Authors: Lauren Boutain
Why would it take place here, in this boutique gallery? How would the owner, Christie Harding, have pulled that off as a media coup?
Looking at the subject matter of some of the paintings, Adrik had a pretty good idea.
“
Thank you all for coming,” Christie greeted the crowd, and few bawdy laughs erupted again. “It is so good to see you enjoying yourselves – or should I say, enjoying seeing yourselves?”
A brief pause and a smile, for more appreciation. Adrik noticed a slight lower lip wobble which she bit down on briefly, to control any nerves. It sent a shot of adrenalin right through his heart.
If this went badly – Manhattan high society could be very unforgiving…
Perhaps it was time that Christie Harding met her karma. His father would certainly have approved of this trial by Roman circus.
When you find her, throw her to the lions.
It was the only thing his father had said to him after the issue in Switzerland. The matter had never been spoken of again. One or two individuals had been strategically silenced. There was still a former member of chateau staff happily installed in a Venice penthouse with all the toy poodles he could ever want, while another more elderly housekeeper had retired a grateful woman to a waterfront cottage on Bora Bora, attended by a deaf-mute masseuse.
“
I know you’re all dying to find out who the artist is,” Christie continued. “Paparazzka has taken the Arts world by storm. Titillation meets satire, in a way that is as at home in a private collection as it is on the walls of a subway station, or the commentary pages of the
Times.
It’s very exciting to see so many faces here in my little venue appreciating Paparazzka’s interpretation of their personas. A great honour for me, as curator.”
People had cancelled everything to be here tonight. One particular actress, unofficially, had postponed visiting Oxford for an Honorary Degree awards ceremony. For the acting fraternity, that sort of recognition beat the Oscars. You got a whole evening to make your speech, for one thing.
It had taken quite a lot of persuading for Zory Tamarkin to give up his invitation. And a good deal of vintage Cristal. But loyalty to his dear departed old friend Maksim had eventually made him see sense.
The tension in the room was increasing. You could feel the pressure building, like a tsunami was trying to break through the walls.
Christie ran the tip of her tongue across her lips, as if trying to stop her mouth drying out. Another sign of nervousness, Adrik noted.
“
I won’t torture you for too much longer,” she went on. If she had glanced at him at that point, he was sure his own tsunami of carefully-tempered, long-term rage would have exploded, but for some reason she deliberately evaded his eye. “It will intrigue you to know that the artist Paparazzka is already amongst you in the room.” A small gasp was elicited. “Look around. Check out your neighbour. It could be any one of you.”
Delightedly curious giggles and glances were exchanged, as Broadway producer scanned hip-hop star, and almost-Oxford-honoured actress glared at Republican politician. The reaction rippled around the room, accompanied by teasing nudges and several catcalls of speculation.
“It’s you!” one of the compere’s cronies shrieked at him, and swatted him with a gallery programme.
Christie shifted her weight gently on her high heels, and waited for the camaraderie and banter to lull again.
“Please,” the elderly English gentlewoman, a former Ford Agency model and regular rock star’s concubine cried. She leaned on her cane while her free hand waved a frequently-refilled champagne glass. “While I’m still young.”
The anticipation was getting to Adrik as well now. Not for the reveal. For the response that would follow. What if Christie had misjudged her audience? No matter that she was technically hostess of the event – she wasn’t one of them. She may have referred to them as ‘her friends’ and supported them all in many ways herself, but she was no superstar in her own right. And it was clear that her clue about the artist being present in the gathering had heightened their excitement considerably.
No-one was checking
her
out as a ‘Paparazzka’ possibility. And by the diligent attentiveness of security at the doors, it appeared that the world’s news-hounds already had an inkling of what was going on in here tonight.
“
I suppose I had better put you all out of your misery,” Christie sighed theatrically, and clasped her hands together in front of her. Almost in an unconscious appeal for mercy, Adrik thought. “It’s time to reveal the true identity of the artist known as Paparazzka…”
The sound of a falling pin would have been akin to the cacophony of an entire upset dinner service in the breathless silence that followed. Her eyes flickered over the guests, unable to focus – seeking out a supporter. He saw her knuckles whiten and realised that of all the people in the room, the most uncertainty of what would happen next rested entirely with her. For a fragment of a second, his conflicted emotions coalesced into a knot of pity.
In that same second, her searching eyes met his, as if drawn by a magnet.
“
Adrik Maksimov…” she whispered.
And the room erupted.
* * * *
She hadn’t intended to speak his name aloud. All she knew was that she had seen one look of sympathy for her predicament in the entire room, from the last person she expected – and knew in that moment he had guessed the truth.
His name was past her lips before she was even aware of it.
Adrik’s look was now one of utter astonishment.
It was already too late to cover her slip of the tongue. The former Ford model was swooning and being helped out of her many scarves, the Republican had rushed in to grasp his shoulder and pump his hand enthusiastically, clearly pre-empting the earliest photo-opportunity to congratulate the unknown artist first, while the compere and his cronies were screaming like ten-year-old girls at a boy-band concert, their feet now mostly off the ground as they jumped up and down, along with deafening applause.
“
Reclusive Russian shipping heir Adrik Maksimov is Paparazzka!” Someone was shouting the scoop of the decade into their cell phone, in flagrant disregard of the confidentiality rules for that evening.
They weren’t the only one. Social media networks must have been lighting up like a fleet of fireflies with the news, as people snapped pictures and typed feverishly into touch-screens.
Oh God.
Christie’s head was spinning.
Rewind… please rewind… I’ll take the storm as it comes – anything but this…
“
Speech!” People were starting to chant and stamp their feet on the cherry-wood floor. “Speeeeeech!”
Finally released from the grip of the Republican, Adrik picked up the two champagne flutes, and drained them both one after the other. Another was immediately pushed into his hand as eager guests chivvied him towards her, to take his perceived place of honour at the microphone – Paparazzka’s place, to be accurate.
Almost too terrified to meet his eye, Christie took a timid step in reverse to make way, but his free hand in the small of her back stopped her. Heart sinking, she looked up sharply, prepared now for a public admonishment.
But Adrik’s eyes were amused, even more so at her obvious pain. He leaned in to give her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
“Well played,” he whispered.
And as he straightened up, he winked at her.
“Sshhhh! Shhh!” the compere harangued the audience, flapping like a turkey at them.
Adrik cleared his throat.
“Thank you,” he said, with a modesty that was completely genuine. Most of the audience were fanning themselves now, and an attendant thoughtfully went to adjust the air-con. “This reaction is most gratifying. Very unexpected.”
“
And get you!” the compere approved. “Mr Dark Horse indeed!”
“
I have to thank Miss Harding for hosting this evening.” The heat of his hand in her back informed her that she wasn’t getting away any time soon, and this time some of the applause was meant for her.
She smiled in turn, still not quite daring to look up at him.
He’s actually playing along!
Her brain tried to guess all the potential consequences of this, but the thoughts were dissolving before she could grasp them.
“
You’re most welcome…” she managed to say. “It’s my pleasure.”
His thumb rubbed back and forth over her spine in response, and never a truer word was spoken in that particular moment.
“Can I buy my portrait from you, Adrik?” a voice hailed, from the direction of the hip-hop performer.
“
If you buy me a drink,” Adrik replied, and chuckled as Christie tensed under his hand. “I’m sure it could be negotiated.”
“
Where do you find the time to paint, Maksimov?” someone else enquired. “At home in London?”
“
No, no – someone would have noticed if I had, before now,” he answered. “I share a studio space with Miss Harding. Only she knows the truth about me.”
She could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head as he spoke those words, and knew that the room expected her to acknowledge this apparent compliment. So she raised her chin to meet his gaze.
It was almost too intimate for her to bear. The weight of that unspoken memory between them could have brought the roof down on them all, and she would never even have noticed.
Without his hand on her back now, she was sure that those damned designer heels would have gotten the better of her already.
An appreciative sigh seemed to emanate from the gathering, at the close image they presented.
“
Is there something more between the two of you?” The recovered gentlewoman pointed abruptly with her cane at each of the pair, over the heads of audience members who obligingly ducked and protected their drinks. “Don’t tease a wise old bird. I know it when I see it. Something’s going on.”
“
Oh!” Christie gasped, and although knew she was leaning into Adrik for his physical support as well as moral in front of the gossip-hungry crowd, she gave a brief shake of her head. “No…”
“
No,” said Adrik – but it was directed at her, rather than the rest of the room, which was suddenly ringing with the sense of electric anticipation again. “I think we can trust your friends with our secret.”
Christie vaguely wondered if she looked as horrified as she felt, while she stared up at him, and saw the tables being turned against her in his eyes.
“Miss Harding is my fiancée,” he said in a low voice, never once taking his challenging gaze from hers.
The gallery couldn’t possibly have contained any more excitement. With two huge pieces of breaking news within moments of each other, the celebrity crowd was in its element. Phones were lighting up all over the room.
“
We’re not answering any more personal questions tonight,” Adrik announced, as there was yet another demand to know when the wedding was taking place. “But I assure you your invitations will be in the mail.”
“
Where did you meet?” asked the Broadway producer.
“
Was it in my club?” suggested the hip-hop musician. “Everyone meets in my club.”
Adrik shook his head, politely refusing to reveal – or invent – any more details, to Christie’s relief.
“Please do stay and enjoy the champagne,” she said, feeling as though she was watching herself from a very long way away indeed. “We have our stand-up comedian Eddie returning to entertain you…” The compere made a sweeping bow. “And our extremely clean Hillbilly banjo busking band – they have been properly scrubbed.” At the laughter, she felt her confidence returning. “As I’m sure Adrik is going to very busy, come and speak to me if you would like to buy anything on display here tonight. There will be a closed bidding system with ninety percent going to charity.”
“
You all know I don’t need that other ten percent,” Adrik put in. “Why not make it a hundred percent to charity?”
“
I think your future wife wants her ten percent,” teased the Broadway producer. “Charity begins at home.”
“
You see, my dear?” Adrik smirked down at Christie. “I told you they’d see through your plan to get them to pay for our wedding.”
“
A hundred percent it is, darling,” she said, already fuming at being made out to be the bad guy in their imaginary relationship. “And you’ll be hand-writing all of their invitations, as you promised.”
“
Let’s get these two sweethearts off the mic before they start fighting.” Eddie the compere butted in between them, giving them each a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I know you’re all dying to talk privately to Mr Adrik Maksimov Paparazzka about his paintings of you. It’s going to be quite an evening.”
It was already quite an evening. Christie wriggled through the onlookers, intercepted by suddenly too-friendly celebrities wanting to congratulate her – especially a number of models and actresses saying they should ‘have lunch’ which was code for ‘you must tell me how you got him’ and a male TV presenter who was looking at her anew in a most discomfiting way, as if he had no idea previously that she was in the market for marriage.
A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that Adrik was equally waylaid by well-wishers. The safe haven of the powder room beckoned, and she made as fast a beeline for it as her heels would allow.
Once in the confines of the cubicle, she rummaged for her cell, and with shaking hands, called Derek’s number.
“Please pick up, please pick up,” she muttered. “Don’t be on the internet right now, anything but that…”
Your call is being diverted…
“Damn!” Christie whispered, and tried again. Same result. He wasn’t answering.
An hour ago, the worst case scenario she was facing had been perhaps a few drinks thrown in her face after outing herself as Paparazzka, the controversial artist they had all come to see.
Within the space of a few minutes, her past had breezed in on the prowl for his missing Bolshevik diamonds, she had unintentionally framed him as the artist instead, and in turn he had publicly marked her as his intended bride.
Fiancée!
All her careful playing-hard-to-get with Derek would be ruined. Two years of effort down the drain!
She tried his number fruitlessly three more times, before a soft knock on the door alerted her to the fact there was a queue for the bathroom, and she emerged tentatively to more air-kisses and champagne-enhanced congratulations.
“Your future husband might need rescuing,” an Australian model warned her. “He’s been cornered by that old Face of Estée Lauder bird giving him the if-I-was-fifty-years-younger chat-up line.”
“
Thank you,” Christie murmured with a smile, and bravely stepped out of the powder room into the spotlit corridor.
For a crazy moment, she had the idea to run. She could rip off the YSL shoes and race to the fire exit at the far end, jump into the first taxi she saw – surely someone would be willing to drive her all the way to Derek’s, at eleven o’clock on a Friday night?
But as she turned towards the fire exit in question, it appeared that someone had already thought of that…
“
I had to make a phone call,” Adrik said apologetically, stepping inside out of the shadow of the doorway itself, and closing the fire door again.
“
You too?” Christie gulped. “Mine isn’t answering.”
He grinned knowingly, and didn’t divulge any information regarding his own.
“I’m sorry for leaving your guests unattended,” he continued, putting his phone away. “They are very friendly. I think all of your paintings will be sold by tomorrow. Some of them are fighting to buy one another’s portraits, it is quite amusing. The Republican in particular has quite a fetish for them, it seems.”
“
Well, I doubt very much he can afford them all,” Christie retorted.
He strolled unhurriedly back up the corridor towards her. It felt exactly as she imagined it would to be stalked by a panther.
“You are very talented,” he said. “I would very much like to get inside that imagination of yours. As long as I had the key to getting out again, this time.”
“
You’re welcome,” she echoed herself from earlier, and swallowed again as he stopped only two inches in front of her. “I’m a little more worried about
your
fantasy world at the moment. Can I just make sure I heard you correctly –
fiancée?
”
“
It seems to be a fair exchange,” he mused, and brushed aside a tendril of hair from her cheek. “I become your Paparazzka to keep the clientele happy. You become my betrothed to keep the world and its favourite magazines from their too-eager matchmaking. Everywhere I go, I have to be involved with someone. Even married women have arrived on my doorstep with suitcases, having seen their names linked to mine in the Press. Rumours which they mostly start themselves. I would like a little rest from the attention. At least as your notorious artist I will have an excuse for being reclusive.”
“
Yes,” Christie agreed. “You should be thanking me. Not blackmailing me.”
“
But there is also the matter of the diamonds,” he reminded her. “So the debt is still weighted in my favour, I believe. Unless you want to face a more formal enquiry, I suggest you play along with my little game for a while – as I will play along with yours.”
“
No.” Christie tried to reassert her position of not being the mouse in his game. “I don’t know anything about any diamonds. And pretending to be engaged to you is out of the question. I’m simply not available. You’re asking the wrong woman for that sort of thing.”
“
Regarding the diamonds, my father had ways of keeping witnesses that could be called upon happy, loyal and very much alive,” he assured her. “But if you insist, I can go straight back in there to speak to your guests about the more recent misunderstandings.”
“
It was an accident!” Christie hissed at him, frustrated.
“
Which was the accident?” His eyebrow raised.
She didn’t get the chance to explain, as a squawk of greeting announced that the elderly model had tracked them down.
“There’s my two love-birds,” she approved, her cane waving, and clattering on the wall as she hobbled forward energetically. “Mr Deputy Dawg or whatever his name is has been looking for you. I think he wants to place his bids on your paintings, my wonderful Paparazzka.”
She took Adrik’s arm with the innocent smile of an old lady needing support, and chivvied them back into the main gallery.
The hip-hop musician announced that he was inviting everyone back to his club and would be keeping it open all night, and was taking a head-count for limousines. Notifications were already pouring in on Christie’s phone – emails with sealed bids attached for the portraits, but nothing from Derek. As every minute ticked by, she knew this was bad.
Derek was a PR guru. He’d been delighted about the Paparazzka exhibition at her gallery. Of course, he didn’t know she was Paparazzka either. If he hadn’t been dealing with the problem of a teen idol who had got himself arrested this week, he would have been here to celebrate with her. Well, she was pretty sure he would. He was nefariously mercurial.
Which was why she knew this was bad. It had taken two years of work to even get an apology from him for missing one of her events.
He would most definitely have been waiting for the news to hit the grapevine, whatever he was doing – especially if it meant a bit of glamour for his own reputation.
But an embarrassment like this was PR death as far as Derek was concerned.
‘
Women can never be trusted,’
he would say.
‘Always keep them at arm’s length.’
“
I hope it’s all good news?” someone remarked, as she checked her phone for the fiftieth time in fifteen minutes.
Christie smiled coyly, but inwardly was hopelessly crying.
Adrik appeared to be handling all the attention far better, managing to sound more fluent in the subject of Art than she felt she could have herself at this precise moment when questioned about the paintings. And the occasional personal question about their relationship was politely deflected, or turned around on the inquirer’s opinion of love and marriage.
“
What advice would you give us?” she heard him say to the increasingly curious Republican.
“
Make sure she has a dog, soon as possible,” the politician replied. “It’ll stop her pestering you for kids.”
“
And does that also work the other way around?” Adrik queried, and she couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. “Supposing she is pestering me for a dog? I’m not keen on dogs. In London, I only have a cat.”
“
Yes – he’s a regular Bond villain,” Christie joined in with feeling, keeping her phone in her hand in case it rang. The time now approaching midnight, she was seriously starting to worry.
“
He’s definitely a dark horse, but I wouldn’t go that far.” The Republican grinned. “You make a cute couple. And you’ll have the Press at your feet tomorrow. I’d love to have you at my next rally. Call me – we’ll talk. I think Mr Pimp Dawg is trying to shanghai this party over to his place.”
Christie didn’t care. She was far too worried. The night as far as her gallery’s reputation was concerned had been a complete – if unorthodox – success. It was her own reputation with Derek that she knew was rapidly heading for the dumpster.
“You have to have an engagement party,” Eileen, the elderly model, was now telling Adrik. “And it must be in the best magazines. At my house. Pick one. Monaco? Antigua? Lake Como? The editors love me. They love my collection of hats. You must have your mother consult me to find a good hat for the wedding…”
It wasn’t sinking into Christie’s mind that she was part of the conversation. She and Derek never made plans, with even less inclusion of others in discussion of the future. The future? Derek’s concept of the future was the next day’s newspaper headlines. Christie had to tiptoe around him, while he carefully ensured that they were never photographed together, never seen dining out together, and insisted on minimal communication in case of hackers. If the Press suspected a relationship, they would tear it to shreds, he had told her. Although the ongoing speculations about his own sexual orientation and exploits merely amused him. Speculation kept people talking, he said. Facts weren’t open to debate. If you wanted to disappear completely from the front pages, all you had to do was settle down. Then you’d only reappear briefly when the babies arrived, or if you put on weight and then went through an acrimonious split.
She was used to hearing others make plans for their future in a sort of detached daydream, while her own reality required her to behave in a manner suited to a confirmed spinster, to whom the future only contained business meetings and appointments.
The problem with that was the more she became comfortable acting it, the more ingrained it had become. As she had said herself to Adrik only an hour ago, in answer to the question about attending her own event unescorted –
‘I don’t hold with that sort of thing.’
It was no good – her cell was still obstinately silent. She would have to try again, or at least get through to Derek’s voicemail and leave a message. She opened her mouth to excuse herself.
* * * *
Adrik sensed that Christie was about to disappear again – something that held contentious feelings for him – and decided she wasn’t going to get away so easily.
“I think Christie should have the final decision,” he said, and slipped his arm lightly around her waist. Whatever she had been about to say left her wordless. “Everyone seems to think this is our unofficial engagement party. The Press will say terrible things if they think they have been left out of a more formal affair.”