There were, Alex thought, certain watersheds in a person's life; those moments that suddenly
accelerated a boy to a man, a husband to a father. The latter self-explanatory, the former slightly more nebulous.
Hannah was a nebulous watershed.
If she had any rules that governed her behaviour she kept them to herself. As a result Alex found her unpredictable and exiting. Perhaps if Hannah's features had been plainer, or her laugh less infectious, or her skirt a little longer he would have dismissed her as a sanctimonious mediaevalist.
Hannah wouldn't particularly have cared. Alex was beginning to understand that about her. She saved up all her passion and focused it so precisely that she was difficult to resist. Alex didn't even try.
He hadn't quite worked out what she saw in him. He was her enemy in many ways. He was a technophile with a short attention span and the all discerning taste of a magpie. He believed that, on the whole, new was better than old, contemporary better than retro, now better than then.
It still astonished him to think that he met Hannah at an art gallery. Seriously, an art gallery! Alex didn't even like Art, especially the modern stuff. He just didn't see the point. Pictures, decorations, portraits... yes, they served a purpose. Bur Art? The way he saw it was that it was about 90% spin. And there was always some idiot in a bear costume.
The reason for his presence in the cavernous converted mill was so convoluted that four months on he couldn't even remember the why. He suspected it had something to do with his friend Malcolm's ever expanding portfolio of trendy venues and Alex's duty to coo over each and every one as and when they came into Malcolm's possession.
Hannah was there for a totally different reason. She understood Art. She also understood all the metaphorical, allegorical, ironic immaterial of it. She had sniffed sceptically when the young, self-important curator/salesman had pointed out some of the finer points to Alex in his best reverend whisper.
It was that sniff that had snagged Alex's attention.
An unimpressed flick of his eyebrow had the boy scuttling back to the reception. Clearly he was an irredeemable philistine. Alex breathed a sigh of relief.
"Ignore all that drivel," a voice echoed through the vault-like hall. "Do you like it?"
Alex saw her peep out from behind a whitewashed column. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in the sort of messy style that Alex cynically decided must have taken hours to achieve.
accelerated a boy to a man, a husband to a father. The latter self-explanatory, the former slightly more nebulous.
Hannah was a nebulous watershed.
If she had any rules that governed her behaviour she kept them to herself. As a result Alex found her unpredictable and exiting. Perhaps if Hannah's features had been plainer, or her laugh less infectious, or her skirt a little longer he would have dismissed her as a sanctimonious mediaevalist.
Hannah wouldn't particularly have cared. Alex was beginning to understand that about her. She saved up all her passion and focused it so precisely that she was difficult to resist. Alex didn't even try.
He hadn't quite worked out what she saw in him. He was her enemy in many ways. He was a technophile with a short attention span and the all discerning taste of a magpie. He believed that, on the whole, new was better than old, contemporary better than retro, now better than then.
It still astonished him to think that he met Hannah at an art gallery. Seriously, an art gallery! Alex didn't even like Art, especially the modern stuff. He just didn't see the point. Pictures, decorations, portraits... yes, they served a purpose. Bur Art? The way he saw it was that it was about 90% spin. And there was always some idiot in a bear costume.
The reason for his presence in the cavernous converted mill was so convoluted that four months on he couldn't even remember the why. He suspected it had something to do with his friend Malcolm's ever expanding portfolio of trendy venues and Alex's duty to coo over each and every one as and when they came into Malcolm's possession.
Hannah was there for a totally different reason. She understood Art. She also understood all the metaphorical, allegorical, ironic immaterial of it. She had sniffed sceptically when the young, self-important curator/salesman had pointed out some of the finer points to Alex in his best reverend whisper.
It was that sniff that had snagged Alex's attention.
An unimpressed flick of his eyebrow had the boy scuttling back to the reception. Clearly he was an irredeemable philistine. Alex breathed a sigh of relief.
"Ignore all that drivel," a voice echoed through the vault-like hall. "Do you like it?"
Alex saw her peep out from behind a whitewashed column. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in the sort of messy style that Alex cynically decided must have taken hours to achieve.
