Chapter 6: Rooftop Confessions
The gallery opening had been a special kind of torture. Roz had worn a black dress that felt like someone else’s skin, and smiled until her cheeks ached at a blur of faces discussing brushstrokes and market viability. Ally had been a quiet, solid presence at her side, his hand a warm weight on the small of her back, deflecting the more intense art world interrogators with a charming, “I just know what I like, and I like her.”
He’d leaned down, his breath tickling her ear. “Two more minutes. Then we’re escaping.”
True to his word, he’d expertly extracted them with a series of handshakes and vague promises to follow up. He didn’t lead her to the exit, but to a discreet, unmarked door beside the fire exit, producing a key from his pocket.
“Where are we going?” she’d whispered, her heels clicking on concrete stairs.
“Up.”
The rooftop terrace was a revelation. A secret garden in the sky, hidden from the grid of streets below. Potted evergreens and late-blooming heather rustled in a gentle, cooler breeze. Fairy lights were strung between metal beams, and a small, rough-hewn wooden table held two glasses and a bottle chilling in a silver bucket. The city sprawled around them in a tapestry of light, and in the far distance, beyond the glow, the dark, humped silhouettes of the Highlands were just visible under a blanket of stars.
The noise of the gallery vanished, replaced by the distant, soothing murmur of traffic and the wind.
“How do you have a key?” Roz breathed, walking to the edge, her fingers brushing the cold metal of the safety rail.
“The gallery owner is a friend of a sponsor. I did him a favor once. He owes me.” Ally joined her, leaning his elbows on the rail. His dinner jacket was slung over his shoulder. “Better?”
“Infinitely.” The word had become theirs.
He opened the champagne with a soft, efficient pop, catching the foam in a glass. He poured one for her, then for himself. The liquid was pale gold, lively with tiny bubbles.
“A toast,” he said, clinking his glass gently against hers. “To not having to talk about subtext.”
She laughed, the sound snatched away by the wind. She took a sip. It was crisp, dry, and complex, unlike anything she’d ever tasted. “This is different.”
“It should be. It’s older than you are.” He watched her face. “You’ve never had vintage Dom Perignon, have you?”
She shook her head, feeling oddly embarrassed. “Is it a crime?”
“A travesty,” he declared, his eyes glinting with mischief. He set his glass down on the wooden table. Then, in a movement so fluid it seemed rehearsed, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt. He pulled the fabric aside, exposing the strong, clean line of his collarbone and the hollow of his throat.
Before she could process what he was doing, he tipped his own champagne flute, pouring a small, shimmering stream onto his skin. It traced a path over his collarbone, droplets catching in the dip at the base of his neck.
He looked at her, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. “First rule of appreciating anything: engage all the senses.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “You’re mad.”
“Probably.” His smile was a challenge, open and daring. “But it’s a waste otherwise. And I hate waste.”
The shyness rose, a thick, familiar wall. But beneath it, sparked by the absurdity, the privacy, the sheer decadence of the moment, was a flare of something else. A defiance. This was a world away from pressured darkness in a tutor’s office. This was light, and choice, and champagne under the stars.
She put her own glass down. The night air was cool on her flushed skin. She took a step forward, then another, closing the small distance between them. She could smell the champagne, the clean scent of his soap, the faint, warm spice of his skin.
“This is ridiculous,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
“The best things usually are.”
She rose onto her toes. Her eyes met his for a suspended second—finding not predatory victory, but shared, giddy complicity. Then she leaned in.
She touched her lips to his skin, just above the collarbone. The sensation was electric. The champagne was cool, his skin was warm. She tasted the sharp, refined bubbles, the dry sweetness, and beneath it, the salt of him. She followed the trail with a soft, tentative lick, catching the droplets in the hollow of his throat. A low, involuntary hum vibrated against her mouth.
She pulled back, her face burning, but her gaze steady. “Hints of… brioche. And anxiety.”
He burst out laughing, a full, unfettered sound that echoed off the rooftop vents. “You’re brilliant.” His hand came up, his thumb sweeping a stray drop from her bottom lip. The touch was charged, a live wire after the intimacy of her mouth on his skin.
“My turn,” she said, the words leaving her before she could stop them.
She picked up the bottle, her hands surprisingly steady. She poured a small pool into the dip between her own collarbones, the cold liquid making her gasp softly. It spilled over, tracing a path down the front of the black dress.
His laughter died. His expression shifted into something intense, utterly focused. He didn’t hesitate. He bent his head, his hands coming to rest lightly on her hips.
His mouth was warmer than she’d imagined. Softer. He kissed the skin where the champagne had pooled, his tongue tracing the path it had taken with a deliberate, savoring slowness. The sensation was devastating. It unspooled her, thread by careful thread. Her fingers found their way into his hair, gripping the dark waves as a shudder ran through her.
He lifted his head, his breath hot against her damp skin. His eyes were dark. “Hints of graphite,” he murmured, his voice rough. “And courage.”
Then he kissed her mouth.
This was nothing like the careful, questioning kiss in his flat. This was hunger, and release, and the taste of shared mischief and expensive champagne. It was the city at their feet and the sky above them and the complete, utter solitude of being unseen together. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight against him, and she melted into the solid strength of him, her dress crushing against his open shirt.
When they finally parted, they were both breathless. The fairy lights swam in her vision.
“We should probably drink the rest of the bottle,” he said, his forehead resting against hers. “The conventional way. To be polite.”
“Probably.” She didn’t let go of him.
He retrieved their glasses, filled them, and handed one to her. They stood side-by-side at the rail again, shoulders touching, sipping the champagne that now tasted irrevocably of the night, of risk, of shared skin.
“I have to go to London tomorrow,” he said quietly, after a long silence. “Press conference. Damage control for the incident. Then a training camp. I’ll be gone almost three weeks.”
The bubble didn’t pop, but it wavered. The real world, with its schedules and scandals and distances, pressed at the edges. She nodded, absorbing the ache of the announcement.
“Will you be okay?” he asked. It wasn’t a casual question.
“Yes.” She meant it. “I have a lot of work. And a loose door handle to finally fix.”
He smiled, but it was tinged with reluctance. “I’ll call. Every day. It might be late.”
“I’ll be awake.” She finished her champagne. “Will you be okay? With the press?”
He made a face, staring out at the city. “I’ll have to be. It’s part of the uniform.” He turned to look at her, his expression serious. “This, though. This isn’t part of the uniform. This is mine.”
He laced his fingers through hers, their hands resting together on the cold rail. Below them, Edinburgh glittered, ancient and unknowing. The Highlands were just a darker shadow against the sky, a promise of a landscape beyond the light. Up here, they were in between. Neither in the world below, nor completely apart from it.
She squeezed his hand, a silent pact. For now, the in-between was enough. It was everything.
The wind picked up, sending a shiver across her skin where the champagne had dried. It sliced through the thin silk of her dress, a practical reminder that magical bubbles eventually pop. Ally felt the tremor run through her.
“You’re freezing,” he said, his voice cutting through the city’s hum.
He shrugged out of his dinner jacket and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest. The heavy wool was imprinted with his body heat and carried his scent—clean cotton, that faint spice, and now, the ghost of champagne. It swallowed her whole.
“Better?” he asked, his hands resting on her shoulders.
She nodded, pulling the lapels closed. “Warmer. I should probably get back to my flat. You have an early train.”
“I do.” He didn’t move. The festive lights strung above them seemed to dim, as if on a timer, leaving them in the cooler blue glow of the security lamp. The intimacy of the moment shifted, deepening into something quieter, more fragile. The impending distance yawned between them, a three-week chasm.
He slipped his arm around her and pulled her close. “This is okay? You okay?” he whispered, his chin resting against her temple.
“Yes,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. She felt the solid beat of his heart through the fabric.
“You’re so tiny,” he said, slightly amused.
“You’re just big,” she countered. “Maybe.”
“But you are, Roz. Tiny. Perfect. Beautiful. Gorgeous.” The words weren’t a smooth line; they were short, deliberate declarations, like stones dropped into the quiet between them. He squeezed her against his side and delicately pressed his lips to the crown of her head, holding them there for a long, breathless second.
The kiss felt like a seal. A promise. It traveled straight down her spine, pooling as a warm, aching pressure behind her ribs. She turned her face into his chest, hiding the sudden, stupid press of tears in her eyes. She wasn’t sad, not exactly. It was too overwhelming to name.
“Come on,” he murmured, his hand stroking down her arm to find her hand. “I’ll walk you down. Can’t have you wandering Leith at this hour in a ballgown and a bloke’s jacket.”
“It’s a dress. And it’s hardly wandering. It’s a five-minute walk.”
“With you, it’s wandering. I’ve seen your sense of direction.” He led her back towards the heavy door, his thumb rubbing circles on her knuckle. “You’d end up in Glasgow.”
The familiar, gentle teasing loosened the knot in her throat. They descended the concrete stairs in a comfortable silence, their footsteps echoing. The gallery below was dark and empty, a ghost of the earlier noise. He locked the rooftop door, the click final.
Out on the street, the night air was bracing, filled with the salt-tang of the nearby docks and fried food. His jacket sleeves hung past her fingertips. He kept her hand firmly in his, shifting her to walk on the inside of the pavement, a small, automatic gesture of care.
“You’ll remember to eat something that isn’t toast?” he asked as they turned onto her street.
“I might branch out to pasta. If I’m feeling adventurous.”
“Adventurous is good. I like adventurous Roz.” He stopped outside her building’s main door, a plain, black thing she’d painted a cheery yellow last spring. The single bulb above it cast a weak, jaundiced light. This was where they had to say goodnight. Where the fairy lights and vintage champagne ended.
She went to slip his jacket off, but he stopped her, his hands closing over hers on the lapels.
“Keep it. For now. It suits you better anyway.” He was stalling, and they both knew it.
“You’ll need it in London. For your posh press conference.”
“I have others. That one’s yours.” He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers again, their own private ritual. “I’ll call tomorrow night. After the circus.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He kissed her, then. It was softer than the rooftop kiss, slower, a punctuation mark rather than an exclamation. It tasted like goodbye, but the kind that promises a return. She fumbled her keys from her small clutch, the metal cold in her hand.
Inside the dim vestibule, she turned and watched through the glass as he walked away. He didn’t look back. He just shoved his hands in his pockets, his broad shoulders outlined against the sodium glow of the streetlamp, and turned the corner. Gone.
Her flat was silent and cool. She didn’t turn on the main light, just the small lamp by her easel. She kept his jacket on, hugging herself inside it. The canvas before her was half-finished, a chaotic swirl of graphite and angry red ochre from a week ago, a reaction to things she was only beginning to process. It looked different now. Less like an ending.
She picked up a charcoal stick, its familiar weight a comfort. In the corner of the canvas, on a patch of untouched white, she drew a single, perfect, tiny champagne bubble. Then she went to the kitchen, put the kettle on, and waited for the dawn, and the sound of the phone.
The kettle’s click was deafening in the silent flat. She made tea, the steam misting the dark window over the sink. Wrapped in Ally’s jacket, she carried the mug to the sagging armchair, its fabric familiar against her cheek.
The silence felt different tonight. It wasn’t just her own. She realized, with a start, that Denny wasn’t in her room. No faint snore, no light under the door. She’d been so wrapped in her own night that she’d forgotten. Denny was out, staying over with a man she had started seeing, some friend of Leo’s who Denny insisted fancied Roz rotten.
The thought made her grimace into her tea. Leo’s crowd—finance bros with loud watches and louder opinions—made her skin crawl. Denny’s cheerful report of the friend’s interest felt like an accusation. “He kept asking about you, the quiet, arty one. Proper smitten.” Roz had shut it down, hard. Now, the empty flat confirmed Denny’s move into a new, worrisome orbit.
Her phone buzzed on the floor, lighting up. Not Ally. A photo from Denny: a blurry selfie in a bathroom with gilded taps, Denny grinning, a man’s shoulder in frame. The text followed: Still alive. He’s boring but buys nice wine. His mate Cam (the one who likes you! is a dead cert for Sat. Say yes?
Roz typed back, her thumbs sharp on the screen. No. And be careful. She added a second message. And I’m glad you’re not here. I needed the quiet.
The three dots bounced. You’re welcome. What did you do with the rugby god?
Roz sipped her tea. The jacket’s collar brushed her jaw. We had champagne on a roof.
The reply was instant. DETAILS. NOW.
He poured it on his collarbone. I licked it off.
The dots vanished. A full minute later, her phone rang. Denny’s voice was a hushed, thrilled screech from what sounded like a stairwell. “You did not.”
“I did.”
“Roslyn McLeod. Who are you?” The laughter was genuine, edged with astonishment. “Was it… good?”
Roz looked at the lone champagne bubble on her canvas, a tiny planet in a white sky. “It was inventive.” She could hear the smile in her own voice, private and sure.
“Inventive. Right. I’m dating a human spreadsheet and you’re licking vintage Dom off a national treasure. The world is unfair.” A door closed in the background. “I’m proud of you. Seriously.”
The word landed, warm and solid. “Thanks, Den.”
“Now get some sleep. Don’t wait up for his call like a pathetic heroine. Be cool.”
“I am cool.”
“You’re wearing his jacket right now, aren’t you?”
Roz’s fingers tightened on the wool. “Maybe.”
Denny cackled. “Pathetic. I love it. Night.”
The call ended. The quiet seeped back, but it was kinder now. She finished her tea, the warmth spreading through her. She stood, shrugged off the jacket, and hung it carefully over the back of her chair. It was a flag, a claim.
She approached the canvas. The angry red swirls from last week now looked like a storm seen from a great height, distant and no longer threatening. The single charcoal bubble was a starting point. She picked up a brush, mixed a colour—not the ochre of anger, but a deep, calm ultramarine, the blue of an hour before dawn.
She began to paint, not the memory, but the feeling. The safety of the rail against her palms. The city as a galaxy of scattered lights. The specific geography of his shoulders under her hands. She lost time in the rhythm of it, the swish and tap of the brush.
The phone rang again, just as the first grey light bleached the night sky. A different tone. She wiped her hands on a rag, her heart doing a slow, heavy roll.
She answered. “You’re up late.”
“Or early.” Ally’s voice was a low scratch of tiredness. “The press conference is in five hours. I can’t sleep. Tell me something real. Tell me what you’re doing.”
She looked at the fresh, wet blue blooming across the canvas, a landscape of their private night. “I’m painting the view from your collarbone.”
A long silence on the line. She could hear him breathing. When he spoke, the roughness was deeper. “Yeah? What’s it look like?”
“It looks,” she said, her eyes tracing the lines, “like the only place I want to be.”
The silence on the line stretched, but it was full. She could hear the faint echo of a hotel air conditioner, the modern whir of a place that wasn’t home.
“Say that again,” he finally said, his voice stripped bare.
“I’m painting it. The view from up there. From you.” She touched the wet blue with her fingertip, smudging an edge. “It’s mostly blue right now. And dark. With little points of light.”
“Christ, Roz.” He exhaled, a long, shaky sound. “I’m in a fucking hotel room that smells like fake lemon. There’s a briefing folder on the bed with my own stupid face on it. And you’re telling me that.” He paused. She heard the clink of a glass, ice shifting. “It’s not fair.”
“What isn’t?”
“That you can do that. Make an entire universe out of a single moment. While I’m just here, stuck in this one.”
She leaned her forehead against the cool wall beside the window. The first proper light was seeping up, turning the sky the colour of a bruise healing. “You made the moment. I’m just… documenting the evidence.”
He gave a short, soft laugh. “A forensic artist. I like it.” He took another drink. “Tell me about the door.”
“What?”
“The loose handle. On your kitchen cupboard. Did you fix it?”
The domestic absurdity of the question, here in this charged, pre-dawn space, made her smile. “No. I tried. I think I made it worse. The screw just spins.”
“Stripped the thread. You need a matchstick or a bit of rawlplug. Force it in the hole, then screw back in. Temporary fix.”
“You really did study door science.”
“For my sins.” He sighed, and the weariness in it was profound. “I have to go in a few. Need to try and look contrite and focused for the cameras.”
“Are you? Contrite?”
“For punching that wall? No. For the headlines it caused my team? Yeah. A bit.” His tone shifted, closer to the phone. “For leaving you wrapped in my jacket? Not even a little.”
Goosebumps prickled her arms. She pulled the jacket back on, sliding her hands into the deep pockets. Her fingers brushed against a small, stiff rectangle of card. She drew it out. A faded photograph, creased from time. A younger Ally, maybe fifteen, all knees and elbows, standing proudly beside an older man with the same dark eyes in front of a rusting green door. The boy was beaming. The man’s hand was on his shoulder.
“You found the photo,” his voice came, quiet. He’d heard the faint rustle.
“Your dad?”
“Yeah. That’s the door to his old workshop. The day he helped me rebuild the engine on that moped I bought for fifty quid. It never actually ran, but we tried for a whole summer.” A fond, sad noise. “I keep it to remember that some things are worth the effort, even if they’re broken to start with.”
Her throat tightened. She slid the photo carefully back into the pocket, as if it were a holy relic. “It’s a good picture.”
“He’d have liked you. He’d have said you had steady hands.” A beat of quiet. “I have to go, Roz.”
“I know.”
“Sweetheart, I’m gonna miss you so much over the next two weeks.” The word, new and liquid, poured through the line, warm as the brandy he must have been drinking. “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”
It wasn’t a casual question. It was raw, edged with a vulnerability that mirrored her own. It asked about press hounds, about distance, about the terrifying speed of this thing between them.
She looked at the painting, at the single charcoal bubble now surrounded by a universe of her making. She looked at the jacket sleeves covering her hands.
“Ally,” she said, her voice firm in the quiet flat. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A sharp intake of breath. “Okay. Okay. That’s… good. That’s my girl.” The relief in his voice was palpable, a physical thing. “I’ll call tonight. After.”
“Good luck.”
“Don’t need it. I’ve got a matchstick in my pocket and a painting to come home to.”
The line went dead.
She held the phone to her chest for a long moment. The flat was silent again, but the silence had changed once more. It was now a listening silence, an expectant one, already anticipating the next ring. She walked to the kitchen, opened the problematic cupboard, and stared at the loose handle.
She rummaged in a drawer, found a box of matches. She broke one off, pushed the tiny sliver of wood into the screw hole, and tried the screw again. It bit, caught, and tightened. The handle was firm.
She made another cup of tea as the sun finally broke the horizon, painting the kitchen in weak, gold light. She wore the jacket all morning, the weight of it a comfort, the photo in the pocket a secret anchor. She didn’t look at the news. She didn’t search for his name. She simply cleaned her brushes, studied the now-blue canvas, and waited for the day to pass, for the night to come, for the sound of his voice to fill the listening silence once more.