He looks outside. “Where is this supposed boyfriend?” he sneers.
“None of your business.” I wrap my cardigan around me protectively. Go to Hell, asshole.
He walks to the window and peers outside. “Oh.” He smiles to himself. “Him?” He gestures to Mark
sitting on the bench.
Oh, that’s it. “Yes. Him,” I reply, outraged.
“That’s your boyfriend?” He smirks. “Mark White is your boyfriend?”
Oh no, he knows him. “H-he could be,” I stammer as I feel myself go red. It’s even embarrassing
calling Mark my boyfriend, heaven forbid if he actually was.
The olddy interrupts our impending fight. “I will need your details, dear, in case we get any more
information on the ring.”
“Can I not persuade you to sell it to me, please?” he asks again.
“Yes, of course.” I reply to her, ignoring him as I hand over my license to the dear olddy. “Please,
stop talking,” I eventually say as I turn to smile sweetly at him. “You are ruining my London experience.”
He raises an eyebrow and I know he is holding himself back from being sarcastic in front of the old
dy. He shakes his head and ces a white business card onto the counter and my eyes nce down at it.
“Call me if you want to sell the ring. I will pay good money for it.”
STAR
042455130510
My eyes meet his and I bite my lip to hold back my smile. What kind of fucking name is that? “Star? As
in twinkle twinkle?” I smirk.
He shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips in frustration.
“Take your card back. I’m not ringing you, Mr. Twinkle Star.” I smirk as I take my ring and card from
thedy.
I turn and start to walk out of the shop.
“Call me when you want to sell it,” he shouts after me.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I reply, and then I have a thought. “Actually, do hold your breath and do us
all a favor.”
“Very funny,” he sneers.
“I thought so.” I smile as I open the heavy door. That felt good. What an asshole.
star
I pull into the driveway of my terrace house and sip my coffee. I watch a family walk past in the rain
through my rearview mirror and wait for them to pass. The only annoying thing with this antique
sports car is the windscreen wiper speed. It’s either so slow it does nothing or so fast it nearlyOriginal content from N?velDrama.Org.
cracks the damn screen. Currently, it’s choosing the fast option, making it sound like the car is
about to take off into flight at any given moment.
The family finally disappear out of sight, and I open the trunk to remove my rge package
which is wrapped in a woolen nket before I make my way into the house. As I walk through the
rge, ck glossed double doors I am reminded of just how much of a good thing photography has
been to me. What started out as a teenage hobby now has me photographing international top
models and designing editorialyouts for the most morous magazines in the world. My home is
opulent, just like my life. The expansive floors are dark polished wood and my lounges are all
chocte leather. Artwork and bookcases line every wall.
I walk straight down to the basement and flick on the overhanging antique pendant lights. The
walls arepletely covered in ck and white photographs that I have taken over the years. A
huge mahogany desk sits in the corner of the room. I put my parcel onto my desk and unwrap the
precious cargo from its nket casing.
I smile broadly as I drink in its beauty.
A painting of a naked brte woman from years gone by. Its true value is unknown to someone
else, but that doesn’t matter; it’s priceless to me. I run my finger down the shape of her body
knowing the man who painted this woman was madly in love with her. I can feel it so deeply within
the brush strokes. No time for dreaming, I take a tool out of my top draw and turn the painting over
and immediately start to unclick the staples that are holding it in its frame. One by one they fall
ever so carefully as I try my damndest not to damage it. Thirty minutester and I finally remove
the encasing of ss and smile broadly as I stare at the picture again. Oh, this was a find. I can’t
believe I actually have it. I turn it over and retrieve a different tool from my top draw and start to
unpick the canvas from the frame. It’s a tedious job, one that takes me over an hour toplete.
Until, at st, it’s free from its canvas and I can read the hand written note on the back in lead
pencil:
The Object of My Affection
What am I doing?
Regret fills me, and that feeling I try to avoid starts to surround me. I’m not going there, I’m not
doing this and yet, as if on autopilot, I take out my camera and scroll back through the photos.
There are eighty-eight in total. I took them of her this afternoon from across the road as she waited
outside the jewelry shop. A smile crosses my face instantly. She’s smiling to herself as she scrolls
through her phone. She’s breathtaking. Her thick, honey blonde hair falls just around her shoulders.
She’s curvy, soft, gentle, and I can practically hear her Australian ent like music to my ears.
The words from the canvas run through my mind: The object of my affection.
Don’t do this.
Walk away.