Chapter Text
Part I
“I’m just… not entirely sure what it is I’m supposed to be seeing.”
George took a step backwards, tilting his head to one side and squinting slightly in the hopes that it would help his brain make sense of the mess spilling across the canvas that was in front of him. The shapes blurred slightly in his vision, the colours swirling and melting into each other but still lacking any kind of clarity.
To his right, Matty let out an impatient sigh and crossed his arms, the fingers of his right hand drumming against the side of his torso as George continued squinting at the image.
“Well?” Matty’s voice was brusque.
“No…” Slowly George straightened his neck and gave him an apologetic look, “I’m sorry.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Matty let his arms drop to his sides with another frustrated sigh and shook his head. He moved closer to the canvas that was propped up against the wall in front of them and gestured at George: “Come here, let me show you.”
George did as he was told.
“That’s you,” – Matty pointed at a thick dark line on the canvas that was cutting through the other shapes – “and that’s me.”
George squinted again, still not seeing anything other than the mess of erratic shapes and colours. Matty caught him frowning:
“What is it?”
“It just… it doesn’t look like us,” George admitted. Matty gave him a blunt look:
“Are you being serious right now? Have you seriously just said that to me?”
Despite himself, George couldn’t stop the smile that started to tug at the corner of his mouth. He shrugged and Matty groaned loudly, like George’s lack of artistic prowess was physically paining him which, George supposed, it probably was.
“Look – that’s you ,” – Matty stabbed his finger at the painting again, his movements more violent this time, “and that’s me .”
George followed his fingertip as it slowly started to move over specific brushstrokes, highlighting exactly what it was that Matty wanted him to see. And then, suddenly, the painting seemed to rearrange itself under Matty’s touch. It was like one of those Magic Eye puzzles where at first you’re just looking at something that doesn’t make any sense, but then, once you relax and release the need to see something, an image pops out of nowhere and you understand. You see a building or a tree or a whale.
Or a pair of cocks. Which is what George was currently staring at.
“Do you see it now?” Matty asked, his voice all tight, like he was silently willing George’s eyes to work properly.
“Is that…?” George was frowning again.
“Our cocks ,” – Matty emphasised the word and made a cupping gesture with his right hand, like he was cradling the energetic scrotum of one of the cocks pictured – “Yes George. It’s our cocks. Cocks – the emblem of modern masculinity. The appendage that defines us all. Cocks. ”
“Could you stop saying the word ‘cock’ please? It’s too early,” George mumbled.
“It’s never too early for cock love. You out of everyone should know that,” Matty smirked.
“Behave yourself,” George said.
Matty wiggled his eyebrows suggestively but stayed quiet as George glanced back at the painting, immediately looking away again as soon as his eyes landed on the two cocks. Much like those Magic Eye puzzles, now all he could see was the artistic impression of his own cock (fully erect) pressed against Matty’s (also fully erect).
“Well?” Matty asked again, clearly waiting for a reaction. Sensing that he needed to tread carefully, George did his best to be diplomatic:
“It’s an, uh, interesting piece but I’m not sure we should hang it up here.”
‘Here’ being the main entryway of the home that they shared together.
Matty’s face fell:
“What? Why?”
“Well, because we have a toddler and I think she’s been traumatised enough by your work already without adding this to the list.” George’s frown deepened as he pictured said toddler all grown up and speaking about the highly inappropriate painting on display in their family home while a therapist took notes frantically and made allusions to Freud.
“Scarred by my work,” Matty scoffed loudly. George took this opportunity to pointedly glance behind him at a large self-portrait of Matty that was hanging on the gallery landing, gazing down at them.
“I thought you liked that one,” Matty crossed his arms again, only much more defensively this time.
“I thought you were going to stab me with a paintbrush if I said it was terrifying,” George responded.
While the pandemic had been a difficult time, initially lockdown had started off alright. The first few weeks had been made up of quality family time spent watching Netflix and doing wholesome things like baking and yoga. Then being house-bound had gotten to Matty and his creativity had started to express itself in… weird ways. Namely painting an entire series of self-portraits that depicted him as an ageing (and slightly nightmarish) clown.
The painting on the landing was the creepiest in George’s opinion and had appeared there when Matty was going through a period of lockdown-induced insomnia and feverishly painting in the middle of the night. Matty’s face filled the canvas, staring blankly at the viewer. He was wearing clown make-up and his hair was shaved into an erratic, uneven mohawk, tendrils of cigarette smoke unfurling from his mouth which was twisted into a grimace that managed to look both sad and oddly threatening at the same time. The mohawk (which was now, thankfully, a distant memory) had also been the by-product of pandemic boredom.
“For your information, our child loves that painting,” – Matty gestured at his clown-self – “unlike you, she’s a genius and knows fantastic art when she sees it.”
Thus far, George had remained unconvinced by the artistic talent that Matty kept insisting the little girl had. Every time she painted something, Matty would snatch it up, study it intently and then loudly declare it fit for exhibition before finding George, shoving it in his face and ranting passionately about the various artistic techniques at play in her work.
George was all for encouraging children to explore their natural talents and gifts, but to him the artwork just looked like the average scribblings of a toddler (not that he would ever admit that to Matty.)
“The clown painting stays,” Matty said decisively.
“Are you sure? It’s not too late to include it in your exhibition,” George suggested.
While George was currently trying to figure out book number three, Matty was gearing up for his final exhibition of the year. Taking place on December 23 rd , for the last six months he had been furiously working on something that was, according to his assistant Rome, “very fucking vibey Big G.”
As a rule, Matty didn’t speak about his work while it was in-progress least he risk “creative cross-contamination.” So far the most information that George had managed to glean from him was that it touched on “the lexicon of masculinity, subverting it and exploring the perception of it.”
Deep down George wouldn’t have been surprised if it was a load of wank. Both figuratively and literally.
“The clown painting stays,” Matty said again, turning to look at the painting properly now. “It reminds me…” he trailed off, getting lost in his own thoughts.
“Of what a nightmare you were to live with during the pandemic?” George offered.
“Oh ha, ha. Very clever George. No, it reminds me of the archetypes at play in my work and the importance of pathos for engaging the observer… and also to never cut my own hair again fucking hell ,” Matty frowned.
“Aren’t you worried that people won’t show up to the exhibition given that it’s so close to Christmas?” George asked and at that, Matty let out a laugh:
“You do know who I am, right? People will be fucking crawling over each other to see it.”
“I’m so glad I wrote an entire book about how modest and humble you are,” George deadpanned.
“You can be humble about your talents while also recognising how fucking gifted and amazing you are.” Matty shrugged.
“I think that’s called narcissism.”
“No love,” Matty was smirking at him now, “it’s called being the most exciting and influential artist of the past decade.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, you make art? I didn’t realise.”
“I don’t make art, I am art. Case in point.” Matty gestured towards the portrait.
They were both silent as they gazed up at it. Around them, the house was hushed and empty. The weather had taken a turn in recent days and despite himself, George couldn’t shake the childlike wish that existed within him for a white Christmas, even though he knew it was virtually impossible thanks to global warming.
“It was nice of your mum to take Sophia earlier than planned,” George said then. “At least they get some quality time together before we drive up on Christmas Eve.”
“Well it just made sense with the exhibition. Besides, it’s not like I had to beg mum to do us a favour – she was delighted,” Matty said. “So speaking of Christmas – are you going to tell me what my present is then?”
“I told you, you can find out on Christmas Day,” George said.
“Well I’m planning something very special for you this year. If you’re a naughty boy, you can even have it early.”
“That’s not how this works – you only get a present if you’re good,” said George.
“Not in this instance. In fact, the naughtier you are, the more enjoyable it is,” Matty winked, turning back to the first painting they had been looking at. “Maybe this would work better in the kitchen?”
“Or maybe it would work better hanging in your studio, as far away from our home as is physically possible?” George said, following suit.
“I knew you hated it,” Matty sighed.
“Not as much as I hate that clown painting.”
******
The high street was alive as he made his way towards the bookshop. It was December 21 st and all around him, people were rushing into shops, frantically trying to finish (or start) their Christmas shopping. The air was filled with noise: Car horns, voices and the wayward strains of Christmas carols that floated on the air.
He found himself sinking into the cacophony as he walked, his mind getting distracted by the snippets of overheard conversation: Excited chatter, laughter, hissed frustrations and groans of protest all mingling together. This was life and life was swirling around him, happening here, now, in this moment. And it struck him suddenly how funny it was that life was so fluid. It was always shifting – just when you thought all was lost, circumstances could change in an instant. Your entire life could be altered forever in a moment, a breath, a second. It was a dichotomy that he found equal parts terrifying and oddly comforting.
Everything hinges on an instant.
He sunk deeper into his thoughts as he compared who he was now with who he had been a year prior, how everything had, really, changed for him in a single moment, a breath, a second. And on the high street, George found himself inhaling slowly, as if to test the theory.
His inhalation was cut short when he was abruptly shoved from behind as someone pushed past him on the street cradling a giant box in their arms.
George swore and then he saw the picture on the side of the box which showcased its contents: It was a life-sized, light-up baby Jesus for an outdoor crib. He smiled to himself as he heard Matty’s voice come to life inside his head. If Matty were here he’d be gesticulating wildly and saying something like: Religious symbolism now pre-packaged for modern consumption, can you believe that? Fucking hell. He would rant until he changed his own mind then start to laugh and tell George they needed one as an ironic statement for their holiday décor.
Matty.
George shook his head, still smiling and made a mental note to tell Matty about it later.
He continued on up the high street dodging frantic shoppers until In The Good Books came into view and as soon as he saw the old, curved bay window, George felt his insides relaxing. Walking into the bookshop always had a visceral effect on him. It was like he had been conditioned to physically feel the weight of the world sliding off his shoulders as soon as he heard the tinkle of the bell above the bookshop’s front door.
The bookshop was his home away from home, his sanctuary and as much a part of him as his writing or anything else he did.
George’s smile became more pronounced as he pushed the door open and immediately heard Ross and Hann chatting to each other at the front counter.
As George carefully made his way around a heaving bookshelf, they came into view. Ross was pricing books and Hann was curled up in one of the armchairs directly in front of the counter, a coffee in one hand and a magazine balanced on his lap.
“You’d think with all your money and success, you’d have a fucking fancy room to write in that isn’t the grotty back office of an old bookshop,” Ross said. He picked up a book he was pricing and started scanning the blurb on the back.
“And miss this majestic place? Never.” George gave Ross a grin as he shouldered off his jacket.
“Majestic?” Ross snorted, “the roof is leaking again and yesterday Waughy found a dead pigeon in the upstairs storeroom.”
“It truly is the most wonderful time of the year,” George responded, wrinkling his nose at the thoughts of the dead pigeon.
“Merry Christmas G – what’s Santa bringing you then?” Hann asked as George folded himself into the chair opposite him.
“Wait, let me guess,” Ross said, putting down his book and invested in the conversation now. “Is George getting another unhinged, highly public and vaguely threatening declaration of love?”
George gave him a withering look: “Hilarious.”
“What about a bouquet of dead flowers?” Ross continued, a grin on his face, “a diary entry spray painted on the fucking M40? A cryptic piece of artwork about his cock?”
George frowned at that last one as he remembered the painting Matty had unveiled in their entryway a few days ago. Best not to mention that one.
“I don’t know what he’s getting me. He always likes it to be a surprise. He’s not exactly into traditional gifts,” George said.
“Shocking,” Ross deadpanned.
“What did he get you last year?” Hann asked.
An image flickered into George’s brain: Matty painstakingly painting his entire body with melted chocolate and then slowly licking it off. His body responded to the memory almost instantly. He drifted, momentarily lost in the mental image of Matty’s face lit up by the open fire that they had been lying in front of, his dark eyes dancing in the low light.
“G?”
Hann’s voice yanked George back to the present moment. He could feel his face flushing. Last Christmas had been a good one.
“Uh,” he cleared his throat awkwardly while Hann and Ross gave him a weird look, “socks. He bought me socks.”
It wasn’t a lie. The melted chocolate had been his main present but the socks had been for “posterity’s sake” according to Matty.
“Socks?” Hann arched an eyebrow. “That doesn’t seem very Matty-like.”
George shrugged: “He bought me socks. Well, socks and a first edition of Tender is the Night .”
Behind the front counter, Ross threw up his hands:
“You get a priceless work of literature and do you know what Waughy got me last year? A fucking FitBit !”
“That’s a cute present,” said Hann, taking a swig of his coffee.
“Did you not hear what I said?” Ross leaned over the counter: “I said: He-bought-me-a-fucking-Fitbit. A FitBit. The unsexiest of all gifts!”
“A FitBit is a cute present,” Hann repeated, ignoring Ross who gave him a death glare, “it means he loves you and wants you to live longer.”
“Or, it’s really insulting and he thinks I need to get off my arse and go for a run,” Ross grumbled. “Worst. Present. Ever. I would have committed murder for a first edition of Tender is the Night .”
“What’s the worst present you’ve ever gotten?” Hann asked George.
The lockdown clown painting immediately slammed itself to the forefront of George’s mind, although that was less like a present and more like something that had been forced upon him against his will.
“I don’t think there’s ever any bad presents… just ones that aren’t exactly to your taste. But it’s the thought that counts,” said George.
Lockdown clown isn’t real. Lockdown clown can’t hurt you.
“Spoken like someone who has never received a fucking FitBit from their partner,” Ross grumbled.
“Speaking of partners, how’s Matty getting on with his exhibition?” Hann asked. “Have you seen any of his work yet?”
George shook his head:
“All I know is that Rome thinks it’s “vibey as fuck” whatever that means.”
“ GQ said it’s going to be the show of the year. They ran a piece about it last week – their Arts editor is beyond buzzed,” said Hann, taking another sip of his coffee.
“Are you one hundred percent sure you’re not getting another unhinged, highly public and vaguely threatening declaration of love for Christmas mate?” Ross smirked as George rolled his eyes.
“That’s my cue to exit. If anyone needs me, I’ll be trying to get some words down,” George said, getting to his feet. He started moving towards the door of his office, leaving Hann and Ross to speculate about Matty’s exhibition and whether or not George’s Christmas present was likely to feature on the news.
How do you follow two bestselling novels? That was the question that George had been asking himself every single day for the past three months. He had lots of ideas, so that was something. In fact, he had never felt more inspired in his life. But there was inspiration and then there was over-inspiration: He had no fucking idea where to start. Material was not a problem. He had buckets of it, but he lacked a singular focus. He had no way of sticking all of his ideas together into a cohesive narrative which was – he sighed as he sunk down onto his chair and opened up his laptop – a complete and total nightmare.
While inspiration had always been a bit elusive for George, he was convinced that living with Matty had made him more creative. Matty was like a generator of creative energy – it seemed to ooze from him and George had become a receptor. By simply being in the vicinity of Matty every single day, he found ideas came to him more easily.
But despite the fact that he currently had no singular plot, he needed to keep writing nonetheless because it was in the act of writing that things started to make sense and if he just kept putting words down, eventually a greater picture would take shape.
That didn’t make it any less difficult though.
He sighed again and glanced around his office. It hadn’t changed much over the last year. It still looked messy and slightly unkempt. The only main changes had been to the photo gallery that hung on the wall directly above his desk and his eyes landed on it now.
The post-it note that had once been at the centre of it all had been replaced by a photo of himself, Matty and Sophia that Matty’s mum had taken of them shortly after they had moved in together. In the photo, George’s arm was draped around Matty’s shoulders and Matty was holding Sophia and beaming at the camera. Even Mayhem was in it – his head resting against George’s leg and his sad eyes gazing up at him with a look of pure, unfiltered love. It was a photograph that George adored, mainly because it contained everything that he never thought he could have.
He smiled to himself as he gazed at the photo and then he opened his laptop, put his fingers against the keyboard and started to type.
He worked throughout the rest of the day, pausing only to help Ross move a bookshelf and to grab some food from Night Shift, Hann’s coffee shop. Eventually, he found his flow. It washed over him, submerging him and assuring him that (slowly, very slowly) he was starting to get somewhere.
He pulled his eyes away from his laptop screen as there was a knock on the office door.
“Yeah?” George sat back in his seat and rubbed at his eyes. He had no idea how long he had been working.
Ross poked his head around the door:
“I’m just about to lock up for the evening. Do you fancy coming round for dinner?”
While dinner was tempting, George didn’t want to interrupt the momentum he had built up:
“Thank you but I’m going to stay for a while.”
“Do you promise not to get drunk and barricade yourself in here like that time that we don’t talk about?” Ross asked.
The time Ross was referring to was, of course, shortly after things had ended with Matty and George had refused to leave the bookshop until he finished the first draft of his last novel. It had… not been a good time for him. Or anyone, for that matter.
“I’m going to stay for another hour, max, then I’m going home,” George said.
“Will you lock up when you’re done?”
“Of course.”
He exchanged a goodbye with Ross and grabbed his phone, quickly typing out a text to Matty:
George: Staying at the bookshop a little while longer. Won’t be home for dinner. Love you x.
The replay came a few minutes later:
Matty: Hey Big G, it’s Rome. Matty asked me to text you back. He’s deep in work mode. Reckon he’s going to crash at the studio tonight. Love you too x.
Matty going missing ahead of a big opening was par for the course at this stage. In the past, this would have worried George, but since they had started seeing each other again, clear, defined rules were now in place. Matty could have his creative freedom, but George had to have some way of contacting him. That method was usually Rome, who (thankfully) didn’t seem to mind much.
In his office, George stretched out his wrists then grabbed the box of cigarettes that was sitting on his desk and pulled one out. He stuck it in his mouth and lit up, taking a long drag and then he went back to his writing, once again getting submerged in the simple act of putting one word after another until there was nothing else except the page and the scenes taking shape inside his mind.
The desk was vibrating. Caught between consciousness and sleep, George reached out a hand, grasping blindly, trying to find the source of the vibration. He had a vague cognition of phone as his fingers touched something rectangular and solid. The vibration stopped and he groaned as his body started to ache. He cracked one eye open and, confused, it took him a second to realise where he was.
Bookshop. Bollocks.
He forced himself to sit up, groaning as his neck and back started to protest. He had fallen asleep at his desk again. I’m getting too old for this.
Bleary-eyed, he looked at the screen of his phone and frowned. There was a message from an unknown number. He opened it, his confusion growing when he read it:
Unknown number: Go outside x.
George was mid “who is this?” text when he heard the front door of the bookshop slamming, followed by Ross yelling:
“I’M NOT HAVING IT JOHN!”
Who the fuck is John?
In George’s hand, his phone vibrated again quickly – two messages coming through this time:
Unknown number: Go outside.
Unknown number: Now.
In the front of the shop, Ross cursed loudly and George jumped as he heard the sound of half a dozen books hitting the floor. He got to his feet and cautiously opened his office door where he found Waughy picking up a stack of books and Ross angrily stabbing at the screen of his phone.
“G? What are you doing here?” Waughy asked and before George could respond, Ross turned on him:
“I’m fucking DONE with Matty mate. I know you love him, but I am DONE with this bullshit. You hear me? For fuck’s sake!”
“What?” George frowned, then shook his head, “what’s going on?”
“What’s going on is that your bird has LOST HIS FUCKING MIND,” Ross barked. He threw his phone on the counter and then glared at George: “again I might add. You hear me? AGAIN. How can one person have that much fucking CRAZY inside them? It’s not normal.”
George prickled that that:
“Be very careful about what you say next mate.”
Behind the counter, Ross looked like he was about to pick up a book and lob it directly at George’s face:
“He’s fucking PAYING for this, all of it, I don’t give a shit,” Ross snapped.
Completely lost, George’s frown deepened:
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, he just THINKS he can fucking do whatever the fuck he wants? I’m going to fucking SLAP his fucking FACE off. He’s such a PRICK!” Ross continued.
“Hang on a second. Matty hasn’t done anything,” George snapped.
“The FUCK he hasn’t!” Ross spat.
“He hasn’t,” George insisted. “He’s been preoccupied with the exhibition – he’s sleeping in his studio.”
Ross let out a loud bark of laughter at that:
“Oh is he George? IS HE ? Where the fuck was he last night then?”
“George, maybe you should go outside,” Waughy offered quietly.
“Ross seriously,” George said, ignoring Waughy and coming to stand in front of the counter, “Matty was in his studio last night. I spoke to him. Well, I spoke to Rome.”
“Well if Rome says something is true then of course we should believe him. The little fucking smurf. I love you like a brother George, but I swear to god if Matty comes in here in the next twenty-four hours I am going to beat the living shit out of him,” Ross was running his hands down his face all agitated.
“Ross,” George took a step forward, stopping abruptly when Waughy appeared in front of him and said firmly:
“George, go outside.”
Suddenly George remembered the text from the unknown number. He threw a look at Ross who was still threatening physical harm on Matty and then turned and walked towards the bookshop’s front door, pulling it open and stepping outside.
The high street was relatively quiet, the vast majority of people still at home enjoying their breakfast and not dealing with shouty mates and threats on their partners’ lives. George shivered as the cold air touched his skin. He took two annoyed steps out onto the footpath and scanned the area:
What the fuck am I even supposed to be looking at here?
In his pocket, his phone buzzed again and he pulled it out and glanced at the screen:
Unknown number: Behind you.
George turned around and then he saw it.
Staring back at him from the front of In The Good Books was a life-sized painting of Matty. George had two thoughts simultaneously: What the fuck? closely followed by: Ross is going to murder both of us.
The painting occupied the same spot as another self-portrait Matty had done a few years previously which he had agreed to let Ross and Waughy paint over when the amount of people using it for an Instagram selfie opportunity became less fun and more of an annoyance. And now, here Matty was again, in the exact same spot.
At least he’s fully dressed this time.
In the painting, Matty was wearing a suit and a skinny black tie. A pair of dark sunglasses covered half his face. He had one hand in his pocket and the other was holding up a newspaper. The newspaper was, cleverly, called ‘The Daily Fail’ and the headline declared:
ROCK & ROLL IS DEAD. GOD BLESS MATTHEW HEALY.
George stood there silently for a few seconds, doing his best to work out how he felt. Was this something he was supposed to be worried about given the last time Matty had defaced In The Good Books? But Matty was in a good place right now. Matty had been fine when George had seen him yesterday morning… or had that been an act? Oh fuck. Is this about the cock painting? It has to be about the cock painting…
George spun round as he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Where did you come from?” he asked as he came face to face with a very concerned looking Adam Hann.
“Ross sent me a text that said, and I quote, ‘Wanksy strikes again.’” Hann glanced over George’s shoulder at the portrait, his mouth setting itself into a frown. “Uh… this is a bit of a personal question mate, but is everything alright at home?”
George let out a sigh and turned back to the painting:
“Yeah, he’s fine. I mean… I think he’s fine.”
Hann moved closer, his eyes scanning over the painting.
“It’s just that…” Hann trailed off and gave George a sympathetic look. He didn’t need to say it. George already knew what he was thinking. The last time Matty had pulled a stunt like this, things between them had been one hundred percent NOT fine.
But then George remembered the texts from the unknown number. He was still holding his phone.
“Let me call him,” he said and Hann continued squinting at the painting as George hit Matty’s name on his favourites list.
The call immediately went to voicemail and George was about to hang up and try again when he heard Matty’s voice:
“George, if you’re calling me about In The Good Books, I highly advise you to take a proper look at that newspaper. It's supposed to rain today and you’re gonna want to read it before the weather changes. Kisses!”
George lowered the phone from his ear just as Hann took a step back from the painting and started pointing at it:
“G, there’s a key stuck to his pocket!”
“What?” George’s brows pulled together in a crease as Hann grabbed his wrist and tugged him closer, pointing at the painting. Sure enough there was a tiny key stuck there beneath the black paint. He didn’t say anything as Hann gently picked the top layer of paint off it and peeled it from the wall.
“What do you think it’s for?” Hann asked as he handed it to George.
It was a tiny key made of clear plastic and it seemed even smaller sitting in the palm of George’s hand. George poked at it and as he considered the key, he remembered what the voicemail had said: Take a proper look at that newspaper.
He glanced up at the newspaper, his eyes gravitating to that headline again:
ROCK & ROLL IS DEAD. GOD BLESS MATTHEW HEALY.
It was a bold statement and yet so typically Matty it was almost funny.
George’s eyes scanned over the newspaper and then he spotted it: There was a tiny message for him hidden just beneath the title of the newspaper: Where you kissed me for the first time (then ran away like a knob). It was followed by a date – December 22 nd – and a time: 10pm.
Suddenly everything made sense. George could feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he spotted the second message that was hiding in the footer of the newspaper:
You’re welcome for the masterpiece R. Sorry I can’t be there to see that sexy, angry face of yours – M x. (P.S. The paint is water soluble. Now you see me, now you don’t.)
George took a step back, the tiny key still in his hand.
“Are you sure Matty’s alright?” Hann was hovering beside him, watching him carefully.
“Matty is fine,” George nodded.
“Are you sure about that mate?”
“Completely.”
“So what the fuck is this about then?” Hann cast his eyes back to the portrait, his face all creased with worry and George couldn’t stop himself from laughing:
“I think it’s my Christmas present.”
******