Chapter 2: The Interrogation Over Stained Sinks
The turpentine bit through the lavender soap, stripping the cobalt blue from under her fingernails. Isla scrubbed, the bristles of the brush digging into her cuticles, turning the water in the sink a murky grey. The flat was quiet for once, just the low hum of the old record player in the corner, a crackling jazz piano that was more rhythm than melody.
She was replaying the daal. The way he’d torn the naan, the surprising delicacy of his paint-stained hands. The way he’d listened, his eyes not glazing over when she’d rambled about negative space and compositional tension. He’d asked questions. Real ones.
A key rattled in the lock, and the door slammed open, shattering the calm. Molly breezed in, a whirlwind of cold air and perfume, dropping her bag with a thud. “You’re in. Good. I’m starving. What’s to eat?”
“Leftover rice. Maybe an egg,” Isla said, not turning from the sink.
Molly rummaged in the fridge, emerging with a block of cheese. She leaned against the counter, studying Isla’s back. “So.”
“So.”
“You’re scrubbing like you committed a crime. Which means you’re thinking about something you did. Or someone you saw.” Molly took a bite of the cheese. “He texted me. Ally. Said thanks for the number. Said the daal was great.”
Isla’s shoulders tensed. She kept scrubbing. “It was fine.”
“Fine. Right.” Molly’s voice was a singsong of knowing amusement. “You texted him, didn’t you? You actually went. I saw the studio was empty when I swung by.”
“He asked to see it.” Isla finally shut off the tap, reaching for a threadbare towel. Her nails were clean, pink and raw. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“It’s a massive deal. You let a man—a rugby-playing man, a famously charming one—into your sacred space. On a first date. That’s not a ‘fine’ thing. That’s a ‘holy shit’ thing.” Molly’s eyes were bright, predatory. “You like him.”
“I don’t know him.”
“But you want to.” Molly tossed the cheese onto the counter and fished in her jacket pocket. She pulled out a glossy, neon-pink flyer, holding it between two fingers like a warrant. “Which is perfect timing. Because Mirren is having her birthday thing at The Vault on Friday. It’s going to be huge. All the rugby lads will be there. Cam. And, by extension, his hot friend.”
Isla stared at the flyer. THE VAULT. 10PM. DRINKS PROMOS ‘TIL MIDNIGHT. The words seemed to vibrate with a menacing energy. She could already imagine the crush of bodies, the brain-numbing bass, the shouted conversations over music that felt like a physical assault. “No.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No, Molly. That’s his world. Not mine. I’d be a… a ghost in a machine there. A sad ghost.”
“You wouldn’t be alone. I’ll be there. Cam will be there. He will be there.” Molly waggled the flyer. “This is the test, Isla. You had your weird, quiet studio date. Now see him in his natural habitat. See if the seagull you described can still look you in the eye when he’s with his flock.”
The metaphor, her own metaphor, turned back on her. It was irritatingly apt. She thought of his easy laughter in Cameron’s flat, the way he’d moved through the crowd. That was his language. The studio, the daal… that had been a translation. Maybe a poor one.
“I’d have nothing to wear,” Isla said, a weak, last-ditch protest.
Molly grinned, victory flashing in her eyes. “Liar. You have that black dress. The one you wore to the graduate show. You looked insane in it. You just hate that it gets you noticed.”
Isla stared at the flyer, the neon pink reflecting in her clean, damp fingernails. The black dress was incredible—a sleek, architectural piece she’d found in a vintage shop, all sharp lines and soft velvet. She loved the way it felt against her skin, a secret armor. She just hated the battlefield it often invited.
“It’s not the dress,” Isla finally said, her voice quiet. “It’s the… commentary. The eyes. The whole performance of being looked at.”
“So don’t perform.” Molly shrugged, moving to the record player and swapping the jazz for a pulsating electronic track, something deep and atmospheric. “Just go. For the music. Mirren’s DJ friend is playing, and you know his sets are actually good. Go for that. If you see Ally, you see him. If you don’t, you’ve had a dance and stolen all my crisps.”
The bassline thumped softly through the speakers, a rhythm that resonated in Isla’s chest. She did love this music. She loved getting lost in it, the way sound could replace thought. The club would be dark, a sea of anonymous movement. She could be a part of it without being at its center.
“Maybe,” Isla conceded, the word a fragile door cracking open.
“Yes.” Molly pounced on it, sticking the flyer to the fridge with a novelty magnet. “It’s settled. Friday. We’re doing your eyeliner. And you’re wearing the dress.”
Friday evening smelled of hairspray and anticipation. Isla stood before the long mirror in their shared bedroom, adjusting the strap of the dress. It was simple, but the cut was perfection, hugging her frame before falling straight. She’d paired it with chunky, scuffed boots—a grounding element.
“See?” Molly said, appearing behind her with a kohl pencil. “Trendy, not trying. Art school chic. Now hold still.”
Isla closed her eyes as Molly’s skilled hands traced a sharp, subtle wing at the corner of each lid. The ritual was familiar, comforting. This part she could handle. The preparation. The curation of a self to present. It was the moment the curated self had to interact with the unpredictable world that sent a cold trickle down her spine.
“What if he’s different there?” The question escaped before she could stop it.
“Then you’ll know.” Molly stepped back, assessing her work. “And you’ll either like the truth or you won’t. But you’ll have danced to good music first.”
The taxi ride was a blur of streetlights and Molly’s steady chatter. The queue outside The Vault was a dense, shouting snake, but Cam spotted them and waved them through the velvet rope. “My sister!” he bellowed, engulfing Molly in a hug. His eyes found Isla, and he gave a genuine, warm smile. “You came! He’s inside. Near the back. Already asked if you were here twice.”
The noise hit Isla like a wall as they entered—a physical, vibrating mass of sound and heat. Strobe lights cut through a haze of machine-made fog, illuminating fragments of laughing faces and raised glasses. The bass was a heartbeat in the floor. For a moment, she froze, her breath tightening.
Then the synth line of a song she loved sliced through the din, a crystalline, familiar thread. Her shoulders dropped an inch. She let the rhythm in. This, she understood.
She followed Molly through the throng, a silent shadow in the flashing dark. They found Mirren’s group in a raised booth strewn with empty bottles. And there he was. Ally was deep in conversation with another player, his profile sharp in the sporadic light. He was in his element, leaning back with a easy confidence, but his eyes were scanning the crowd. Restless.
He turned. His gaze swept past, then snapped back to her. The easy smile on his face didn’t fade, but it changed. It softened, then gave way to something like open surprise. He excused himself immediately, weaving through the crowd toward her.
The sheer force of his attention was a spotlight. Isla felt the old, familiar urge to shrink, to look away, to become part of the wallpaper. She forced herself to stand still, to meet his eyes as he approached.
“You’re here,” he said, his voice close to her ear to be heard. He didn’t shout. The statement was simple, charged.
“The DJ is good,” she said, nodding toward the booth, a deflection that was also the truth.
He looked at her, really looked, taking in the dress, the boots, the sharp wings of her eyeliner. His expression wasn’t the usual predatory appreciation she dreaded. It was closer to the way he’d looked at her painting in the studio. “You’re good,” he said. “You look… like you.”
A player she vaguely recognized clapped Ally on the back, shouting something lost to the music. Ally’s hand came up in a brief, dismissive wave, his eyes never leaving Isla’s face. The gesture was small, but it meant everything. He wasn’t letting the flock pull him away.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked. “Or do you just want to stand here for a minute?”
She almost smiled. “A minute. Then maybe a drink.”
They stood in a pocket of relative calm as the crowd surged around them. He didn’t try to force conversation over the noise. He just stood beside her, a solid, warm presence, and let her absorb the scene. She watched the dance floor, bodies moving in unified, separate pulses. The fear began to recede, replaced by the thrum of the music she’d chosen to hear.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said after a while, his head inclined toward hers.
“Neither was I.” She turned to face him fully. “This is your noise.”
He shook his head, a quick, decisive motion. “This is just noise. The noise I like is different now.” He held out his hand, not demanding, just offering. An invitation. “It’s less ‘what’s your sign’ and more ‘is that track from that Berlin label you mentioned?’”
A genuine laugh broke from her, surprising them both. She looked at his outstretched hand, then at the swirling crowd. The male attention was a spotlight, but his felt like a shared lamp in a dark room. She took his hand. His fingers closed around hers, warm and sure.
“One dance,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“Or two,” he replied, and led her into the current.
The dance floor was a compression of bodies and light. Isla let the rhythm move her, a slight, private swaying of her shoulders. Ally moved beside her, not crowding her space, his own motion more contained than she’d expected. He was watching her, not the room.
A track she loved cascaded into the mix, a driving, intricate pulse. Her eyes closed for a moment, just feeling it. When she opened them, he was still there, a fixed point in the swirling chaos. He smiled, not his usual broadcast grin, but something quieter, just for her.
“You do like this,” he said, his voice cutting through the thrum.
“I told you,” she shouted back, the words leaving her lips easier than she’d thought possible.
His teammate, the one from the booth, stumbled into their space, beer sloshing. “MacLeod! You’re missing the game on the telly upstairs!” The man’s eyes, glazed and cheerful, slid to Isla. “Bring your friend!”
Ally’s hand, which had been hanging loosely at his side, came up and rested lightly on the small of Isla’s back. It wasn’t possessive. It was an anchor. “We’re good here, mate,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The teammate shrugged and melted back into the crowd. The touch of Ally’s hand burned through the velvet of her dress. He didn’t remove it. Instead, he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. The scent of him—soap, clean sweat, and the faint, sharp tang of lager—cut through the club’s stale perfume. “See? I can be quiet.”
“You’re shouting in my ear,” she pointed out, a flicker of amusement in her grey eyes.
“A relative quiet,” he conceded, his own laugh a vibration she felt. His thumb moved, a barely-there stroke against her spine. “You want to get out of here? This is a lot of noise, even the good kind.”
The offer was a trapdoor. An escape. She nodded, once.
He kept his hand on her back, guiding her firmly through the press of bodies, a shield against the jostling. They didn’t speak to anyone. He just led, and she followed, the loud world falling away with each step toward the exit. The cold night air was a shock, a delicious, silent slap after the humid roar inside.
Her ears rang in the sudden vacuum. The street was quiet, just distant traffic and their own breath forming clouds. He shrugged out of his jacket—a soft, worn-in Harrington—and draped it over her shoulders without asking. The residual heat from his body enveloped her.
“You didn’t have to leave,” she said, pulling the jacket tighter. It smelled overwhelmingly of him.
“Yes, I did.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I asked you to prove I could be something else. Then I dragged you into the middle of the exact thing I said I was tired of. That was stupid.”
“It wasn’t a drag. I chose to come.” She started walking, needing to move. The boots clicked on the pavement. “I wanted to see it. The flock.”
He fell into step beside her. “And?”
“And you looked like you belonged. Which you do.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “But you left it. When it mattered, you left.”
The truth of that settled between them on the cold street. He’d chosen. The weight of his jacket on her shoulders felt like an apology, and a promise.
“It didn’t feel like leaving,” he said, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “It felt like going where I actually wanted to be.”
They walked without a destination, the sounds of the club fading into a dull throb. Isla felt exposed suddenly, the intimacy of the quiet street more daunting than the crowd. Every step echoed. She could feel him working something out beside her, the energy coming off him in waves.
“You’re quiet now,” he observed.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“The difference between watching a storm from a window,” she said, “and standing out in the rain.”
He stopped walking, turning to face her under the stark yellow glow of a streetlamp. His eyes searched her face, taking in the slight tremble of her lip that wasn’t from the cold. He saw the way she’d shrunk into his jacket, not just for warmth, but for cover. The raw hesitation there, the shyness that was part of her bone-deep architecture.
It hit him in the chest, a fierce and sudden ache. He felt overwhelmingly protective. She seemed so small standing there, a stark contrast to the formidable woman in the studio who’d dissected him with a glance. He wanted to pull her into him, to shield her from every harsh light, including his own.
“You’re freezing,” he said, his voice softer. “And I’m an idiot. We left your friends. Molly’s probably wondering where you went.”
Isla hugged herself, the leather of his jacket creaking. “She’ll assume I fled. She’s usually right.”
“Do you want to go back in?” He asked it gently, no pressure. He took a half-step closer, his broad frame blocking the chilling wind. “We can. It’s okay. You want to see your friends, we can have another dance. Or we can just get a cab. Your call.”
The offer was genuine. She could feel it. He was handing the control back to her, after steering her out. It meant more than any grand gesture. She looked up at him, at the concern etched in the lines around his eyes, so at odds with his usual easy confidence.
“I don’t want to go back in,” she said, the decision solidifying as she spoke. “But I’m not ready for this to be a cab.”
A slow smile touched his lips, relief and something warmer flooding his features. “Okay. What are you ready for?”
“Walk me home?” The question was a test, too. Her flat was a mess of half-finished thoughts and vulnerable work. It was the final stronghold.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I can do that.”
The rest of the walk was a conversation in fits and starts, easier now the direction was set. He told her about his first disastrous match, the humiliation that fueled him. She confessed she sometimes hated her own work the moment someone else praised it. They traded broken pieces of memory, fitting them together in the quiet dark.
Outside her building, a converted Victorian that leaned slightly, she slipped off his jacket. The cold bit through her dress immediately. “Here.”
“Keep it,” he said. “You can give it back next time.”
Next time. The words hung in the air, a tangible possibility. She nodded, pulling it back on. “Thanks. For the walk. For leaving the flock.”
He reached out, his hand hesitating for a second before he carefully brushed a stray hair from her cheek. His touch was startlingly gentle. “Thanks for the daal. And the studio. And the dance.”
He leaned in, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought he would kiss her. He didn’t. He pressed a soft, firm kiss to her forehead instead. It was a shocking gesture, intimate and chastely protective, that sent a tremor through her whole body.
“Goodnight, Isla.”
He waited until she was inside, the heavy door clicking shut behind her. She climbed the stairs to her flat, her fingers tracing the spot on her forehead. In the silence of her own hallway, she could still feel the bass of the club in her teeth, but it was drowned out by the echo of a single, quiet sentence.
You want to see your friends, we can have another dance.
He’d seen her panic. He’d felt it. And instead of pushing, or pretending not to notice, he’d named it. He’d offered her a door back into the noise, while simultaneously offering her the quiet street. The choice had been entirely, beautifully, hers.
She buried her face in the collar of his jacket, inhaling the scent of him, and knew with a terrifying certainty that she was in deep, deep trouble.
The scent on the collar was clean cotton, his soap, and underneath it something warmer, essentially male. It was a scent that didn’t belong in her flat, among the turpentine and dust. She hung the jacket carefully on the back of her chair, a foreign artifact in the landscape of her work.
Sleep didn’t come. She lay in the dark, her mind replaying the kiss on her forehead. It was a paradox—a gesture so gentle it felt more invasive than if he’d tried to take her mouth. It had bypassed every defense she usually erected. She pressed her own fingers to the spot, as if she could still feel the imprint.
The next morning, the jacket watched her from the chair. She made tea, trying to ignore it. The canvas from yesterday, the one with the fault line of gold, now looked naive. She scowled at it, picking up a palette knife.
Molly stumbled out of her room just past noon, squinting in the light. “Well?” she croaked, going straight for the kettle. “Details. I saw him shepherd you out. Looked very dedicated.”
“We walked. He left.” Isla scraped a layer of blue-grey paint over the gold, obliterating it.
“That’s it? Christ, you’re both useless.” Molly leaned against the counter, studying her. “You’re painting over it. That’s a bad sign.”
“It was sentimental.”
“It was good.” Molly sipped her tea. “He’s got you scrambled. Good.”
Isla attacked the canvas, the knife making a satisfying scraping sound. “It’s not good. It’s destabilizing. I don’t have the bandwidth for this right now. My final review is in six weeks.”
“You have bandwidth for four-hour studies of a stranger’s knuckles, but not for a man who actually interests you?” Molly laughed. “That’s the most you thing you’ve ever said.”
Her phone buzzed on the table. A text from an unknown number. Her heart did a stupid, hopeful lurch before she could stop it.
Isla. It’s Ally. Hope the walk wasn’t too cold. I have a stupid question.
She stared at the screen, the palette knife hovering. Molly peered over her shoulder. “Oh, a stupid question. This is promising.”
Isla typed a single word. What?
The reply came quickly. The studio door code. 7783. Was that just a random number, or does it mean something? I’ve been thinking about it.
She hadn’t expected that. Not a demand to see her, not a hollow had a great time. He’d fixated on a detail. A key to a door he’d already walked through. She put the knife down.
It’s the numerical pattern for the word “SEED” on a phone keypad, she typed back. 777333. I shortened it.
Why SEED?
Because that’s what you plant in an empty space. Hoping something grows.
The three dots hovered for a long time. She could feel Molly holding her breath beside her.
I like that, he finally replied. Can I plant another seed? There’s a terrible, tiny cinema that shows old films on Sundays. No talking allowed. Just dark and pictures. Would you come with me?
A space with no demand for conversation. A shared quiet. He’d understood the assignment.
What’s playing? she asked.
No idea. Doesn’t matter, does it?
She felt a real smile break through, the first of the day. Sunday. Okay.
“A cinema!” Molly exhaled. “No talking! He’s a quick study, isn’t he?”
Sunday arrived with a brittle, clear cold. Isla dressed in soft jeans and a thick sweater, practicality over statement. The cinema was a cramped, musty basement off Leith Walk, the red velvet seats worn through to the stuffing. The film was a black-and-white Polish drama with subtitles.
They sat in the dark, shoulders not quite touching. Isla sank into the unfamiliar ritual, the collective focus of two dozen strangers on a flickering story. It was a different kind of quiet than the studio, a shared anonymity. Halfway through, during a prolonged, silent close-up of an actor’s tormented face, she felt a shift.
Ally’s hand, resting on the armrest between them, turned palm-up. An invitation. A question.
Her breath caught. The gesture was unbearably vulnerable in the dark. This wasn’t the confident guide on the dance floor. This was something riskier. She watched the light and shadow play across his open palm for three heartbeats.
Then she slid her hand into his.
His fingers closed around hers, warm and firm. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t move. He just held her hand as the tragic film unspooled, his thumb making slow, absent circles on her skin. The sensation was overwhelming. Every nerve ending fired toward that single point of contact. It was more intimate than any kiss she could remember.
When the lights came up, they were still holding hands. They let go slowly, the world rushing back in. They filed out with the crowd, blinking in the afternoon light. The normalcy of the street felt like a surreal contrast.
“That was…” he started, shoving his now-empty hand into his pocket.
“Yeah,” she finished, her own hand feeling cold and strangely light.
They got coffee from a stall, walking without direction. The silence between them was different now, charged with the ghost of that grip in the dark.
“My hands are usually… occupied,” he said, looking at his own, curled around the paper cup. “Holding a ball, or a weight, or someone’s jersey. That was… better.”
“It was simple,” she said.
“Simple’s underrated.” He took a sip. “I have to go to London tomorrow. Sports sponsorship thing. Two nights. It’s going to be all suits and schmoozing.”
“Your natural habitat,” she said, a gentle tease.
“A different cage.” He stopped walking. “When I get back. Can I take you to dinner? A proper one. Where we can actually hear each other?”
She thought of the looming final review, the canvases screaming for attention in her studio. She thought of the dangerous, simple comfort of his hand in the dark. The trouble was already here, deepening.
“Yes,” she said.
The two days he was gone felt oddly elongated. Her studio, usually a sanctuary, felt echoey. She found herself staring at the jacket on her chair. She did not paint. She sharpened pencils, rearranged shelves, tasks that required no feeling.
Cam texted her once. He’s being boring at this sponsor dinner. Just showed me a picture of a weird wall sculpture and asked what I thought it ‘meant.’ This is your fault.
She smiled, a private thing.
Ally texted the night before his return. A picture from his hotel room window, a blur of orange city lights against a black sky. No stars. Miss the quiet. Back tomorrow. 7pm?
She sent back a picture of her own: her palette, a riot of smeared colours, with a single, clean brush laid across it. 7pm.
The restaurant was a small, warm Italian place with checkered cloths and candles stuck in chianti bottles. He was already there, waiting. He stood as she approached, and she saw the faint shadows under his eyes from the trip. He looked tired, and more real for it.
“Hi,” he said, and the word was full of relief.
They talked easily, the initial nerves burned away by the cinema, by the sustained thread of texts. He told her about the stifling meetings, the pressure to be a “brand.” She told him about her creative block, the fear that her final show would be a silent testament to nothing.
“What do you want it to say?” he asked, twirling pasta onto his fork with a surprising grace.
“I don’t know. Something true. That’s the terrifying part. You have to mine your own life for material, and sometimes you strike a vein of something ugly, or trivial, and you have to pretend it’s gold.”
He nodded slowly. “I get that. On the pitch, sometimes you have a perfect game plan. Then the whistle blows, and it’s all chaos. You just have to react. Trust your instincts even when they’re screaming the wrong thing.”
It was the closest analogy she’d ever heard to the creative process. She felt seen in a new, profound way. The wine warmed her, and the candlelight softened the edges of the room. For the first time, she let herself simply look at him, to trace the line of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead.
He paid the bill, refusing her offer to split it. Outside, a fine, cold drizzle was falling, glazing the cobblestones with reflected neon. He walked her home, their steps synchronized. The silence was comfortable, filled with the sound of rain and distant traffic.
At her door, the moment crystallized. The hallway light was a dim yellow pool. She turned to face him, searching for the easy exit line.
It didn’t come. He just looked at her, rainwater caught in his dark lashes. The confidence was gone, replaced by a raw, open want that mirrored the ache in her own chest.
“Isla,” he said, her name a soft exhale.
He cupped her face in his hands, his touch deliberate. He gave her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. She rose onto her toes to meet him.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a release of days of tension, a hungry convergence. It tasted of red wine and the metallic hint of rain. His hands slid from her face into her hair, anchoring her to him. Her fingers clutched at the front of his shirt, the damp wool rough under her palms.
It was all sensation—the heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his chest against hers, the cool drizzle on the backs of her hands. It was a feeling she could not paint, could only feel. They broke apart, breathing ragged, foreheads touching in the dim light.
“Okay,” he whispered, a confirmation to himself.
“Okay,” she echoed, her voice unsteady.
He kissed her again, softer this time, a seal on a promise. Then he stepped back, his hands falling to his sides as if letting go was a physical effort. “Sunday. The cinema. It’s a terrible French film this time.”
She nodded, unable to form words. She let herself into the building, the heavy door closing on the sight of him standing in the rain, watching her go.
Upstairs, she didn’t turn on the lights. She went straight to the canvas she’d ruined days before. In the faint glow from the street, she could just see the ghost of the gold fault line under the layers of grey. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, which still felt the pressure of his.
The quiet in the flat was no longer empty. It was alive, thrumming with the echo of his question in the dark, the grip of his hand, the taste of him in the rain. The trouble wasn’t just deep anymore.
It had taken root. And it was growing.