The Art of Curating Romance - Chapter 6

It was winter break, which meant a break from Martin. At least, supposedly.

Natalie lived not too far from the university campus itself. She'd grown up around the area, in a suburb of Boston just a few towns away. 

Being back at her parents' place always grounded her. Especially around the holiday season. The house was enveloped in warm lights, with leftover wrapping paper scattered across the floor and the scent of cinnamon lingering in the air long after her mother's customary Christmas baking had finished. It was soothing, and it reminded her of days with her grandmother, her nonna, who had originally inspired her love for Italian Renaissance paintings.

Natalie was curled into the corner of the family room sofa, legs tucked beneath her, half-watching a Christmas special playing on mute when suddenly she got a text message. 

She looked down and saw who it was. 

Martin.

Martin: Good evening, Natalie. How are you doing? 

It nearly caused her heart to stop. A second later, her phone pinged again.

Martin: Did you see the updated lecture calendar? They bumped the Venus session up to week two. Which is fine, unless you were planning a grand thematic arc.

Natalie's first instinct was to roll her eyes. Her fingers hesitated over the glass screen, the cursor blinking at her, as if entreating her to please answer. 

Theoretically, Natalie had a strict policy of no work emails over the holidays. But being a workaholic to her bone, she found that she couldn't resist typing.

Natalie: Aren't you quite the busy bee. Aren't we supposed to be on vacation?

She put her phone down, feeling her hands trembling strangely. A moment later, it buzzed again.

Martin: What can I say? I am a diligent man. Aren't you Americans supposed to be always available to answer work-related texts anyway? No work-life balance here and the like?

Natalie: Christmas Break is sacred to us. I take it that's not the case in stuffy Britain.

Natalie: By the way, I live for the grand thematic arc. This is a tragedy.
They'll need to open with something dramatic to compensate. Perhaps a live dove release.

A moment passed. The typing bubble appeared, paused, disappeared, then returned again.

Martin: I did once see a fellow in Vienna try to open a talk with a lute player in costume. Though it was deeply traumatic for everyone involved. Perhaps we can try along the lines of that.

A surprised laugh escaped her, sharper than she meant. Across the room, her younger sister, Lucy, poked her head in from the hallway, eyes sharp, like a fox who’d caught a scent.

“You’re smiling at your phone like you’re fifteen," she said. "Who is it?”

Natalie didn’t look up. “No one.”

Lucy padded in, her flannel pajama pants swishing, and flopped down beside her on the sofa. “Could it be a man?"

Natalie gave her a withering look. “No. It’s work.”

Lucy was a good seven years younger than Natalie, and was just about to graduate from her Master's in a completely opposite field: economics. Natalie shuddered at the thought. How her adorable younger sister had turned into a mathematical monster, she had no idea. Apparently, that also came with her being rather nosy and always playing Emma Woodhouse with Natalie.

Lucy peered at the phone screen and gave a long, theatrical gasp. “A work romance, then?” she said, poking her. “Scandalous, Nat. Although it's very you. Those dating apps never were your thing, were they? Always soo traditional.So, do you have pics of him?"

Natalie shook her head, pushing her away playfully. “You’re insufferable.”

Her phone buzzed again.

Martin: If you were lecturing, you’d have something better than a dove.
Probably an interactive Botticelli that winks every time someone mentions Neoplatonism.

Natalie: You joke, but I seriously do have that in the works. I can send you the Photoshop files. Just need an animator.

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen. Then another message came through before she could reply again:

Martin: I believe that. You’re the only person I know who would casually design a digital Renaissance flirtation simulator just to prove a thematic point.

Natalie smiled. And this one, she didn’t bother hiding. There was a warmth blooming somewhere in her chest, and it had nothing to do with the fire crackling beside them.

"Ugh,” Lucy said. “Disgusting. You're perpetually grumpy and prickly. You're not supposed to smile like you're in love or some shit. I'm outta here."

Natalie rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite fight the smile.

Her phone buzzed again.

Martin: When you’re back, coffee’s on me. And if you’ve got mockups, I expect a full demo. Don’t leave me wondering what Botticelli would do.

Natalie stared at the screen a moment longer than she meant to. Coffee's on me. She didn’t reply. Not yet. But her fingers lingered over the keys, as if they wanted to say more than she knew how to fit into words.

-

Since that first exchange, Natalie thought that it would end there. But it didn't. Somehow, it developed into something else. They texted for hours each day. Each morning over the break, he'd text her a 'Good morning, how are you doing?' And while at first, they were about work – 'did you see this news about this painting, have you heard from the director about this or that, this may be interesting for our course' — gradually, it became less and less so. 

Martin: Just saw a spaniel wearing a waxed Barbour jacket. Thought of you immediately.

Natalie: Should I be flattered or mildly offended?

Martin: Entirely flattered. Very well-dressed. Bit aloof. Definitely judging my shoes. Rather like a certain someone I know.

Natalie: Sounds accurate. Did the dog also sip overpriced espresso and correct people’s Latin?

Martin: Not visibly. But I sensed it could. Strong aura of Ars longa, vita brevis.

She laughed into her tea.

Natalie: I’m watching a baking show and deeply contemplating making lemon drizzle. But I own one pan and no electric whisk. Pray for me.

Martin: Do it. Chaos bakes are character-building. And I quite like imagining you covered in flour and swearing at batter.

Natalie: Already swore at the lemons. Passive-aggressively. They know what they did.

Martin: Next time I’ll bring a proper mixer and moral support. I make excellent snarky commentary and very average scones.

She paused, smiling a little at the warmth blooming in her chest. Something about imagining him there with her in her little kitchen, huddling by the stove, made something within her inexplicably leap with joy.

Natalie: I wouldn’t mind that. The moral support part.

Martin: Noted. Also: just learned that ducks can sleep with one eye open. You're welcome.

Natalie: I feel you just solved the problems of the world. Congrats, Laurent. Don't you have better things to do than look up duck facts? 

Martin: Let me enjoy my duck facts. Also because you may be possibly part duck. I can imagine you are the type of person to sleep with one eye open.

She took a moment before replying.

Natalie: I'm... Honored? Slightly alarmed?

Martin: I was really just checking in, by the way. No need to reply if you’re tired. Just wanted to say hello. And share some joyous world phenomena with you.

Martin: Hope your day was kind to you.

Natalie stared at that one a little longer. She thought of him – infuriatingly handsome Martin, the heartthrob of the female student body and that smile she thought was one of someone looking down on her. Perhaps it was just that she hadn't seen him in a while, but somehow, she realized her opinion of him had changed. And to her surprise, she found herself typing back with sincerity.

Natalie: It was. I hope the same for you. Sleep well, Martin.

Martin: You too, Natalie. Dream of flour-drenched triumph.

"You're disgusting," Natalie heard Lucy say. Her voice seemed almost distant. Natalie rolled her eyes at her sister, but she couldn't erase the smile from her face.

-

Smiling to himself, Martin, completely alone, stirred his tea with a small silver spoon absent-mindedly, eyes fixed on the soft grey outside the window. A fine mist had been clinging to the glass all morning, softening the trees, blurring the redbrick edges of campus buildings. With the imminent whispers of winter brushed like a fine film over the landscape, it looked somehow very English.

Rather ironic, really.

But right now, it didn't seem to matter like it usually did. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed a hand over his jaw. The lecture slides were still open on his laptop, untouched for a long while now. A picture of the Vitruvian Man stared at him from the slides, mid-gesture, vaguely divine. He closed the file.

Usually, when he had the opportunity for quiet moments of reflection like this, a sense of bittersweet filled his chest. He'd think about how he'd first accepted the offer to stay here as a sort of personal "comeback" effort. The university had been generous, even enthusiastic, when they’d invited him over for the term. A visiting lectureship, access to the museum’s upcoming programming, and the quiet bonus of seeing his name next to an article in The Burlington Magazine — the very same one that had publicly discredited him five years ago.

Closure. Finally.

But somehow, the taste of it didn't seem as sweet. Not when he'd tasted something sweeter. More tantalizing.

Natalie. She slipped in his thoughts, the way she always did. Her laugh, half-contained. The way she held a painting in her mind like it was something alive. Her eyes when she argued. Focused, brilliant, impossible to ignore. And of course, her pencil skirts and tempting curves.

He was thinking about her too much. In the evenings. In quiet corridors. On the walk to coffee. All he wanted to do was see her in that little office in the reference library. To take her there, make her his. 

Martin closed his laptop and stood up. He should go out, get some air, maybe stop thinking.

But as he shrugged on his coat, he found himself wondering not about the article, or his next lecture, or what the department chair back in Oxford might have to say about his reappearance in The Burlington.

He was wondering what Natalie would say, and whether she’d laugh or argue, or maybe, just this once, agree with him.

And it struck him, not unpleasantly, that this, not the publication, was what felt real.