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The rain sluices down inside his jacket, but he barely registers it. The cold trickle seeping through under his shirt, onto his clammy skin, just adds to the pervading sense of melancholy. He kicks a stone and watches it skitter across the pavement before raising his head to stare listlessly out over the Thames. The river is a sludge grey in the downpour, somehow an apt backdrop. Standing on the Embankment across from the gallery.
She observes him from afar under her red polka-dot umbrella. Not sure if she should encroach on his private moment, but her heart aching at seeing him so miserable. He has no idea she is standing there watching his solitary sadness. He has no idea of the torch she holds for him.
He deserves better than this, she thinks to herself. Better than the woman who just stomped on his heart on what was supposed to be his big day. His gallery opening, his first exhibition as a solo artist. Instead, Tess chose this day, his special day, to break his heart and run to another man. She wants to make it better, make him see he deserves this, and that woman shouldn't be allowed to ruin his achievement.
“Ben,” she calls softly as the traffic light turns red, and she can cross the Embankment to him.
He looks up at the sound of his name being called, but in the noise of the rain, he can’t discern the direction, looking either side but not behind.
She runs across almost furtively and pulls up before she gets too close.
“Ben,” she repeats, quieter this time. Hoping her tone is soft enough not to startle him.
He turns around, and all he sees are polka dots. He can’t help the tiny smile that tugs at his lips, even at this moment of utter despondency. Only one person he knows would ever own such a cheery item. And he is inordinately glad she is there for some reason.
“Soph,” he greets with a gentle smile as she pulls up next to him, attempting to raise her brolly high enough but almost taking his eye out in the process, the height difference too much to surmount.
He jerks aside to avoid injury, but it just makes him huff a laugh rather than sigh in annoyance.
“Give me that,” he grumbles good-naturedly, manhandles the brolly from her and holds it above them both.
“You can do better, you know,” she says, huddling closer, looking out over the river.
His heart skips a beat as she says it. He knows she’s right on some level. And a part of him aches, wishing she knew sometimes that he wants her, Sophie, to be his ‘could do better’. Still, friendship is better than nothing, and she is still smarting from the last idiot who didn't see her value. Didn't see her for the angel she is, at least to him.
“Thanks, Soph,” he offers a quick smile as she glances up at him, and she checks him in the arm with her shoulder.
“So are you coming back to your big gallery opening, Mr Big Shot,” she asks gently, “or are you going to stand out here doing your Hugh Grant impression for a little longer?”
He chuckles at her genial ribbing. She always seems to know just what to say to make any of his burdens lighter, even though he's certain she has no idea of it.
“Don't you fancy Hugh Grant?” he teases, feeling happier than he has all day. Hell, all week.
“Shut up,” she grumbles, pouting up at him in an utterly adorable way.
Things could be worse.