A Minor Indiscretion Read Online Free PDF Page B

drawing a middle-aged woman and she is laughing and flirting with him. I don’t know why, but I feel sick. Maybe there was something dodgy in that damned baguette. I had my suspicions all along. I thought the lettucelooked way too limp to be fresh. I edge closer and see that the drawing is good. Excellent. But not as good as my drawing, and she laughs again and swishes her hair about. Christian puts his charcoal down, and she rummages in her handbag and pays him. Oh yes, she pays him! And then she “ooo’s!” at the drawing. It is a good likeness, but he hasn’t given her tempestuous hair or eyes that wouldn’t look out of place in Wuthering Heights.
    I stand behind him for a second, unsure whether to stay or whether this is the moment I should walk away and get on with my life. You know that feeling when your gut tells you something, and another part of your anatomy, your brain or your heart or your feet, tells you to ignore it. And before I can decide whether to follow my gut instinct and leave, he turns round.
    His eyes light up. They do. I have never seen anyone’s eyes light up for me before. I’m sure I haven’t—not even Ed’s eyes. And, my God, is it a heady feeling. “Ali,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œWatching a master at work,” I say with a laugh. How can I tell him what I’m really doing, when I’m not even sure myself? There’s an awkward moment where we both fidget and then we should both start to speak at the same time, but we don’t. I do. “I came to say thank you for the drawing. I was in such a foul mood on Monday, I wanted to thank you for brightening my day.”
    â€œYou brightened mine,” he says, and if it’s a line, it works.
    â€œWell, thanks.” Fidget, fidget. “I wish you’d let me pay you.”
    â€œIt was a gift.”
    â€œWell, thanks.” Fidget, fidget. “I’d better be off.”
    He stands hurriedly and nearly knocks his easel over. “Have you had lunch? I could have a break now. There’s no one waiting.”
    And he’s right. There’s just the two of us in all this crowd.
    â€œI’ve had lunch.”
    â€œCoffee,” he says. “Have you got time for coffee?”
    I look at my watch as if I’m undecided.
    â€œThere’s a nice little place down here.” Those eyes are so hard to refuse. “They do great cakes.”
    â€œI’m on a diet.” I’m not, but I probably should be.
    â€œI’ll eat one for you.”
    I laugh. He is so eager to please. Eager to please me. Me, so used to pleasing everyone else but myself.
    â€œOr we could go for a walk. There’s no calories in that.”
    Or harm? I ask myself. “The sun’s out.”
    â€œWalk it is, then.” Christian smiles and packs up his little box with bits of charcoal in it and tucks it into a Nike rucksack and slings it on his back. He’s wearing a huge white T-shirt smudged with the fruits of his labors and beige combat trousers that hang loosely on a frame that has not yet developed its full quota of muscles. The sort of clothes that Tanya’s friends wear. We smile uneasily and set off toward Neal’s Yard, not touching but not far away. And this just feels wrong, so wrong.
    It’s impossible to talk as we try to stroll casually along. We keep having to part to let crowds of chattering French teenagers barge through. Why do they all dress in navy blue and behave badly? And why do they never have a schoolteacher with them? We cross over by Marks & Spencer. I head automatically for the Zebra crossing while Christian prefers to dodge the traffic, and I avoid thinking about tonight’s supper while I have this beautiful, beseeching boy by my side. This side of the road is more interesting, in my opinion, and quieter. We drift together again, still attempting to act like comfortable old friends.
    â€œHave