I’m taken aback. I never outstay my welcome. In fact, people usually want me to stay longer. Laurie’s dismissal amuses me, which means I must be very bored at the moment. Then I think of his clothes. Maybe he needs to finish the painting so he can get paid.

“Of course,” I say, wandering to the door. “You have work to do. I hope your painting goes well. But then I’m sure that your mother will love it regardless,” I finish rather awkwardly.

Mirth fills his eyes as he opens the door, making me wonder whether I should embark on a comedy career, such is his amusement with me.

“Thank you for your kind words,” he says solemnly.

“Well, goodbye,” I say. “My apologies again.”

“Goodbye,” he says and shuts the door cheerfully in my face.

I stand gaping at it for a second. It’s only the thought that he might be watching me through the peephole as I stand here like an idiot that gets me moving.

I step toward my flat. He’s probably forgotten me already.

I stop dead in my tracks. “Laurie,” I say out loud. “Where have I heard that name before?” Realisation floods me as the memory of that gallery showing, his name, and the picture in the flat all intersect. I remember the way I’d judged the painting, and I actually feel myself flush. Something I haven’t done since I was a child.

Two seconds later, I ring his doorbell.

The same faltering footsteps sound, and he throws open the door looking completely unsurprised to find me on his doorstep again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand.

“Hmm. What should I have told you, Mags? That your flies are open?”

I look down automatically and groan. “Ack, you had me there.” He chuckles, and I glare at him. “You’re Laurie Adnet, aren’t you? The Laurie Adnet who painted that picture in there. The man who happens to be a very famous portrait artist.”

He sketches a bow. “That’s me. I go by my grandmother’s name when working. My way of honouring her.” He bites his lip to hide a smile. “Should I have told you?” he says innocently.

“I think you probably should have done so,” I inform him. “I thought your mother was paying you to decorate her house so you could eat a good meal.”

He loses his battle with the smile and laughs loudly, his eyes creased in amusement.

“Were you feeling sorry for me, Mags?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course not. I merely observe things.” His laughter increases.

“That easel in the flat is yours, yes?” He nods. “What are you painting?”

“My stepfather.”

I blink. “Why?”

He shrugs. “That was my question too. But my mother commissioned it as a wedding anniversary gift.”