The Bad Boy Wants Me: A Bad Boy Romance by Georgia le Carre Page B
Authors: Georgia le Carre
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back Sunday evening.’
‘Oh,’ she says, her little face crumpling. ‘What time are you going?’
‘Right after breakfast. My aunt is taking me to an antique fair.’
‘Oh,’ she says as if being dragged around an antique fair is something she has wanted to do all her life.
I smile. ‘Britney Hunter? You hate antiques!’
She bites into her slice of toast. ‘Yeah, I know, but I hate being here on my own more.’
‘You don’t have to be here on your own. Why don’t you ask Natalie to come over?’
‘Natalie is in France.’
‘Right, how about Victoria?’
‘Nah. Don’t worry about me. I’ll probably just paint all afternoon.’
I take a sip of coffee. ‘How come you’ve never shown me your work?’
She worries her lower lip. ‘I’ve never shown it to anyone.’
I stare at her. ‘Why not?’
She shrugs. ‘But I’ll show you.’ She pauses. ‘If you have the time.’
‘Of course I’ve got time,’ I say immediately.
‘Only if you want to.’
I look her in the eye. ‘I want to, Brit.’
‘OK,’ she says and a simple, childlike joy fills her little face.
We finish our breakfast and go up the stairs. We pass the room that leads to the attic where Cash and I had been in last night, and go towards the last room. It bears a skull and cross bones sign on it. When I was first shown around the house this was the one room I had not gone inside. She stops in front of it and turns towards me.
‘I feel really nervous.’
‘If it helps I still draw stick figures.’
She giggles. ‘OK. I trust you. You always tell the truth.’
I feel my ears becoming red. She turns and puts a key into the lock and turns the handle. It is quite a big airy room with a bare wooden floor. There is a mannequin parked at one corner, a tall easel in the middle of the room, and a massive, deep-red velvet armchair by the window. On the floor next to the chair are empty packets of crisps, discarded chocolate wrappings, and a couple of detective novels. Along the walls there are many canvasses lined up with their backs showing to the room.
‘This is my secret room,’ she says in a small voice.
I turn to look at her. ‘I love it.’
She grins. ‘So do I.’
‘Come on then. Show me your art.’
I follow her to the canvasses lined up against the wall and one by one she shows them to me. I say nothing. Just look at each one carefully. They are beautiful but very strange, and leave me with a sense of unease. Most of them are images of unfinished humans or humans with holes cut out of their bodies and children curled up inside the empty spaces. Other figures are white and featureless standing against a dark background. They have a string, like an umbilical cord coming out of them.
‘Well?’ she asks, when I have looked at the last painting.
‘I think they are strangely beautiful. I don’t mean that they are chocolate box pretty, but they have a lot of passion and they are different.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. I don’t know much about art, but these are good. I’ve never seen anything like this before. They are completely original.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispers.
‘Who are these figures? I ask pointing to the featureless people.
‘Me,’ she says simply.
I look at her curiously. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s how I feel sometimes. Unfinished. The most important parts of me missing.’
‘Oh, Brit,’ I whisper softly, my heart breaking for her. Her art is the outward manifestation of her instinctive knowledge that something is missing or lost inside her.
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t want you to pity me.’
‘Come here, you silly Billy.’
She takes a step towards me and I stroke her hair. Strange how much affection I have for her now that I have seen the real her.
‘I don’t pity you,’ I tell her. ‘You have everything. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, you have a family that loves you dearly, you’ve got friends, you’ve got a trust fund, even if you never work a
‘Oh,’ she says, her little face crumpling. ‘What time are you going?’
‘Right after breakfast. My aunt is taking me to an antique fair.’
‘Oh,’ she says as if being dragged around an antique fair is something she has wanted to do all her life.
I smile. ‘Britney Hunter? You hate antiques!’
She bites into her slice of toast. ‘Yeah, I know, but I hate being here on my own more.’
‘You don’t have to be here on your own. Why don’t you ask Natalie to come over?’
‘Natalie is in France.’
‘Right, how about Victoria?’
‘Nah. Don’t worry about me. I’ll probably just paint all afternoon.’
I take a sip of coffee. ‘How come you’ve never shown me your work?’
She worries her lower lip. ‘I’ve never shown it to anyone.’
I stare at her. ‘Why not?’
She shrugs. ‘But I’ll show you.’ She pauses. ‘If you have the time.’
‘Of course I’ve got time,’ I say immediately.
‘Only if you want to.’
I look her in the eye. ‘I want to, Brit.’
‘OK,’ she says and a simple, childlike joy fills her little face.
We finish our breakfast and go up the stairs. We pass the room that leads to the attic where Cash and I had been in last night, and go towards the last room. It bears a skull and cross bones sign on it. When I was first shown around the house this was the one room I had not gone inside. She stops in front of it and turns towards me.
‘I feel really nervous.’
‘If it helps I still draw stick figures.’
She giggles. ‘OK. I trust you. You always tell the truth.’
I feel my ears becoming red. She turns and puts a key into the lock and turns the handle. It is quite a big airy room with a bare wooden floor. There is a mannequin parked at one corner, a tall easel in the middle of the room, and a massive, deep-red velvet armchair by the window. On the floor next to the chair are empty packets of crisps, discarded chocolate wrappings, and a couple of detective novels. Along the walls there are many canvasses lined up with their backs showing to the room.
‘This is my secret room,’ she says in a small voice.
I turn to look at her. ‘I love it.’
She grins. ‘So do I.’
‘Come on then. Show me your art.’
I follow her to the canvasses lined up against the wall and one by one she shows them to me. I say nothing. Just look at each one carefully. They are beautiful but very strange, and leave me with a sense of unease. Most of them are images of unfinished humans or humans with holes cut out of their bodies and children curled up inside the empty spaces. Other figures are white and featureless standing against a dark background. They have a string, like an umbilical cord coming out of them.
‘Well?’ she asks, when I have looked at the last painting.
‘I think they are strangely beautiful. I don’t mean that they are chocolate box pretty, but they have a lot of passion and they are different.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. I don’t know much about art, but these are good. I’ve never seen anything like this before. They are completely original.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispers.
‘Who are these figures? I ask pointing to the featureless people.
‘Me,’ she says simply.
I look at her curiously. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s how I feel sometimes. Unfinished. The most important parts of me missing.’
‘Oh, Brit,’ I whisper softly, my heart breaking for her. Her art is the outward manifestation of her instinctive knowledge that something is missing or lost inside her.
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t want you to pity me.’
‘Come here, you silly Billy.’
She takes a step towards me and I stroke her hair. Strange how much affection I have for her now that I have seen the real her.
‘I don’t pity you,’ I tell her. ‘You have everything. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, you have a family that loves you dearly, you’ve got friends, you’ve got a trust fund, even if you never work a
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