His eyes soften as he reads my expression. “I tell you what,” he suggests. “I want you to show me your absolute favourite painting in this gallery. The one you’d take if you had the fool-proof chance to steal something.”

I straighten my shoulders and glance around, taking stock of where we are in the Gallery. Then I lead him through the different rooms until we end up in one with red wallpaper. We stop in front of a small ornately framed picture.

“This is it?” he asks curiously. His arm is draped across my shoulders and he tips his head against mine as he looks at the painting. “Why?” he asks. I shiver slightly at the feel of his breath on my face.

“Why, what?” I ask hoarsely.

He looks at me, concerned. “You okay, Charlie?” he asks. “Are you cold?”

I nod quickly. “I’m fine. You’re right. I am a bit tired, I suppose.”

He squeezes my shoulder and looks at the picture. “Okay, tell me quickly why you’d steal this picture.”

A woman standing nearby gasps, and I shake my head in apology at her. “He doesn’t mean it.”

I push my focus towards the picture and away from my wildly inappropriate desire to kiss my best friend. “Erm.” I stop and clear my throat. “It’s a picture of Gainsborough’s daughters. He painted it himself and never finished it.”

“So why do you like it?”

“Because they’re so real,” I say, enchanted by the lush golden colours of the painting. “It’s painted with such love and affection that you can feel it. They’re just so lovely, and they look full of life and slightly naughty. A bit like your sisters.”

He groans. “Poor Gainsborough, if he had two like Teddy and Anya. Bet he took loads of jobs away from home.” He narrows his eyes at the painting. “They look like they could step out of the picture and run around.”

“I know,” I say, excited that someone finally gets it. I’ve brought dates here before, and the men have, by and large, towed me around at top speed, giving me their own opinions and ignoring mine. “They look like they’re about to run off, and I can imagine him getting exasperated with them because they wouldn’t sit still.” I sneak a look at his face. “I also really like the fact that it looks like they’ve walked onto the pages of ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,’” I say almost shyly.

“What?” His brow furrows as he leans closer to the picture. “Is that the shape of a… cat in her arms?”

I nod and laugh. “He never finished the portrait, probably because they ran off to play. That’s their cat, but you can only see his outline, so he looks like the Cheshire Cat about to disappear.”