) that he realised how dodgy it had been for him to get involved with her when he did.

He wouldn’t go so far as to say he regretted it—not if he was thinking maturely himself, instead of defensively—because their relationship, as chaotic and unhealthy as it was to look back on now, had taught him a lot. He wasn’t denying there had been plenty of good in it too, but it was easier to suppress those memories in favour of focusing on what didn’t make them work.

If he could go back and stop himself from ever approaching her at that party, he thought he might do it — removing all the hurt he’d caused her would be worth losing all the ground he’d made since.

As the song started in earnest and the lyrics penetrated his trail of thought Charlie had another large gulp of pinot noir— trust him to pick the one fucking Elton album that started with a song about a broken marriage.

Kate cleared her throat and drew Charlie’s attention from the line art on the wall. His eyebrows rose slightly in appreciation at her admission. “Really?” he asked, the surprise evident in his tone. As soon as the question had passed his lips he wished he could withdraw it. “I didn’t mean—” He wet his lips, his expression apologetic. “I know you’re good at that sort of thing I just…” His eyes drifted back to the picture and with a refreshed focus he recognised the style — and, if he wasn’t mistaken,  the subject. “Is that…?” he trailed off, looking back at her accusingly.