His eyes trace my body: neck, clavicles, breasts. They linger on my hips then snap back to my face. Our eyes meet: zap.

My throat closes up. But I need to say something. I can’t just stand here. Staring.

Luckily, I fuck up a lot in life so I’m well practised at getting myself out of fixes like this. I reach for my failsafe: damsel in distress.

‘Oh shit, is that what the sign says? I don’t speak French,’ I say, all doe-eyed darling. ‘It’s just I saw you were having an exhibition for Noah X tomorrow night,’ I nod to the poster in the window, ‘and he’s my favourite French artist…’

Something flickers behind his eyes; does he believe me?

‘And I just wanted to see… I’m sooo sorry.’ It all comes out in one, long, rambling breath. And that’s just perfect. Because I sound flustered. I look flustered. And here’s a life lesson for you: no man can resist flustered.

I look up at him, blink twice, and wait for him to soften. Wait for his eyes to do that thing they do when a man is mentally undressing you.

But his blue eyes narrow. Uh-oh, this is not good.

‘You know I could call the police, right? This is trespassing.’

Wait, what?

My throat grows tighter. ‘But the door was unlocked.’

‘Riiigghht,’ he says. ‘What did you say your name was?’

I do not want to tell him my name. What if he looks me up, figures out where I work and this somehow gets back to Hyacinth?

‘Grace,’ I lie. I reach out my hand to shake his.

‘Well, Grace,’ he continues, ignoring my outstretched hand, ‘tell me, what precisely did you think those covers were for then? Keeping the dust off?’ And then he stands there, arms crossed, just looking at me and waiting for a reply.

My ears ring.

‘Look, I’m really sorry, you clearly want me to leave,’ I say in my firmest, most grown-up voice. I head for the door, reach for the handle and pull it towards me. A gush of cool air hits my cheeks and I step outside into freedom then—

‘Wait,’ Mr Blue Eyes says.

And there’s something in his voice that makes me stop mid-step and look back. A hook.

‘What?’ I ask, still edging my way outside. He’s standing in the middle of the room now, arms by his side, and the air between us is thick and silent.

The muscle on the left side of his jaw is twitching but his eyes have softened.

Oh, right, I know what’s going on here: he’s freaking out.

He’s thinking about Google and Yelp and the reviews I could leave if he doesn’t smooth things over. Rude manager! Kicked me out! Maybe I will…

‘Did you like it?’ he asks. It’s conciliatory. Like he’s hoping I’ll forget he just yelled at me. ‘The painting.’

And there’s a part of me that wants to say ‘no’ and just leave him there to stew, but I do still need to come back tomorrow to see the rest of the work. It would be so much better if we could make amends. Be friends. Even if he does think my name is Grace now…