“I can’t imagine you’ll ever find out.”
“Oh, really?” Something mischievous glints in his eyes and he takes a step towards me and then another. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“Is that supposed to be seductive?” I ask, entertained.
Ben blinks. “Some people might think so.”
I consider the matter. “Perhaps they’re just distracted by a handsome face?”
“That’s the second time you’ve called me handsome.” Ben is clearly pleased with himself.
I give him a long look of appraisal. “I suppose that you are quite physically attractive.”
“You suppose?”
“I don’t think I have a broad enough sample for comparison. I’ve had quite a sheltered upbringing, you see, and I’d hate to be inaccurate. You are, perhaps, above average,” I concede.
Ben gives me a long look. “How kind of you to notice,” he says at last. “But I do seem to be loved by most ladies. You, Beatrice, are the exception.”
“How nice to be considered exceptional,” I murmur, the dryness in my tone matching his own.
He chuckles softly, a little reluctantly. “Peace, then?” he asks, holding out his hand.
“Peace,” I echo, slipping my fingers into his. The whole conversation has been strangely exhilarating.
I look past him, and finally notice an easel. There are tins of paint on the ground, and a jam jar full of murky water and paintbrushes. Sitting on the easel is a canvas covered with various angular shapes, swathes of green and red and grey.
“Is this what you’re working on?” I ask, moving to look at the painting.
“It is,” he says. “I’m just putting the finishing touches to it.”
“Mmmm.” I lean closer, looking at it with curiosity. Art isn’t something I know a lot about, but the picture makes me feel confused, churned up. There is nothing recognizable about the image, nothing solid to hold on to. I haven’t seen anything like it before. It’s certainly not like anything that has hung on the walls at Langton.
He frowns. “Don’t you like it?”
“Oh, yes,” I say quickly. “It’s very nice.”
“Nice,” he repeats.
A glance at Ben’s face tells me that “nice” was, perhaps, the wrong word. I squint at the picture, trying to make sense of the jumbled shapes. The riot of angles and colours feels disorientating.
“I like the – um – green bits.”
“The green bits,” he says, sounding a little dazed.
“Yes,” I agree brightly. “They’re really nice and…”
“Green?” Ben finishes for me. He shakes his head. “You really know how to do wonders for a man’s ego,” he grumbles, reaching up to rub the back of his neck as he turns to look back at the painting.
“I hadn’t realized that nursing your ego was my job.”
Just then, I see something – the telltale iridescent cobalt shimmer of a dragonfly as it flashes in the corner of my vision. I spin around – out of habit as much as anything else – to chart its path. It lands on the edge of the fountain, its fragile wings trembling in the sunlight.
Ben is still talking. “Of course, I can’t expect you to understand the work I’m doing. You obviously haven’t got the first idea what you’re talking about.” He takes my arm and draws me closer to the painting. “Here, you see – the green bits are, actually…”
I notice a tin of paint perilously close to his foot.
“Ben,” I say, “careful of the—”
Unfortunately, he’s too distracted by his lecture to notice. It is this fact, coupled with the flight of the dragonfly, which conspires to create the perfect storm. The insect swerves suddenly, buzzing near Ben’s face. He twists and I reach out to grab him, but it is too late. The unexpected change in direction leaves Ben off-balance, his foot connecting heavily with the paint tin that I was trying to warn him about. He grasps my outstretched hand as he stumbles, and I in turn clutch at the easel.
“Oh!” I just have time to exhale and meet his surprised gaze as I am pulled forward, barrelling hard into Ben and sending us both careering towards the ground.
CHAPTER TEN
“Oof!” Ben’s exclamation of surprise is very close to my ear. This is easily explained by the fact that I now find myself lying on top of him.
I am stunned for a second, though whether it’s by the fall or by the fact that this the closest I have been to a boy – or possibly anyone – in my whole life, I’m not entirely sure. I try not to notice the feeling tightening in my stomach or the way his chest feels pressed against my own.
“Oh!” is all I manage, turning my head just as Ben lifts his. The resulting crack that takes place between our skulls leaves my ears ringing.
Ben’s head falls back again and he groans.
“For God’s sake!” He lifts a hand to his head. “Am I never to escape an encounter with you without some sort of horrific head injury?”
“I believe you’ll find this one is your fault,” I say with as much dignity as I can manage, as I attempt to extract myself from the tangle of limbs. As he is doing the same thing our efforts rather cancel each other out and we don’t get very far. “You were too busy talking to listen to me and then there was a dragonfly…”
“Oh, there was a dragonfly. Well, that explains everything then,” he mutters.
I put a firm hand on his chest and he stills beneath my fingers. I roll to one side so that I am lying on my back beside him. The sky resolves itself overhead and I find myself squinting up into the sunshine. I close my eyes for a second. When I open them, I realize Ben still hasn’t moved.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“I think so.” His voice is resigned. “No blood this time, at least.”
I pull myself up and look down at him. There’s something staining his blonde hair. “Don’t be so sure,” I say. I run my fingers through his hair, looking for the injury, and they come away red.
He looks startled. “Really?” he says. “Again?”
“I can’t see anything wrong,” I mutter, still looking for any obvious wound. Puzzled, I look more closely at my fingers, rubbing them together. There is red on my dress too. Then, in a flash, the truth comes to me. “Oh, it’s just paint!” I grin down at him, and the sudden rush of relief makes me laugh. “See?” I hold out my gory hands to show him.
“Paint?” His whole body tenses. “PAINT?” He leaps to his feet with a rather startling roar, that only intensifies as he takes in the scene in front of him.
I, too, scramble up. “Oh dear,” I say.
It seems that the can Ben kicked over contained a quantity of red paint, which, when mixed with the water from the jar that has also been knocked over, has created a rather alarming red trail, streaming merrily along the paving stones towards us. Ben’s painting, now lying on the floor thanks to my desperate grab at the easel, is worryingly damp with a long red smudge running almost horizontally across it – I’m fairly sure that wasn’t there before.