by Evie Blake
She bends down and starts looking through her own photographs. The gallery has chosen to exhibit what seems to Valentina to be quite a random selection of her work. There are two portraits of Valentina’s new dancer friend, Celia, and her friend, Rosa, together. One shows Celia on her toes, naked, with her leg raised in an arabesque as Rosa caresses her, and the other is of the two of them together, with an antique lace scarf binding them as they touch each other. There is one of her first erotic compositions: a sepia-toned, nude self-portrait, showing her body reflected in a Venetian canal. And then there are three more recent works. One is inspired by her experience with Leonardo. It is a close-up of a bottom (Celia’s), dripping with candle wax, her pussy just visible. The last two photographs are of Antonella and Mikhail. One is a black and white close-up of Antonella’s face, with Mikhail’s cock inside her mouth, and the second is a close-up of Mikhail holding one of Antonella’s breasts and sucking the nipple. They are simple, yet striking in their explicitness.
Valentina knows that some people will call these photographs pornography yet, as far as she is concerned, there is no denying their beauty: the raw exposure of her subjects’ desire, the need within them portrayed as pure aesthetics. It is not just naked bodies and sex. It is something poetic, other-worldly. Valentina believes that all those who criticise what she and her fellow photographers are doing are really just afraid. Everyone has a shadow self. Everyone has dark desires. She is sure of it.
She leafs through the pictures again. She has the feeling that there is something not quite right about the selection, but she can’t put her finger on it.
She hears a woman’s laugh and footsteps approaching. She notices now another doorway opposite the one to reception, leading out of the gallery into another space. A light flicks on and into the room walk two women. The first to speak is a tall, willowy woman with very long dark hair. She is wearing a maroon silk shift dress, and Valentina can’t help noticing how very thin her arms are, how bony her shoulders.
‘Valentina?’ the woman says, walking over to her. ‘My name is Kirsti Shaw. So lovely to meet you.’ She has a soft American accent. Kirsti reaches out her hand, but Valentina is only half looking at her as she shakes it. She is completely distracted by the other woman in the room, for Kirsti’s companion seems to have stepped straight out of a fifties burlesque show. The woman has lustrous blond hair, styled into high waves, similar to Marilyn Monroe but even more extreme. Her skin is perfect, paler than Valentina’s, and she has deep blue eyes, framed with thick black liner and false eyelashes. Her lips are a perfect pink bow to match her outfit. She is wearing a fuchsia pink bustier with black lacings all the way down the front, and a matching skirt, hugging her hips and thighs. She has an hourglass figure, full breasts, a tiny waist and a curvaceous backside. To complete the look, she is wearing long pink gloves up to her elbows, fishnet tights and pink stiletto court shoes. On her elbow hangs a little pink purse on a chain. The whole look is completely over the top: a sugary sweet femme fatale. Valentina does her best not to stare, but she just can’t help it.
‘Valentina,’ Kirsti says, ‘I’d like to introduce you to one of the other exhibitors, Anita Chappell. Anita, this is Valentina Rosselli.’
Anita totters over to her and extends her hand. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she says in a perfect English accent. She certainly doesn’t sound how she looks: a vision from nineteen-fifties Hollywood. ‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ she says, fluttering her false eyelashes. ‘I love your pictures.’
‘Thank you,’ Valentina mutters, wondering what kind of pictures Anita might take.
‘Anita is one of the most popular burlesque performers in London,’ Kirsti explains to Valentina.
‘I’m not a proper photographer, like you are,’ Anita says to Valentina. ‘I am just dabbling. I can’t believe that my work got picked.’
‘Well, you are a star in your own right, now, aren’t you, Anita? Of course there will be interest in your artwork, particularly considering your heritage,’ Kirsti flatters the blonde bombshell.
Valentina wonders what Kirsti Shaw could mean. What is the burlesque performer’s heritage?
‘I really didn’t think so, but my boyfriend persuaded me I should send in the pictures – and particularly the video,’ says Anita.
‘Yes, it is quite remarkable footage,’ Kirsti says. ‘Not just historically fascinating, but incredibly erotic as well.’
Anita turns to Valentina. ‘I should explain,’ she tells her. ‘My grandfather was an art dealer who specialised in erotica. He has these very early erotic films shot in Paris in the late forties. I’ve incorporated them into an artwork.’
‘It is quite something,’ Kirsti tells Valentina. ‘We haven’t got it up and running yet, but would you like to take a look at Kirsti’s photos?’
‘I’d be so thrilled to get your feedback,’ Anita adds. ‘I am a great fan of your work.’
‘Sure.’ Valentina nods, feeling a little overwhelmed by the two women.
Anita leads her over to the far side of the gallery, to the long work table with framed photographs spread along it.
‘We were just taking a look at them,’ Kirsti says, ‘trying to decide where to hang them.’
Valentina looks down at Anita’s pictures. All of them are self-portraits, and Valentina has to admit that they are stunning. The first shot is of Anita lying on her side, wearing a purple dress with thigh-high black lace-up boots and black, lacy stockings. Her blond hair is down and her lips are plum to match the dress. Just a corner of a bare buttock is visible in the shot. In the second picture, Anita is all in black. It is a close-up and she is looking into the mirror, holding the camera, with an oriental parasol half covering her face. Only the very tops of her breasts are visible, the hard nipples pushing through the slits of a latex S&M outfit. The third picture shows Anita’s whole body reflected in a mirror as she lies against a pile of white silk cushions. Her feet, in a pair of kitten-heeled pearly mules, are together, soles pressed against a mirror, her legs are bent at the knees so that they open outwards and the rest of her naked body is reflected in the mirror: her bare breasts, her pursed lips as she closes her left eye to take the picture. Despite the fact her legs are spread, she is not completely exposed as a lilac chiffon scarf trails between them concealing her sex.
‘That’s my favourite,’ Anita says, as Valentina picks it up to examine it. ‘I think it’s a little more subtle than the others.’
The last three pictures are even more graphic. One is of Anita, naked, lit up by three arc lights, spaced in a triangle around her. She is on her knees and turning the camera around to take a picture. Her hair falls over her face like a blond veil but, even so, you can see her parted lips, her closed eyes.
In another black and white composition she is on her back on swathes of black silk, looking up at a mirror, her fishnet-stockinged legs crossed; just visible are the parted lips of her labia.
‘Oh, this has to be my favourite,’ says Kirsti, picking up the last picture, much to Valentina’s surprise. Obviously the American is not as demure as she looks. To say the shot is confrontational would be an understatement. Anita is lying on her back, her legs pointing straight up in the air, sheathed in pale oyster stockings almost the same colour as her skin, her bottom facing the mirror. Apart from the stockings she is utterly naked. Her head is tipped to the right and she is staring at the mirror, surveying the viewer, the camera balanced in her right hand, her arm outstretched so that she is able to get everything in the shot. She is on display completely.
‘They’re great,’ Valentina says.
Anita looks genuinely pleased. ‘Really? That means so much to me,’ she says.
‘Well, I am not an experienced erotic photographer by any means . . .’
‘Yeah, but you come from such a famous family. I mean, your mother – she’s an icon!’
Valentina stiffens at the mention of Tina Rosselli.
‘Ladies, I think we should crack open a bottl
e of champagne,’ says Kirsti, her cheeks flushed. ‘I could do with some help deciding where to hang everything. Would you have the time, Anita?’
‘Well, I am performing tonight,’ Anita says, ‘but not until really late. And it’s only down the road. I can ring my man to come and pick me up.’
‘Great. What do you say, Valentina? Are you free for a while?’ Kirsti is still holding up the naked photograph of Anita as she speaks. The burlesque dancer’s bare legs glimmer in the light from the spotlight behind them.
‘Sure,’ Valentina finds herself saying. ‘I’ve no plans.’
She is certain that, by now, both Antonella and Isabella are stuck into a night of drinking and reminiscing. Valentina is happy to avoid that. She doesn’t want to have to sit and listen to Isabella regale them with stories of all the fun she and Valentina’s mother used to have back in the sixties and seventies.
Two hours later, the gallery is nearly hung; Valentina hopes it has been done well, although she suspects that they are too inebriated at this stage to tell. Surprisingly, it is Anita who seems the most together of the three of them. They are sprawled on the floor of the gallery. Kirsti’s shift dress is up at her hips and she has a lazy grin on her face as she takes a sip of her champagne – the third bottle they have opened between them.
‘Well, here I am in my ultimate girly fantasy,’ she says, ‘drinking champagne with two of the sexiest women I have ever met.’
Anita and Valentina lock eyes. Valentina has never been attracted to the femme fatale look, and yet there is something about Anita . . . something sweet and alluring . . .
‘Tell me, Valentina,’ Kirsti says, ‘are you wearing anything underneath that dress? It is so incredibly figure hugging . . .’ She reaches forward and slips her hand through the slit on to Valentina’s bare leg, trailing her fingers up her thigh.
‘No,’ says Valentina steadily, wondering whether it would be rude to remove Kirsti’s hand. ‘You can’t wear anything underneath; it’s too tight. It shows off everything.’
‘I can see that,’ says Anita grinning. ‘I love it; it’s so bold with those black and white stripes – very sixties and free spirited. Whereas I am trussed up in all my gear . . .’ she adds. ‘And what about you, Kirsti? Are you wearing any knickers?’ Anita giggles.
Kirsti starts to laugh, removes her hand from Valentina’s leg and, all of a sudden, pulls her dress up. Valentina can see that she is completely shaved, her flesh pale and soft. It looks incongruous along with her long dark hair. She pulls a tiny thong off with her long, elegant fingers.
‘Not anymore, darling,’ she drawls.
‘Oh, you are naughty, aren’t you?’ Anita teases her.
‘Will you dance for us, Anita?’ Kirsti asks. ‘Just a private dance for myself and Valentina?’
‘I’ve no music.’ Anita pouts.
‘Can’t you just imagine it? We can, can’t we?’ Kirsti is looking at Valentina, a suggestive smile on her face.
‘I should go,’ Valentina says, hesitantly.
‘Oh, no, please,’ Kirsti pleads. ‘You have to see Anita perform.’
Anita knocks back her champagne. ‘Well, all right then, but it’s not the real thing without the music, you know.’
Valentina is frozen, unable to get up now. For some reason, she doesn’t want to offend Anita.
Anita stands up, slips her stilettos back on and picks up a chair, placing it in front of the two other women. She walks around the gallery, switching off all the lights so that only one spotlight is left on, illuminating the chair. She steps into the pool of light, her blond hair a blaze of glory, her white skin pearly, her pink lips pursed. She begins to sway her hips and spins around on her heels, pushing her backside towards them.
Is she really going to do a striptease? Valentina thinks. It seems so ridiculous and old-fashioned and yet, sitting on the floor next to her, Valentina senses that Kirsti is enjoying the show. She looks over at the gallery owner. In the gloom of the gallery she can see she has her hand slipped between her legs, and imagines her lips parted in anticipation.
Anita slowly pulls off each glove and unzips her skirt, wiggling it off over hips. Despite herself, Valentina has to admit it is sexy. Anita continues to undress, oh-so slowly, unbuttoning her little pink jacket, pulling it off and throwing it across the room. Now she is in a tiny sequined G-string, stockings, suspenders and a corset. She unlaces the corset so that it falls away to reveal an ornate brassiere. Beneath all of the upholstery of her clothes, Anita has a beautiful body: a naturally tiny waist, neat little round bottom – not too large, like Valentina’s – and pert, plump breasts. Valentina can’t help but feel her insides warming in response to the vision of this beautiful woman. Anita kicks off her heels, smiling all the time at Kirsti. She lifts one of her legs and puts her foot on to the chair, peeling off her stocking and wiggling her bottom as she does so. Then she twists around and sits on the chair, raising the other leg in the air and slowly pulling that stocking off. Valentina hears Kirsti’s breath quickening, she glances over at the American woman, but she can’t see her clearly in the dim room. The whole experience is surreal. She wasn’t expecting this when she came here this afternoon, to be witnessing the gallery owner pleasuring herself while watching a striptease show.
Inside her head she hears Theo’s voice: Welcome to London, Valentina. She remembers how he tried to encourage her to let go of her inhibitions, have fun. She can’t help but feel turned on; even though she has no desire to have sex with either woman, she feels a yearning to be touched by a man – by her man. Without thinking, she slips her own hand through the slit in her skirt and touches herself. She quivers with relief. She is so wound up, she knows. All this anticipation – the exhibition, Theo . . .
Anita pings the suspender belt off, so that she is nearly naked, then she brings her hand up behind her brassiere and lets it fall away to reveal her breasts, naked apart from two sequined tassles covering the nipples. She lifts her legs in the air and does a backward bend off the chair at the precise moment that Valentina hears Kirsti gasping as she comes.
Valentina carefully retrieves her hand. She is so close, yet she doesn’t want to touch herself anymore, not now Anita has finished her dance and Kirsti has obviously found satisfaction. She waits in the darkness of the gallery for one of the other women to say something. Anita sits up and begins to put on her bra. She is all businesslike now. Valentina can still hear Kirsti breathing deeply beside her. She wonders if she is embarrassed or still drunk from the champagne. A mobile phone rings. Anita totters over to her little pink purse. She is still only half dressed, just her stockings and shoes on, and her underwear.
‘Hello, darling; you’re outside? OK, we’ll let you in now.’
Anita switches on the light and turns to Kirsti.
‘It’s my boyfriend. Can you buzz him in?’
Kirsti stands up, smoothes down her shift dress and picks up her thong. She is all composure now, as if nothing out of the usual has happened at all. She walks out of the gallery space and Valentina hears the door in the reception click open and the low voice of a man.
‘Well, what did you think of my show?’ Anita asks Valentina earnestly, as she zips up her skirt.
‘I can honestly say that you were very sexy.’
Anita looks pleased. ‘Thanks.’ She nods over towards the door, buttoning up her little pink jacket. ‘Poor Kirsti; she’s always on at me to perform for her. I keep telling her she needs to get herself a girlfriend.’
‘I think it’s you she fancies,’ says Valentina.
Anita shakes her head. ‘Well, she’ll have no luck. I am afraid she’s just not my type.’ She gives Valentina a rather flirtatious look. ‘Besides, I am a bit preoccupied at the moment. I’ve just met someone new.’
Anita looks expectantly past Valentina at the doorway leading into the gallery. Valentina hears Kirsti’s high-heeled shoes as they clatter on the wooden floor, and senses the presence of Anita’s boyfriend as Anita’s gaze
warms.
‘Talk of the devil; here he is!’ Anita exclaims, beaming with delight.
Valentina turns around, curious to see what the boyfriend of the stunning Anita might look like. Yet, as soon as she catches sight of him, her whole world falls away beneath her. The gallery tips on its side and all the champagne she has drunk makes her stumble forward, her body assaulted with shock. For standing in front of her, looking equally stunned, is none other than Theo.
She has lost Joan. Usually they stick together. Over the past month, it has become their habit to go out two or three times a week to listen to the new music from America and to dance. Maria surveys the packed club. It is hard to see anyone, it is so dark – the air thick with cigarette smoke. All that is visible is the band. Maria watches the trumpet player as he leans back and lifts his glittering instrument up to the ceiling, blasting out his sound. This is a new kind of jazz, urgent and wild. It makes her pulse race and she can’t help swaying her hips, despite her anxiety. Even so, she has to find Joan right now. It’s time to go home. They have dance school in the morning and already it is past midnight.
She weaves through the crowd. Men look at her, one or two try to stop her, to speak to her.
‘All right, my beauty?’
‘Looking for me, are you, darling?’
But most of the men are listening to the music, their faces rapt as if they are in a trance.
With relief, Maria spies her friend at a table in the corner. Why on earth did she move without telling her? There are two men sitting with her. One is next to Joan, with his arm around her shoulder, and the other has his back to Maria. Maria’s heart sinks. It has been a good night so far, dancing at the Astoria and then coming here, to this little club in Soho, to listen to music that Joan claims reminds her of her American beau, Stan. But Maria is tired now and she wants to go home to bed. She promised Jacqueline she would be back by midnight. She is already late. The last thing she feels like is fending off the unwanted attentions of a man.