Her face brightens impossibly as she nods, and I feel a catch somewhere deep in my chest.
‘This one’s yours,’ she says, reaching to attach it to my lapel. I notice that she’s careful to pin through the buttonhole so itdoesn’t damage the leather, and though I’m not precious about my clothes that way, I’m touched by her thoughtfulness. I squint to read the slogan, dark grey text just visible against the black background, and snort a very unflattering laugh when I discover what it says.
Black is the new black.
Lucy laughs too, smoothing her hands across the leather of my jacket as she admires her handiwork. ‘It seemed very you.’
‘I love it.’
And it’s true. I might be about twenty-five years too old for badges, but something about this tiny gesture has thrilled me to my core. For the second time today, I feel like a teenager, all giddy and unsure, reading much too far into every last word. I clear my throat as if that’ll do a single thing to steady me and turn my attention back to Lucy, who’s now struggling to pin the second badge to her own collar.
I swoop in without a second thought.
‘Let me help,’ I say, my hands brushing hers as I reach out to grasp the badge in one hand and the soft material of her jacket in the other. The slightest hint of skin-on-skin contact shoots a direct line down the centre of my body, which only increases as I wrestle more with the badge and my fingers accidentally graze her collarbone. I try not to imagine what she tastes like there, how soft her skin might be in the small dip beyond, but let’s face it– I do. I imagine the hell out of it.
Then the godforsaken thing finally fastens, and when I step back to admire the job, properly reading the slogan for the first time, I burst out laughing again.
‘Ray of fucking sunshine?’
Her smile changes into something prouder, the slightest cut of defiance against her soft edges and pastel colours. And I have to admit, it’s hot as hell.
‘That’s me,’ she says with an exaggerated tip of her chin, daring me to argue with her. But I can’t. Lucy’s the brightest damn thing around here.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It is.’ And then I guide her back through the car park and out towards the seafront for the next part of the tour.
We hear the music long before we see Filip on the clifftop. The beautiful sound of strings dances towards us on the sea breeze, dulling and swelling with the gusts. There’s usually a guy who plays piano here too, and the two of them have played some insane duets in the past. But at the moment it’s just Filip and his viola, lost in the song he’s playing. It’s plaintive and haunting, the tune classical but unfamiliar. I wonder if it’s one of his own compositions.
‘Mr Bramwell,’ he says as we approach, though he hasn’t opened his eyes or even stopped playing. He was my teacher once– maybe those instincts never fade. The guy’s got eyes in the back of his head.
‘Mr Petrovic,’ I reply with a grin. These days we’re more like friends. He’s a regular at Bitten and rarely misses an open mic night. Old habits die hard, though. I was almost thirty before I felt comfortable using his first name.
‘Filip taught me A-level music,’ I say to Lucy, loudly enough for her to hear over the melody, and Filip’s lips pull into a smile.
‘As amuchyounger man,’ he says, the words laced with his usual amount of drama. And then he cracks one eye and assesses the two of us without missing even the slightest of beats in the crescendo he’s playing. I notice his eye lingers a moment on Lucy before he closes it again and says, ‘She’s pretty.’
He says it simply, more a statement of fact than a sleazy comment, but my eyes snap to Lucy anyway, unsure of how she’ll react. But I needn’t have worried. When I look at her, she’s beaming.
‘I’ll take that,’ she chirps. She doesn’t correct Filip’s assumption that we’re together. I don’t want to either, but it feels wrong not to– like I’m taking something that isn’t mine.
‘Filip, this is Lucy.’ I gesture between the two of them. Filip still has his eyes closed, but I know him well enough to know he’s absorbing every word. ‘She’s writing an article about the Goth Weekend, so I’m giving her the grand tour.’
Filip’s tanned cheeks crinkle against the viola’s chin rest as he smiles, holding the final note a moment longer than necessary. ‘So you came to see the main attraction?’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘Something like that.’
He finishes the song and tumbles into a dramatic bow, nodding his thanks to the small group of people who are applauding before turning back to us.
‘Pleasure to meet you, Lucy.’ He grips his viola and bow in one hand before extending the other towards her, and she shakes it with enthusiasm.
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ she replies in that characteristically upbeat way. She has a natural glow about her– a warmth which lifts others too. ‘You play beautifully.’
I see the way the compliment lights his eyes. ‘I have been playing almost forty years,’ he says proudly, his smile twisting. ‘Though I know that is difficult to believe seeing as I am only thirty-five years old.’
Lucy laughs, and I see Filip’s chest broaden a little with pride as she plays along. ‘You don’t look a day over thirty-four.’
He hums in satisfaction. ‘She has beautyandintelligence, I see. Allow me to play something else for you.’ He hoists the instrument back up under his chin and plays one single note, which rings out across the bay. ‘Bram, you know this one.’
And then he launches back into a song, pacey and modern this time. It’s a song I know well, one we’ve played together a fair few times, most notably for my final A-level performance. Itdoesn’t have quite the same impact without my guitar part, but it’s still enough to draw a little more of a crowd, who nod to the beat and watch us with anticipation.