All the Rage (4 page)

Kara let out a burst of laughter at his cheeky reference to Ronald.

‘Of course,' he added reassuringly, ‘I'd feel a hell of a lot safer with you. '

‘Not necessarily,' she flirted, appreciating for the first time the artist's fine good looks. ‘And no, I'm not too busy. ' She turned and switched off the laptop, her mind now in a swirl of confusion and foolishness.

‘Looks important,' he said, pointing to the screen.

‘Er, no. It can wait,' she replied, regaining her poise. Her birthday prospects were looking up. ‘What can I do for you, Marcus? '

Without a backward glance, he turned and glided effortlessly toward the inner gallery, leaving her alone and still sitting. Inexplicably, she rose, ready to follow, catching the aroma of his aftershave. ‘It's just that,' she heard him call over his shoulder, ‘the big boss man, he asked me to bring in three original pieces for the forthcoming brochure. Apparently, the photographer needs to do a transparency of each for the publicity blurb. '

‘Isn't the show in September? ' she asked, following meekly.

‘Yep. I thought I'd strike while the iron's hot. Boss man was a little tetchy, you could say decidedly underwhelmed with the prospect of an exhibition featuring yours truly. '

‘It was a bad day, Marcus. '

‘Bad day, eh? ' he echoed. His smile was infectious. ‘You should try this: I get a distinct put down from boss man and a right in the face come on from the other guy as I leave. How would you deal with that? ' He faced her again. ‘What's your name, anyway? '

‘Kara,' she said, with a wide grin. With reference to the “other guy”, she continued, ‘Ronald is spoken for; you will be pleased to hear. Although I know he does have an unquenchable weakness for firm young flesh. '

Marcus moved closer. ‘And you…? '

‘I prefer older men,' she declared, adding, ‘I like the sense of style that maturity brings. '

‘Ah,' Marcus said, pondering the point. ‘So you have a thing about boss man…'

Kara smiled, protesting: ‘Now you're getting too personal! '

‘An artist,' he said, with assured cockiness, ‘knows no boundaries. It makes us what we are: free spirits. You cannot be offended by anything I say or do. It's what makes you so attracted towards me. '

Kara stabbed a playful finger into his chest. ‘If that's so, you'll have to explain your sense of style, Marcus. It's lost on me. '

After Marcus had departed (with her private mobile number, she cursed mildly) Kara gathered his paintings together and placed them in the storage room for safety and then emailed the photographer the necessary instructions to collect when convenient. She liked Marcus but shared Michael's assessment of his work. It was overblown and vain. Just like him. Still, she concluded, if you get caught in a hurricane you are likely to get sucked in. She pondered this scenario and decided quite recklessly not to seek shelter. She would take the storm full on.

‘Ronald,' she said, shouting her words to the other end of the gallery. ‘You're a fine judge of men. What do you think of Marcus? '

 

***

 

The Lady of the Manor stood to one side of the door, her left leg stretched at an angle to prevent the onslaught from her overzealous guard dog. Holding him tightly on a lead, she extended her willowy hand and engaged Michael's grip with a fragility that was almost a caress.

‘I do apologise for Bruno's behaviour. I live alone,' she said, ‘and he's overprotective to the point of hysteria. But he keeps me feeling safe. ' Her eyes met with his. ‘You must be Michael Strange. '

‘I'm a little late, Lauren,' he shouted above the barking. He gesticulated with his hand. ‘Lovely village. Have you lived here long? '

‘Oh, fifteen years, I guess. ' She forced the dog to retreat into a side room, closing the door firmly. ‘That's better. Now, first priority: I insist you join me for a glass of wine. ' She beckoned him in.

‘Well,' he hesitated, moving gingerly into the oak-panelled hallway, ‘I have to be careful, I am driving. '

She moved her seductive green eyes to meet his again. ‘Please be gracious and join me. The bottle's already opened. '

He curtailed his initial discomfort and said, ‘It will be a pleasure then. '

‘It's a Barola, 1971. Do you approve? '

‘Yes, a very fine wine,' he answered, mightily impressed.

 

***

 

They sat opposite each other, but close enough, in the conservatory and Michael at last had the chance to study her. She small-talked about the village and the house to begin with and later revealed the troubles with her husband, the errant artist. But, to be truthful, it all washed over him. He enjoyed the exceptional wine from Italy and sitting there, he could imagine himself in an old farm in Tuscany. He loved Italy in the winter, and he was suddenly reminded of a past holiday. And opposite him sat a woman of bewitching beauty; her pale white skin and tumbling red hair conjured a vision of rare intensity, a ravaged soul. Rossetti would have painted her, possessed her, and worshipped her. He was spellbound.

He drowned in the emerald pools of her eyes, and like mother of pearl, they emitted fractured light and incredible depth of colour and shading, intensifying her mystery and mood. Her skin was opaque, like fine English porcelain, her mouth large, full-lipped and expressive. She tossed her wild hair back from her face, revealing a strong sculptured profile with a long and slightly flat nose, but it was most flattering to him. In this light, he recalled the Pre-Raphaelite portrait of Vanessa Wilding, the creature of
Beauty
, and thought that this woman who sat before him was born to a different age. He could not paint her, like Waterhouse, nor possess her, as Dante with Beatrice. But from afar, he would
adore
her. For him, time seemed to stand still in that one indeterminable moment.

‘Are you all right? ' she asked, leaning forward in her chair.

‘I'm so sorry,' he answered, slightly embarrassed. Lowering his gaze into his glass of wine, gently swirling the contents with the motion of his hand, he said, ‘This Barola is rather good, but it is not conducive to concentrating the mind. I was daydreaming, I'm afraid. '

Lauren lifted the bottle from the flagstone floor, gesturing towards a refill.

‘I'd better not. '

‘Do you live far? ' she enquired, refilling both their glasses anyway.

‘Chelsea Harbour. '

‘I have friends in Battersea. I travel up by train every few weeks. But mostly I try to keep out of the city. London is far too claustrophobic for me. ' Lauren sipped her wine and lit a cigarette. Exhaling, she added excitedly, ‘I insist you stay for lunch. It's the very least I can do for you. There is a great deal of material to look through. '

Michael declined her offer of a cigarette. He began a futile protest in respect of the first suggestion. ‘I couldn't possibly…'

‘Nonsense, it's a simple dish. ' She laughed, confessing, ‘Leftovers from last night. Just cold salmon, if that's ok? I'll add a green salad and French bread and we can wash it down with water, assuming the wine is too overpowering for you. Now, how can you resist such a temptation? '

He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Well, in the circumstances I can hardly refuse. It sounds delightful. ' Secretly, he was more than thrilled. He was intoxicated with the scent of her physical presence, which grabbed like an overwhelming sensation of…of…it was unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

Lauren rose from her chair and came to sit beside him on the wicker sofa. ‘Michael, I have a tendency to be overbearing in conversation. Since you have arrived, I've talked non-stop about my troubles and told you everything about my husband and my difficult circumstances. ' She edged forward and touched his arm. ‘If I'm honest, I am feeling raw and vulnerable…and a little scared. Can you understand that? '

‘Of course,' he muttered, relating privately to his own situation. ‘It's hard coping on your own. ' He was happy for her to leave her hand where it was.

‘Michael, you just
being
here helps. It brings a little normality back into my life. Being lonely, being alone, facing an uncertain future…well, preparing a simple lunch for two is important to my sanity. Please understand. So thank you. '

He instinctively reached out and took her hand, marvelling at the touch of her skin. ‘Lauren, I'll do all I can, within my capabilities. We'll try and unravel this mess. '

‘Michael, I need to sell this house, desperately. It's too big and costly to maintain by myself. '

‘Hopefully,' he answered, ‘we will sort out the finances to help you survive and then move on. I will need the details of your solicitor. '

‘I'll fax them to your office. ' She squeezed his hand, smiled, and stood above him. ‘Thank you for your support, Michael, you've been so kind andreassuring. It's rare to find that in a man these days. '

He watched as she retreated to the kitchen door. She was thin and tall, gliding with the languid grace of a gazelle. This beguiling woman, just who was she?

‘Lauren,' he called out. ‘Is…is Julius
likely
to be coming back to you? '

Before she vanished into the other room, she turned and fixed him with an icy stare. ‘No,' she announced. ‘Julius is where he wants to be. He will not be coming back, not to this house or to me. '

 

***

 

Whilst he could hear her tinkering in the kitchen, Michael wandered over to an annex at the far eastern gabled side of the house, beyond the heavily beamed drawing room. It was here, she explained, that he would find what he was looking for: the studio of Julius Gray. It was an impressive space, a double height conservatory with acres of glass, and a spiralling staircase leading to a mezzanine floor that protruded out from halfway up the outer wall. Someone had drawn the blinds on the windows, shutting out most of the light. All that remained was a gloom of abandonment.

At first sight, it was a chaotic environment in which to work. The studio was dominated by four large wooden easels, placed in a semicircle, close to each other in order for the artist to move swiftly from one to the other. This was how Julius created his masterworks, Michael guessed. Four identical sized canvases sat upon these easels, each of which appeared unfinished. The artist had literally run the same brushstroke, with the same colour paint, across each of the paintings in turn, duplicating the pattern but not the same rhythm. Julius worked fast and furious, Michael gathered, allowing for a common group of paintings with immediate but separate spontaneity. The work was vivid and colourful and hypnotic. The man had talent, just not to his taste, Michael concluded.

Looking around further and treading carefully, Michael tried to make sense of the stacks of cobwebbed canvases piled against the walls, atop the cabinets and in the drawers of the huge map chest. There were hundreds of charcoal drawings, pastel sketches, diagrams, abandoned ideas on bits of scrap paper and board and, within one open-plan side cupboard, a skyscraper of exercise books filled with his doodlings and written observations. All around was the unruly mix of paint pots, paint tubes, brushes, cleaning fluids, cameras, a home-made light-box, metal frames and unused canvases. On a cluttered desk, he discovered several dusty brochures proclaiming Julius's work in shared exhibitions, both home and abroad. As Lauren had earlier mentioned, his main source of artistic output found its way to the Oberon Gallery in Glasgow. This was true, judging by the many publications strewn across the table bearing their logo. As he sifted through, idly contemplating lunch, something began to nag him, and the more he tried to decipher his concern (foreboding? ) the more this feeling receded back into his brain. Something, however, did not seem right.

He got back to the task in hand. This was a massive undertaking. It was perplexing to even consider, and one that he quickly decided he could not do, or wish to do. However, there
was
the small matter of the twelve paintings of Patrick Porter, he reminded himself. So far, they had both avoided this subject and he had decided to allow Lauren to raise the topic in the normal course of events. He did not wish to reveal his inner anxiety by showing too much eagerness on the subject. Greed was a powerful motivator. He just had to keep control of it, for now.

In the meantime, the current job was exhausting and dirty work, forcing him to stifle a cough from the grime stuck in his throat. Going through the motions was becoming tedious…and then he saw it. Moments earlier, he had removed a heavy gilt frame, standing nearly to his shoulder, which leaned against a far wall. In the gloom, his eyes alighted on the painting concealed behind it. Christ, it stopped him in his tracks. The canvas revealed a stark and somewhat crude image of a naked woman, her limbs angled grotesquely and openly, inviting the onlooker to gape at her large purple breasts and inflamed genitalia. The labia had, in fact, been painted perversely oversized, in minute detail, and effectively portrayed the woman as deformed and unashamed, wantonly baring her available charms, exposing her to ridicule. On closer inspection, the artist had depicted a red scar on the left breast of the nude figure, and further lesions on both her wrists. At first sight, Michael was repelled by the portrait and the nastiness with which the sitter was graphically shown. The pornographic image revealed the artist to be a hater of this woman, for she had been violated permanently in this depiction of ugliness. And yet, in a strange manner, he was irresistibly transfixed by this vision of an alternative take on beauty. It took his breath away because he immediately recognised that Julius had painted the portrait of his wife.