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Chapter Text

When Lucy stepped into the coffee shop her eyes were immediately drawn to the tall thin man bent over a sketch pad in the corner.  Three mugs lay empty next to him.  Coupled with the plate boasting only crumbs of pastry, Lucy figured he had been there a while. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she waited to order her coffee.  She had just gotten off a 24-hour shift and was preparing to go back in a few hours for some overtime. Honestly, she shouldn’t have been in the coffee shop at all.  She should have gone straight home said good morning to Norrie and Skull then passed out after half a glass of whiskey. 

She found she couldn’t stop watching his pencil dance across the page.  It had been so long since she had been able to actually indulge in her hobbies and she was curious to see what he was working on. Just as she was ordering her triple espresso with the room, the man seemed to become agitated and ripped the piece of paper off of the sketchpad.  He balled it up and tossed it in a perfect arc toward the open trash can.  She and the barista shared a look

“he's been here all day.  He’s one of our regulars.  I can’t remember his name just his order one pumpkin spice latte with an extra shot.”

“Does he always…” Lucy started but was cut off.

“Yup just sits there and sketches.  One of the other girls says he’s some sort of big-shot artist, but I’ve never heard of him. That’ll be six pounds fifty.”

Lucy pulled the coins from the small change purse in her pocket and moved to stand by the pickup counter. She should get her coffee and go home.  Forget about this beguiling man and get on with her practical boring existence.

The man was looking away from his pad now, surveying the street.  Surely a single question couldn’t hurt.  One question and she could be on her way home.

A medium to-go cup and a plate containing a black and white biscuit slid across the dark stone.  The barista smiled at her pointing at the man.
“On the house.”

Lucy nodded, and picked up her cup and the plate.  She walked over to the man and set the large biscuit down. The sound of the plate settling onto the table seemed to startle the man out of whatever state he’d previously been in.

“Oh….thank you.” He looked up at her.  Lucy’s breath caught in her throat.   His eyes seemed to pierce her soul.  His face was perfect and she longed for her own sketch pad.  She needed to draw him like this.  The light of the late morning sun threw half his face into shadow.  Put him in a double-breasted suit and he would make an imposing figure.

“I was curious what you were working on,” Lucy said. “I’m Lucy by the way.  Lucy Carlyle.”

The man’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You don’t know who I am?”

Lucy shook her head before taking a long sip of her espresso.  It needed sugar and milk to be palatable.

The man frowned. “Trying to get ideas for my next exhibition.”

“Youre an artist?” Lucy asked, a half grin on her face.

“No, I just drink tea and eat biscuits while pretending to draw.” Sarcasm. She liked the man even more.

Lucy tried to lean over and get a better view of the pad, but the man moved quickly to shield the pencil marks from view. 

“I don’t let anyone see my work until it's finished.” The man said sternly.

Lucy let out a little oh. “I’m sorry for bothering you. Was just curious.” She turned to leave but the man reached out, placing a long-fingered hand on her elbow.

“Sorry, it's been a rough few days. You’re welcome to sit and stay a while.”  He smiled at her.  It was probably one of those charming smiles that had all the girls fawning over him at uni. Little did he know that she’d become immune to that kind of smile. 

“I’d love to, but I need to get home. I have work in…” Lucy checked the smartwatch on her wrist. “five hours. And I’d really like to catch some sleep before then.”

The man seemed even more confused. “A triple espresso before bed?”

“Believe it or not, I’ll sleep just fine. This is to get me home without nodding off on the tube.” Lucy chuckled.

The man seemed to consider something before reaching into a pocket of the great coat slung across the back of his chair.

“If you want to chat more later, just call me?” He handed over what Lucy assumed was a business card of some sort.  Heavy black cardstock with gold accents highlighted the white text

A.J. Lockwood

Artist

35 Portland Row

London NW1 6LE, UK

For Inquiries: +44 XXXXXXXXXXX

Lucy tucked the card safely into her pocket. 

“See ya around AJ,” Lucy said turning to leave.

She was nearly to the door when he called back to her. “My friends call me Lockwood.”

Lucy turned to look at Lockwood. “That implies we’re friends AJ.”                  

The grin didn’t leave her face until sleep took her into her cramped flat over an hour later.

Chapter Text

Lockwood’s mouth opened and closed like a fish as he watched Lucy Carlyle’s form exit the coffee shop and cross the street to the tube station. Who was that woman?  She was a vision in light blue scrubs with small skulls on them.  

He reached for the black and white cookie, sliding the new plate on top of his old one. Breaking off a piece of the white side, Lockwood assessed the drawing he’d been working on. 

He’d promised his agent that he’d be ready for a gallery show in a few weeks, but inspiration had been hard to come by.  The rough sketch of a woman with short brown hair in unflattering work clothes stared back.  Her profile was enchanting.  The curve of her nose. The fullness of her lips. He’d clocked her as soon as she’d entered the café.  Something about the street scene he’d slowly been developing seemed pointless when this angel was standing there begging to be drawn.

He'd ripped the page out and hurriedly began to capture the main shapes of her face while remaining inconspicuous. So when she’d approached him, Lockwood was terrified that she’d seen him watching her.  Instead, she’d wanted to know about his work. That sent him into a tailspin. Lockwood didn’t like to toot his own horn too much. He was a big deal in the London Art scene.  He’d had several successful shows and sold more pieces than his uncle had ever thought he would.

Hopefully, she would call him. He wanted to see her again.  Maybe she’d be willing to model for him.  It had been so long since he’d felt so inspired.

His phone buzzed in his trouser pocket.  He pulled it out hurriedly.  His heart beat in his throat.  Surely Lucy wasn’t already texting him.  Cell service was never perfect on the tube.

Roommate  - Please tell me you have a good reason for leaving the orange juice out on the counter again.

Lockwood sighed before opening his phone to reply.

Um….. I don’t remember having orange juice.

A picture came through a minute later.  The bottle of orange juice with bits sitting on their doodle-covered table.

Roommate: Seeing as youre the only one that likes the bit, Sir Whale, perhaps you care to explain.

Lockwood grimaced.  You tell someone about your childhood eccentricities one time and they never let you forget them.  At least he’d never told Kipps about that particular factoid. 

 Let's blame it on my sleepwalking

Roommate: Fine, but you’re on your own for dinner. I have a date

Lockwood set his phone down and returned to his sketch.  If George was going out on a worknight that meant his date was one of his coworkers, and Lockwood didn’t want to think about the arseholes that worked at the Fittes Collection in the Strand.  The brutalist architecture alone made him queasy.

The pencil ran over Lucy’s profile again, trying to capture the hint of rebelliousness in her brow.  He erased it and tried again.  Still not quite right.

His phone buzzed again.

Fucking Tosser: Any news on the theme for the next show? The gallery needs to get the gallery's promotional materials to the printers.

Lockwood ignored him.  That tosser knew better than to message him before noon.  He was after all the definition of a night owl.  He was certain his best works were created in the early morning hours when the world was quiet and dark.

Flipping to a new page, Lockwood started to sketch a still life of his table, just for something to do while his mind worked.  He would need to head out soon, get back to his basement studio, and finish glazing the canvas he’d put the finishing touches on the previous night.  

On the side of the sketch, he wrote a small to-do list.  He took the half-eaten biscuit with him, leaving the half-empty mug of tea behind. 

**

After a brief nap and a trip to Arif’s to replace the orange juice, Lockwood was back in his studio the sky darkening in the barred windows as he worked on an older canvas. 

He wore wireless headphones and bobbed along to his painting playlist.  

His phone buzzed.  Lockwood paid it no mind, focused solely on the piece in front of him. The still life showed a living room, a bit run down and out of fashion.  The coffee table had a collection of seemingly random items left out. At the edge of the frame was the suggestion of a suit, implying the own of the items had stepped away for a moment.  Another figure, seen only in the mirror's fuzzy reflection seemed to have just arrived.  The piece, tentatively titled The Interview, had felt unfinished until he returned home bursting with inspiration.

As he put the finishing highlights on the mirror, his music was interrupted by an incoming call. Lockwood thought about sending the call to voicemail but answered in the hopes that Lucy was calling him.

“Anthony.” The gruff voice on the other end made him regret taking the call.

“Sykes.” He said simply dropping his paintbrush into the cleaning cup.

“You never answered me. We need to discuss the exhibition.” One of the reasons he liked Sykes was that the man never beat around the bush. Always straight to the point and blunter than a butter knife.

“I’m busy. Painting, for said exhibition.” Lockwood rolled his eyes as he reached for one of the biscuits he’d brought down with him. 

“They need a theme, Anthony. Something to put in the ads. They were also asking how many pieces and their names.”

Lockwood rolled his eyes. Times like this made him regret going into art.  Law and Business were so boring though, no matter how much pride his Uncle would have shown.

He looked over his latest pieces trying to think of what tied them together.  Then it dawned on him.

“Kismet. Tell them Kismet is the theme.”

Sykes huffed, “Kismet huh?”

“You asked, I supplied. Now please leave me alone. I was in the middle of working.” Lockwood used the headphones to hang up on Sykes before the older man could say anything.

Before he could pick up a new brush to continue working, a text came through.  Seeing as his concentration was broken, Lockwood walked over to the device and opened it.

Unknown Number – It’s a slow night. What are you working on?

Lockwood frowned at the text as he read the words a few more times.  It couldn’t be, could it?

Just putting the finishing touches on a painting.  Who is this?

The other person was already typing a response.  Lockwood’s heart began to race as the possibilities ran through his mind.

Unknown Number – Lucy? From the café this morning.

His fingers flew across the little screen before a full thought formed in his mind.

Good Evening Ms. Carlyle. 

Chapter Text

A&E was dead. She really should be grateful as she spun in her chair counting the stains on the ceiling tiles. There was time for bathroom breaks and even a meal break.  Lucy had half a mind to see if an intern was sleeping in the call room and try catching some sleep.  She had taken the check-in desk while her coworkers were taking lunch, smoking, or some other break.  It was a rare moment that she savored.

The few measly hours she’d gotten that morning were fitful.  That was only partially due to Skull yelling at his computer as he worked from home in the office next to her room.  Her sleep had been filled with one AJ Lockwood. 

Pulling the heavy cardstock from her pocket, Lucy turned it over in her fingers debating what she should do. She’d hardly flirted with a guy since Paul.  Fucking arsehole.  Their last fight still filled her with anxiety at the mere thought. 

What did she have to lose by talking to AJ? He didn’t give her creep or serial killer vibes.  Nor did he seem to have the business bro vibes that Paul had given off late in their relationship.  Norrie had been pushing her to get back out on the dating scene.  Surely one fun flirty text conversation wouldn’t hurt.

She glanced around to make sure the charge nurse, Terri, was nowhere to be seen before pulling her phone from her pocket.

It’s a slow night. What are you working on?

The wait for a response was agonizing.  

AJ - Just putting the finishing touches on a painting.  Who is this?

Lucy’s fingers were flying across her screen before she’d even finished reading. 

Lucy? From the café this morning.

Before Lucy could think too hard about his initial response, a new text had arrived.

AJ - Good Evening Ms. Carlyle. 

Lucy squealed, kicking her legs as she spun. He had remembered her. She glanced around to ensure the noise hadn’t disturbed anyone.  The call board and radios remained quiet.  The internal messenger on the laptop in front of her pinged. Lucy rolled her eyes and clicked on the notification.  A friend in the ICU wanted to see how she and Terri were getting on. 

While she worked on a response that wouldn’t have HR breathing down her neck, another text from AJ arrived.

AJ – Dare I ask why you are texting me at midnight?

AJ – Not that I mind, I’m a night owl. Not great for my health, but great for art. Haha

Lucy sniggered quietly as she hit send on her internal message.

I work nights. And youre right, it's not great for our health.  Lol

A subtle squeaking gave Lucy a heads-up that Terri was coming.  She stuffed her phone in her pocket and made herself look busy. Terri looked angry.  If Lucy could have crawled under the nurse’s station she could.

“Nurse Carlyle. Would you care to explain why a small child is running around our waiting area with a rubber chicken?”

Lucy choked on her laugh.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about Nurse Bass.”

“You have no idea how a three-year-old waiting to be seen for joint pain came into possession of a rubber chicken,” Terri pushed.

“Asked and Answered Charge.” Lucy hoped she was keeping a straight face.  Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Terri’s eyes narrowed.

“phones are strictly prohibited while on the unit.  I’ll be writing you up for that.” Lucy fought the eye roll she felt coming.  Typical Terri.  Why couldn’t Liz or Jenny have been Charge tonight?

“I’m clocking out for my meal break that. Be back in 30 minutes. Bay 5 should be opening shortly.” Lucy said dropping her stethoscope to the desk. 

Terri’s mouth opened and closed as she watched Lucy walk to the time clock and punch out.                                                                                                           

Lucy held herself together long enough to grab her lunch bag from the breakroom fridge and walk to the cafeteria.  The cavernous space was empty save for a single man nursing a cup of coffee near the entrance. Lucy purposefully picked the farthest table from the man and opened her bag.

She smiled as a handwritten note from Norrie fell out. 

Dear Lucy,

Please enjoy this attempt at bangers and mash. Skull says the mash is too lumpy. Fuck him

Love

Norrie

P.S: I’m right- Skull  

They’d slowly been learning to cook after Skull exploded one night after a particularly bad bout of food poisoning from a chippy takeaway.

Lucy opened the container to see how slightly charred sausages, a pile of mash, and some congealed gravy.  Reminding herself that it was this or a sketchy onion and pickle sandwich, Lucy dug in. 

With her free hand, she’d worked her phone out and onto the table A new message from AJ was waiting for her.

AJ-So you know what I do for a living. What do you do that has you working late? 

Another text came in before she could respond.

AJ -Sorry… if you’re busy now don’t mean to bother.

Lucy chewed on a bit of sausage.

Not busy. Just went on my meal break.  I’m a nurse. A&E specifically.

She waited for the inevitable questions that normally followed her explaining her job.

AJ- Sounds…. intense?

It can be. Luckily tonight is steady.  Theres people waiting but we don’t have rooms available yet.

AJ  - well if you ever need to vent to someone who has no idea what you do. I’m here.

You really want to hear me rant about being twerked on by a concussed stripper while trying to get a line started?

AJ – that actually happened?  Male or female stripper?

Sorry, I can’t tell you. Privileged information.

AJ – what like Nurse/Patient confidentiality?

Yes, exactly.

What medium is your favorite?

Lucy took a bite of the mash.  It tasted fine, but Skull was right. It was too lumpy for her taste. AJ’s response was slow to come.

AJ - It depends.  I’m partial oil paints, but I’ve been experimenting with watercolours and mixed media recently. Early days for sure.

 Lucy thought back to the days she would spend sitting in the fields surrounding her little town with a palette of Crayola watercolors. 

Very interesting.  Have I seen any of your work?

Her watch buzzed on her wrist. Mealtime was over.  Time to get back to being Terri’s punching bag. When she looked at her phone the last time before stowing it in her locket AJ had yet to respond.

Maybe he’d drifted off or was back in the rhythm of his work. It didn’t really matter. It wasn’t like she would be able to respond until she was on break again. 

“Carlyle,” Terri barked before Lucy was even out of the breakroom.

“There's a child in bay 3. Laceration to the forehead.  Pulse 80, BP 150/70.  You’re up.”

Lucy nodded as she picked up a table and radio.  “On it boss.”

When she opened her phone again on the way home the following morning, her question was still unanswered.   

Chapter Text

Lockwood had stared at his phone the rest of the night trying to will the right words into his thumbs.  He wasn't sure how to explain to Lucy that he was a well-known artist with several high-profile pieces.   The Interview was left unfinished on his easel as he traipsed upstairs for tea and a magazine.

Two cups of chamomile and a London Society later he had yet to feel drowsy. 

Against his better judgment, Lockwood opened his phone and typed Lucy Carlyle into his search engine. IT returned a few hits, most notably an Instagram page and a Facebook for someone named Molly Carlyle.  Perhaps her mother mentioned her well-off daughter?

The result that caught his attention was one from a small Northern paper.  Local Girl Only Surivior of Strange Events in Moorgate.

The article discussed the deaths of five young people all around Lucy's age at sa placecalled the Moorgate Mill.  The building had been abandoned for years and was structurally unsound.  For some reason, the group of young adults ranging in age from fourteen to nineties had been partying at the mill.  Something had happened, the police had yet to provide details, and all but Lucy had perished.

Lockwood could barely understand the kind of loss that must have been for Lucy.  He could barely remember losing his parents, but his sister's death was an open festering wound on his psyche.  How could she have dealt with that?  Had she witnessed their deaths?   He wanted to find her and wrap her up in his arms,  But he had no idea where she lived or what hospital she worked at.

Better to forget that and focus on his issues.  His gaze fell on a stake of small paintings in the corner of his room.  Things he’d started but never finished.

In the morning he told himself before turning out the light and willing sleep to overtake him.

**

He didn't try to contact Lucy again until nearly a week after their late-night chat.  Lockwood tried to convince himself it wasn't his fault. 

When he'd awoke after their late-night chat, a wave of inspiration had overtaken him. Four new paintings were drying in the basement, their varnish already applied.  The Interview had been completed as well in his flurry of work.  It had already been sent off to the gallery for the show.  Sykes had called to tell the piece was his new favorite, after The Practice Room.

Lockwood was drained.  George had voiced concern that he was looking paler than usual after the productivity of the day.  He insisted that Lockwood at least try to leave the house for a little bit. 

As he sat at the kitchen table doodling the next frame in a crass comic he and George were slowly devising his mind wandered.  When his phone buzzed with a request from his accountant for new documentation, Lockwood signed.  He'd been waiting for Lucy to follow up before continuing. 

Would you join me for dinner tonight?

The response was slow to arrive.  She worked nights he reminded himself.  She was likely already asleep given it was half nine in the morning.

When the little dots that indicated Lucy was writing appeared, Lockwood held his breath.

Lucy:  It’s trivia night. But you’re welcome to join.  The Crossed Swords at 8 pm. I’m normally at the table by the dart board.

Lockwood frowned.  Trivia night?   He’d never been to one. He knew George was part of a group that did such things. But it made sense for him.  The man was a walking encyclopedia. The last time they’d played trivial pursuit, George had won by so large a margin they agreed to never play again.  

Sure, but as a warning I’m not very good.

Lucy’s next reply came a bit faster.

Lucy: No worries. I’m sure you make a charming cheerleader. 😊

Lockwood chuckled trying to imagine himself in one of those skimpy outfits he’d seen in American movies and TV shows. 

I’m sure I can still wear my cheer skit 😉

**
At 8 pm on the dot, Lockwood was giving himself a pep talk outside The Crossed Swords.  The Holburn pub looked like any other pub in London.  A loud cheer drew his attention.  Did Trivia start at 8 pm?  Was he late? 

He entered to find the room just a hair more crowded than he would have liked. 

“LOCKWOOD!” A voice screamed.  His head turned to a corner of the room where Lucy and three other people crowded around a high-top table next to a dart board.  There was Lucy, standing on a chair waving at him. He waved back sheepishly as he tried to weave through the throngs of humanity.

A distorted voice blared over the din of the crowd demanding instant silence. 

Welcome to Tuesday Night Trivia!   Most of you lot are the same old crowd, but for those of you who are new to our party a few rules.  All answers must be written on the provided answer sheets.  Yes, spelling counts.  There are three rounds each with its theme.  We’ll tally the scores at the end of each round and announce winners at the end. First place gets a Sunday roast for four. Second place gets a voucher for an entrée, third gets bragging rights. The rest of you get shame.

The room chuckled.

Tonight’s themes are Russian Literature (a boo from the audience), 2010s pop music (a cheer),  and The National Gallery (about half groans and half cheers).

Lockwood reached Lucy’s table and took stock of the other team members.

“GEORGE?” he yelled confused to find his roommate and best friend at the table. 

“Lockwood? I thought I heard your name, but swore I’d misheard.”  George rolled his eyes.

“You know this guy?” Lucy asked George. 

“We’re roommates,” Lockwood explained. Lucy’s mouth hung open in disbelief. 

“This is your irresponsible absent-minded roommate?” George nodded trying to find his pint among the several on the table. 

“I should take offense to that,” Lockwood grumbled.

“Anyway, take a seat. Can I get you a drink?” Lucy asked.

 What novel written by Nikolai Gogol traces the adventures of the landless social-climbing Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov, a dismissed civil servant out to seek his fortune?

George picked up the piece of paper quickly scribbling out the answer.

Lockwood shook his head. Lucy smiled and patted his shoulder.

“Tony?” Lockwood returned to see a familiar red-headed thin man.  Why was Kipps of all people here?

“Kipps,” he said tersely.

“Never thought I catch you this far east,” Kipps said.

Lucy frowned. “Is there anyone on my pub quiz team you don’t know?”

“He doesn’t know me Lu,” Norrie grinned placing her chin on Lucy’s shoulder. “I’m Norrie.”

Lockwood nodded. “Lockwood.” 

Norrie did look strangely familiar.  He saw recognition in her eyes and prayed she wouldn’t do anything in front of Lucy.

“Lockwood… isn’t there some famous artist with that name…” Norrie said.  George snorted as he continued to answer the quiz questions without anyone else's input.

“I think I saw that tossers exhibit at the Wintergarden Galley,” Kipps added with a twinkle in his eye.

Lucy’s eyes widened.  If she hadn’t known who he was before, she surely did now.

“Was your favorite piece The Fencer?” Lockwood asked allowing a sardonic smile to overtake his face.

“Wait…” Lucy’s mind was racing.  “Youre the artist?”

Lockwood did a little bow with a flourish.  “At your service madam.”

The first round is over. Teams send your papers over for scoring.

George slid off his chair scampering across the crowded bar. Kipps pretended to be thoroughly interested in the abandoned game of darts behind them. Norrie just grinned. Lucy was suddenly pale. 

“I take it you saw my exhibit?” He was so close to her now.  He could smell her perfume. It was a spicy scent chosen to cover the light smell of disinfectant. Lockwood wondered if he could paint the scent if he could paint her based on that alone.

“I did…” she trailed off.

“Dare I ask which painting was your favorite?” Lockwood’s eyes sparkled in the light.  How did such deep chocolate orbs sparkle?

“Ghosts,” she said.

Lockwood couldn’t help by feel a strange happiness that she loved one of his lesser works. It was one of his favorites as well. The painting showed a single figure curled up in a dark room surrounded by a set of ghosts. Each one was rendered in startling detail down to the stitching on their clothing in eerie shades of blue and green.  It was one of his favorites though Sykes had bemoaned its lack of commercial appeal.  When it had sold to an American collector Lockwood hadn’t left Portland Row for days.

Round 2: 2010s Pop Music is beginning shortly.    After the first round Fittes and Fires are leading with ten of ten correct answers.  Pubs Powerhouse is in second with eight out of ten correct answers and there is a tie for third between Fuck This Lets Drink and Trivia Tossers with seven of ten correct answers.

“I didn’t know you were famous when I approached you,” Lucy said earnestly.

“I know.”

The round started, but neither of them was really paying attention.

“Triva’s a bit dead. Wanna ditch it with me?” Lockwood was staring at her. 

Lucy looked at her team.  Norrie and Kipps were in deep conversation about the current question, something about an American lawsuit.

“Absolutely.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him through the pub crowd into the cool night air.

Chapter Text

Lockwood took her back to Portland Row for a nightcap. They chatted in the cab ride. Nothing big, just small talk. They talked about Lucy’s frustration with Terri and Lockwood’s with Sykes. They talked about the weather and where Lucy lived.

When they arrived at the townhome, Lucy’s jaw dropped. He lived here? Surely that wasn’t the case. Weren’t artists supposed to live in Soho, or some artsy neighborhood? The façade was clean though the front yard was a bit overgrown. She almost missed the small wooden sign on the gate proclaiming Lockwood Fine Art – By Appointment Only.

The entrance hall was lit by a single crystal lamp shaped like a human skull. All manner of odd antiques hung on the walls interspersed with highly detailed oil paintings. As they passed through the house to the kitchen the house seemed to shift from cold and lifeless to lively. The room felt warm and inviting. From the collection of distinctly British egg cups to the tablecloth covered in scribbles.  It reminded her of her sister Mary's house with its refrigerator covered in children’s drawings and smelling of spices.

“There’s whiskey, some sort of flavored vodka, a suspiciously old pitcher of Pimm’s, and well tea.”

Lockwood had his head in the fridge surveying the offerings.

“Whiskey is fine. Two rocks and a splash of water.” Lucy requested as she studied the cloth. There were shopping and to-do lists, insults between Lockwood and George, what she thought might be George's personal research notes, and in one corner, a square with several squiggles and shapes in it.

“We call that the thinking cloth,” Lockwood said from behind her. Lucy barely startled much to his chagrin. Too many nights in the ER and sharpened her senses. After all, if the ER was quiet, it meant shit was about to hit the fan.

“We got down memos, trains of thought, ideas, research, and generally communicate. It is supremely useful, especially when you're on different schedules.”

She turned to find him holding two glasses with a few fingers of brown liquid in them. Lucy took the one with tiny skull-shaped ice cubs floating in it.

“Someone is obsessed with skulls.” She'd meant it as a statement of fact, but Lockwood barked with laughter.

“George is obsessed with the art of death. It's how we met actually.”

“Sounds fascinating.” Lucy took a sip of her drink.

“The Art of Death and Dying,” Lockwood mused shipping his drink. “Such a fun class. It’s actually part of the story behind Ghosts you know.”

Lucy could clearly see the framed poster she'd purchased at the exhibit. “I didn’t but can absolutely see it.”

“Why is it your favorite? If you don't mind me asking.” Lucy bristled at the question. They were still getting to know each other. Surely it was too early in whatever this was to dump her trauma on him.

“Maybe I'll tell you someday.”

Lockwood chuckled. “Would you like the tour?”

Lucy shrugged. “Can I see your workroom?”

It was Lockwood's turn to bristle. She could see it in the tightness of his shoulders.

“Only if you're comfortable with it.”

Lockwood shrugged. “Only if you promise not to take pictures. There are works in progress down there and I don't let anyone see my work until it's finished.”

Lucy took another sip, her head tilting in curiosity. “And yet you’re letting me down there.”

“What makes you think you're anyone, Luce?”

Heat rushed across her face. Lockwood seemed to study her face for a moment before stepping around her. He opened a door she hadn't realized was there and let the way down a spiraling metal staircase. The basement was cooler than the upstairs. The smell of oil paint and varnish filled Lucy's lungs. It reminded her of the painting class she'd taken at uni. Something for fun that she and Norrie could do together. Her friend had been so excited about the live models that were brought in to help them understand how to develop a composition. Both were sorely disappointed a pensioner had appeared to be their model. She could still hear the retching of her classmates clearly when he'd taken off the robe.

The room was divided into three distinct areas. She could see the heavy metal door of an old bomb shelter or root cellar against the back wall. The edges of canvases peeked out. A large open area with a pair of photography lights setup seemed to be the main studio area. A large canvas sat on an easel. A dried painter’s palette and brush cup sat nearby.  Three more canvases were propped against the basement's support columns. Closest to the stairway was a makeshift office. A pair of desks were set up facing each other. The messier of the two seemed to be covered with papers. The other held only a laptop and two tidy piles of papers. An unframed painting was hung on the wall next to the desk. It was familiar to Lucy, but she couldn't place it. Maybe Norrie would be able to help her identify it.

As she turned, Lucy caught another small room tucked behind the stairs. A laundry basket sat in the doorway overflowing with clothing. The laundry room and the door to the backyard.

Once her survey was done, she met Lockwood's appraising gaze. “Welcome to where the magic happens.”

“It’s a nice space. Much nicer than the tiny space Norrie and I share at home.”

“Your friend is an artist too?” Lockwood was intrigued now. Norrie seemed to know George, implying she worked at one of the museums. Lucy shrugged.

“She dabbles, as part of her work. It's more of a hobby for me.” She finished the rest of her drink, placing the glass carefully on the laptop desk. She hadn't seen a coaster and hoped Lockwood wouldn't mind the water ring on his desk.

Lockwood followed her lead, placing his empty glass next to hers. “Well, if you ever want a place to work away from your home, you're welcome here.”

Lucy gulped. Hadn't he just said this was his private space that no one was allowed in?

“Seriously?”
Lockwood shrugged. “It's nice having a fellow creative to feed off of sometimes. And I'd love to see some of your work.”

Oi. He was laying it on thick. “Only if you'll some me yours. Quid pro quo AJ.”

Lockwood put a hand over his heart in mock horror. “You wound me, Ms. Carlyle. My agent would hate for someone else to get the first look at my latest work.”

“Doesn't George…”

Lockwood shook his head. “George gets free reign of the attic. I get free reign down here. Well except for the laundry room, because while George is a dear friend, I draw the line at washing his pants.  He's not interested in modern art anyway. prefers impressionist and renaissance works.”

Lucy coughed. “As if you're not inspired by Renaissance painters. I'm pretty sure I’ve seen Holbein's influence in some of your paintings.

Lockwood grinned widely. “Why Ms. Carlyle if you weren't already gainfully employed, I might have offered you a job.”

She finally realized how close they were standing. She could make out the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. Long dark lashes framed those deep eyes that seemed to stare right through her. He had a faint scar extending from his top lip to just below his nose. Her fingers danced on her thigh. She wished there was paper and pencil in her hands so she could capture the beauty before her.

I'd love to draw him, she thought.

“You first Luce.” That properly startled her. Has she said that out loud? Surely she hadn't been that stupid. 

He simply smirked, leaning closer to her. His breath fanned across her neck filling her nose with the smokey tones of whiskey. 

“Quid pro quo.”  

“Ok,” Lucy said staring up at him.  

“What really?” It was Lockwood's turn to look utterly taken aback. He stepped back from her to better see her expression.  Lucy nodded.

“Set it up and I'll be there. You'll make a beautiful picture Lockwood.”

Lockwood stared at her, his gaze roaming her. Lucy felt stripped bare as his eyes flicked up and down her figure.

“If I’ll make a beautiful picture, then you’ll inspire a masterpiece.”

Chapter Text

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since Lockwood had seen Lucy Carlyle after their Trivia Night/Tea Night at Portland Row. They had tried to find time to meet, but something always came up.  First, he got sick.  Then she did.  Then there was unexpected Flat Hunt. It probably did not help matters that Lucy was the tiniest bit of a workaholic.  She was constantly working overtime.  Lockwood was starting to worry about her.   Their latest attempt to meet had been foiled an unexpected request from Sykes.  He had called just as Lockwood was heading to bed at six am to notify the artist that the gallery hosting his next exhibition wanted to meet to go over the flow and how the pieces tied into the theme. 

Lockwood had arrived at the gallery early, loitering outside until Sykes arrived.  He had dressed just as he always did, crisp white shirt and a dark slim cut suit.  The pink knit tie was one of his father’s.  It was a lucky tie if Lockwood was to be believed.  He had worn it when he had opened his university acceptance letters, when he had sat for all his uni exams, when he’d cold-called Nigel Sykes asking for representation and when the Wintergarden exhibition had opened.

 
The gallery itself looked like many that dotted London’s streets. The front was entirely glass with banners hung on either side of the entry proclaiming it's latest exhibition.  The walls were stark white allowing the art to pop from its walls.  The current exhibit featured an artist Lockwood had never heard of. Their work was all abstract shapes with bright colours. Several large mixed media installations broke up the large space.   Whoever the artist was, they certainly had talent. While modern art was not to Lockwood’s taste he could still appreciate the thought and craftsmanship of the pieces.

Sykes approached slowly. He looked very much like a Bond villain in the late afternoon light.  He wore a great wool overcoat despite the warm day. Underneath Lockwood could see the lapels of brown suit and blue shirt. The older man leaned heavily on his cane as he moved.  Lockwood’s agent had had the ebony and silver stick as long as Lockwood had known the man. He also knew that the stick itself contained a thin steel blade that had poked holes in at least one unfortunate mugger.  

“Nice to see you’re on time boy.” The man’s east end accent always threw Lockwood through a loop when he met Sykes face to face.  The voice spoke of hardships and callouses while the visage projected posh unconcern. 

“I’m always prompt,” Lockwood offered. “Shall we head in?” 

Sykes waited for Lockwood to open the door and walked through.  A woman in a stylist black pencil skirt and stary night inspired blouse hurried to greet them. Her stiletto heels clicked against the concert floor as she walked. The sound reverberated off of the walls and exposed ductwork.  Lockwood filched as ringing started in his ears.  He always hated when that particular old injury liked to rear its head.

 
“Thank you so much for coming.  Can I get you anything? We have water, tea, coffee, red and white wines, and there might even bit a pinch of brandy left in Malcom’s desk. Mr. Rotwell is just finishing up a meeting and will be out presently.”  

“White wine,” Sykes answered gruffly. 

“Tea please. Pinch of honey and a splash of milk.” Lockwood returned the woman’s uncertain smile.  As she hurried off, the owner of the gallery strode forward.  Mr. Rotwell was tall, broad, and blonde.  His green eyes seemed to sparkle in the gallery’s light. If he had been a banker or stockbroker Lockwood wouldn’t have been surprised, but as a gallery owner?

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming. Lets step into my office to discuss some of the items while Holly prepares your drinks.  Then we can walk the gallery.” He spoke with all the authority of a seasoned salesman, and yet Lockwood felt his skin crawl. 

As they crossed the space, Lockwood couldn’t help but ask the question that had his thoughts racing.  “How did you get into the art business, Mr. Rotwell?”Rotwell glanced over his shoulder at the younger, shorter man and grinned. That grin sent shivers up Lockwood’s spine. 

When they were settled in Mr. Rotwell’s office, Lockwood’s hackles raised further. Mr. Rotwell settled behind his oversized birch sit/stand desk. Sykes slumped into what looked to be an uncomfortable chair in front of the desk.  Lockwood chose to sit on the black sofa shoved in one corner of the room.

 
“You asked how I got into this business Mr. Lockwood…” 
“Just Lockwood.” 
“Alright just Lockwood. Please call me Steve then.”

Lockwood nodded, though Sykes grumbled under his breath at Lockwood’s impertinences. 

“My father was a business partner of Marissa Fittes, if you can believe it. When she first began working on the Fittes collection she was employed by Rotwell Enterprises in our interior design division. My father noticed that she had good taste and promoted her to head of design. He was her first major investor and introduced her to many of his art world contacts. Or so the story goes. There was some sort of falling out about the time that she opened the Fittes Gallery on the Strand. My father never talked about it, but he started this gallery to compete with Marissa.” 

Before anyone could ask a follow-up question, or change the topic, Holly appeared with a small tray of drinks.  She handed Lockwood his mug of tea first before crossing the room to deliver Sykes' wine and Rotwell's rocks glass of amber liquid. 

Sykes hummed as he sipped the chilled vintage. “Marissa had balls of steel. Always knew what she wanted and took it no matter the cost.” 
Lockwood turned to his agent, “You knew her?” 

“Very briefly when I was a young man. She hounded a young agent for weeks to obtain a meeting with his most important client. Her daughter is much the same. Penelope called and offered me twice what Rotwell did for this exhibition.” 

Both Rotwell and Lockwood’s jaws dropped. The rocks glass in Rotwell’s hand clinked as the ice cube shook from side to side. 
“You didn’t take her up on it?” Lockwood’s voice was a bit higher pitched in his disbelief. Sykes knew that a show at the Fittes Gallery was one of his dreams. 

“Nope.” Sykes smacked his lips on the p sound. “Figured that if she wanted you that badly she could double the fee and halve the percentage. She refused. Went on a whole tirade about how the prestige of the Fittes Gallery justified the frankly extortionate rates she wanted. Mr. Rotwell here was much more agreeable.” 

Steve coughed nervously. “It was a price I was willing to pay.  Mr. Lockwood is a visionary and our gallery is honored to be hosting his show. That brings us to the matters at hand.  The theme is to be Kismet , correct?” 

Lockwood nodded. “Yes. Essentially destiny or fate.  A lot of the pieces are connected telling the story of people who seem destined to be together.” 
There was a scratching of pen against paper from the opposite corner.  Lockwood glanced up to see Holly standing there taking notes. 

“You're welcome to sit Holly. I promise I don't bite.” 
“I’m fine over here, thank you. Just wanted to get some points down for the copy.” 
“Do continue Mr. Lockwood.” 

Lockwood thought for a moment, regaining his train of thought.  “The inspiration was a chance encounter at a café. Made me think of all the other ways people meet and how sometime, the universe keeps pulling people into one another paths.”

“Fascinating.” That was Steve, who to Lockwood looked positively bored. 
“Is there a piece that you’d like to have be the focus of the show? The centerpiece if you will?” Holly's voice perked Lockwood up. At least someone in the room was interested .
“Not exactly. Mr. Rotwell you mentioned walking the gallery to discuss placement?” 
Steve nodded. “Shall we step onto the gallery? Holly, we’re closed at the moment?”

“Yes, sir. I also have some print outs of the pieces so we can rough in the placement ideas.”
Steve stood. Lockwood and Sykes stood too, following the giant of a man out of the office.  The galley felt different to Lockwood now that he’d met its owner.  He could see the man’s touches throughout. There were subtle digs as Fittes if you knew what to look for.  All the technology was state of the art, nothing like the simple lighting at other galleries.  Several projectors were stationed overhead for artists who made film and animations. As they approached a wall, Holly hung back allowing Sykes and Rotwell to pass. When Lockwood reached her, Holly passed a stack of eighteen x thirteen cm photo cards to him. Each one was a medium resolution image of a canvas. Flipping through the stack, Lockwood extracted the two he was thinking of.

 
“So, I wanted to put these two on opposite walls, facing one another.” He held up The Interview and another yet untitled work.  
Rotwell nodded sagely as Holly handed Lockwood two pieces of tape.  

“From there I was thinking….” Lockwood ambled several steps down to where he though the next piece should go.  The rest of the group followed behind like a line of ducklings after their mother. 

**

 
By the time Lockwood arrived home he was utterly exhausted.  It had taken two full hours to walk through the gallery setup, then Rotwell had taken both him and Sykes out for drinks at a local gastropub.  Normally Lockwood would have considered himself a fairly outgoing person, but he was fresh out of energy to deal with anyone else. 

Lockwood settled into the basement to paint. He’d brought a bowl of stew George had left for him down. It sat on his desk forgotten and cooling. There were several canvases in need of varnish and another that needed some final touches. He removed a half-finished canvas of the easel.  His headphones stopped playing the ambient soundtrack he was listening to as a notification came through. 

Luce: Doing anything tonight? I’ve got the night off, but either Skull or Norrie are up for anything.  

Lockwood mulled over the options.  He really didn’t want to go out either.  
“Lockwood? I’m heading over to Quills tonight.” 
“Alright.” Lockwood called back. 

AJ: You’re welcome to come over. I’m just in my studio. 
Luce: Can I bring my art supplies? 
AJ: Of course 

Lockwood set his phone aside and reached for a large sketch pad.  Once it was secured on the easel and Lockwood had a piece of graphite in hand, he closed his eyes.  He tried to envision the scene he wanted to draw.  His hand moved on the page.  The sound of the graphite sliding across paper was drowned out by a rain.  

When thunder cracked, Lockwood finally opened his eyes.  The paper had rough shapes blocked in, but nothing concrete. 
Lockwood bit his lip as he focused on refining the shapes.  Slowly the image resolved.  It looked a bit like a two-tiered storage cart, not unlike ones that he’d seen at the University Library.  An odd assortment of shapes seemed to fill the cart.  Most were simple boxes and rectangles. A few were more cylindrical in shape were dotted between the rectangles. One cylinder seemed precariously balanced between a piar of rectangles and the bottom of the cart's top tier. The composition was nearly complete when his phone went off again. He’d lost track of time.  The bowl was stew was cold.    

Luce: Out front.

Lockwood set the graphite aside before whiping his hands with a soft cloth. He climbed the spiral stair and was at the door just as another notificiation came thorugh. He ignored it, opening the door with a wide smile. Lucy was on his stoop with a small rolling case and a plastic bag of what looked to be thai take away.

 
"Hey.” She grinned at him. 
“Hey.”

 
They stood in silence for a moment before Lockwood finally remembered he needed to invite her in. 
“Pardon my manners, it was a trying afternoon. Please come in.” 
Lucy stepped inside. Lockwood took her art supplies for her.

 
“I got enough for two if you're hungry.” Lockwood stomach rumbled as he followed her into the kitchen. Lucy couldn't help but giggle as she set the bag on his table.  

“I'll just drop this in the studio. Be back in two shakes.” 
As he placed her suitcase next the spare desk, Lockwood glanced around the room. It was as tidy as one could hope for.  

“Lockwood. If you don't hurry im eating your share of the crab wontons.” Her words had him hurrying up the stairs.  Art could wait until after he had eaten.