All the Rage

by Spencer Coleman

  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.

  ‘What do you think? ’

  He swivelled awkwardly, caught like a thief in a shop. He released the frame as if it was contaminated. It thudded against the wall.

  Michael composed himself sufficiently to hide his awkwardness. ‘Well,’ he gestured with a wide exaggerated arc of his arm, ‘Where do I begin? It’s a real mess to be frank with you. ’ He’d hoped that his theatrical over-the-top motion was sufficient to distract her from the clatter he had just made. The painting embarrassed him, and surely embarrassed her. Why else would it be hidden?

  ‘Oh,’ she murmured, ‘I was rather hoping you would approve…’

  ‘Excuse me? ’ He was now flustered, and hot.

  ‘Of my dress, silly! ’ Lauren had an infectious laugh. ‘I’ve changed into something I thought you might like. What do you think? ’

  Michael’s face turned red. Thankfully, she was not referring to the offending canvas.

  ‘I keep putting my foot into it, don’t I? ’ He said lamely.

  ‘Somewhat. ’

  He took this opportunity to study her with an appreciative eye.

  ‘Stunning,’ he said finally. ‘Lovely…you look absolutely lovely. The dress becomes you. I’m beginning to feel that I’m on a date! ’

  She laughed again, tossing her head back, the black silk skirt swaying with her easy body movement. ‘The salmon’s ready. Can I drag you away, or is your professional curiosity above that of having a date with a girl who dresses for lunch? ’

  ‘I’m honoured,’ he said, laughing. ‘Lead on, I am but your humble servant. ’ In reality, he was still reeling from the sight of the painting, the laughter simply deflecting from this hideous shock.

  Fortunately, Lauren joined in the fun and appeared to have missed his uncomfortable reaction to her creeping up behind him in the studio.

  ‘And therefore, you must do as I command! ’ She responded with a mixture of gaiety and edginess in her voice.

  He followed her like a lamb to the slaughter.

  ***

  Michael washed his hands in the kitchen sink as Lauren laid the table and served the fish and side salad. This was an immensely agreeable time, he reminded himself. These moments helped to deflect from his personal trials and tribulations, by letting him think about her problems. He found himself listening to her with a patience he had never found with Adele, aware that his fixation with this woman who dressed for him and cooked for him was both appallingly pathetic and – he recalled his earlier description – dangerous. For God’s sake, she could be fifteen years younger, he chastised himself brutally. Fantasy was a dark and double-edged weapon.

  Over the next hour, they discussed the many implications of valuing her husband’s work, and the logistics of presenting such a big task. He reminded her of his misgivings and lack of expertise, and suggested she contact one of the big galleries in Germany or Scandinavia, which had represented Julius in the past. They, he suggested, would be better equipped to deal with the financial issues. The obvious route was not to her liking, he soon realised. A frown deepened on her forehead.

  ‘I have my reasons, Michael. I do not believe I can trust these galleries. Julius has strong contacts over there and they will be loyal to him. I need someone who is independent and I can trust with my life. ’ He noted this emphasis on these last words, but he quick
ly dismissed it.

  ‘So,’ she pleaded, ‘will you help me? ’

  He thought long and hard. ‘To a degree, yes,’ he replied. He paused. ‘To be fair and accurate, we should of course be in contact with your husband. ’

  ‘No! ’ She flashed her temper like an erupting volcano, burying her head into her slender hands. ‘He has no say in this matter! Do you think he has rights? Tell me. I want to know. As far as I am concerned, when he left this house he left my life, for good. He betrayed me and humiliated me and…and…God will seek a terrible revenge on him. ’

  Michael sensed that she was beginning to reclaim her inner control, now shaking her head with a slower and more dignified purpose.

  ‘Believe me, Michael, he will find only sufferance and madness with her, a hell on earth. He’ll wish…’ Her voice trailed away into nothingness, replaced by a soft whimper and a teardrop in her eye.

  Michael was rocked momentarily by this sudden alteration in behaviour. Instinctively, he removed his handkerchief from his own pocket and helped dab her eyes.

  ‘Can I have some more water? ’ she asked.

  He refilled her glass. ‘I know this has been hard for you. Perhaps you should see a doctor. ’

  ‘No, I can handle it most days. I don’t want tranquillizers or sympathy. It bloody hurts – right here. ’ She thumped her chest with a clenched fist. ‘I want Julius to experience the same feeling, the rejection, the apathy, the utter crushing humiliation, the brutal disregard for another human being, betrayal, the damn lies I’ve had to put up with, his smugness, the misplaced pity…’ She permitted herself an unexpected smile, and then said, ‘Yes, I think maybe I do need a doctor. ’

  He made a pot of tea and cleared away the unfinished meal while she rested. She sat by the window in the kitchen, looking out to the rear orchard. After a few minutes she was sufficiently composed again.

  ‘I’ve been an idiot and a complete bore,’ she said. ‘You’ve been so kind to me; maybe you will be my doctor? ’ Before he had a chance to answer, she spoke again, ‘I want to show you something. Have you still got time? ’

  He glanced at his watch. It was just gone three. He had largely forgotten the reason for being here. Although her outburst had disturbed him, he couldn’t pull himself away. ‘It’s fine by me. There’s nothing that can’t wait. ’ His stomach tightened as he prepared his next line. ‘Lauren, I saw the painting of you in the studio. Do you want to talk about it? ’

  She was unmoved. ‘Rather flattering, don’t you agree? ’

  Her voice had an air of resignation to it.

  ‘Let me show you something, by way of explanation. ’ She stood. ‘This way, but be prepared for what you’re about to see. ’

  She snatched a glass of red wine from the table and led him through a maze of corridors to the rear of the house. At this point, she climbed the narrow steep stairs, with Michael in tow. The horrible odour of damp air seeped into his nostrils.

  ‘It’s OK, Michael,’ she said, looking back at him. ‘I’m too tired to seduce you,’ she teased, taking his hand.

  At the top of the galleried landing, she threw open a door and switched on the ceiling lights to a room beyond where she momentarily stood. Lauren laughed and entered, swirling her body in a mad, rhythmic dance.

  He could tell she was becoming dizzy. She stopped and drank greedily from her glass of wine, recovering her balance briefly. He was certain that the alcohol had failed to dull the pain he saw behind her eyes.

  She swayed unsteadily on her feet again. Searching for him, her eyes narrowed and she beckoned him with her little finger.

  He followed. Once inside, his eyes blinked once, twice. Adjusting to the bright light, it took barely a second before he was immediately transfixed by the scandalous images on the walls.

  It was evident to him that this was the marital bedroom, the four poster a cascade of rich red and gold drape silks. The matching sheets were half-submerged beneath oversized pillows and assorted ethnic cushions. Affixed against one wall, opposite the bed, a giant plasma TV screen overfilled the space, but it was dwarfed by the numerous large paintings which now caught the eye. Michael counted six, seven, eight nude pictures… all depicted in the same graphic style as the one in the studio downstairs. They were all of Lauren. More disturbingly, each and every one revelled in the exaggerated, contorted sexual parts of her body, fashioned in a manner to strip her of the last remnants of dignity and decency. Christ! he thought. The shock hit him hard. Each image represented the degradation of Lauren O’Neill.

  ‘Why, why, why? ’ he said, spinning around the room, his eyes ablaze with fury. ‘Oh, my God. . . Why did he hate you, to do this to you? ’

  ‘He didn’t hate me, Michael. He found them erotic. It gave him perverse pleasure to control me, manipulate me – imprison me. ’

  Michael was almost speechless. Eventually, he calmed down enough to ask, ‘Why did you let him do it? Were you a prisoner of his? ’

  She gulped the last of the wine. ‘No. I loved him madly. I wanted to please him, endear myself to him, and enslave myself to him. ’

  ‘This can’t be right,’ he whispered under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘He was the only man I truly loved. ’

  He turned to confront her. ‘Was? ’

  Lauren grabbed the bedpost, momentarily regaining her poise. She attempted to remove the strap of her dress from her shoulder but the movement was clumsy and unattractive.

  ‘Take me to bed, Mr Strange. Tonight I will be anything you desire. Tonight, I will be your. . . ’ Her frail voice petered out. He knew she was slipping fast into unconsciousness. He could see the hysteria in her eyes.

  He quickly reached out to protect her fall…too late! Her body crumpled heavily to the floor. His first reaction was to try to revive her, but Lauren had blacked out completely.

  Michael was stunned, and appalled by what had happened so very, very quickly. Minutes earlier, Lauren had seemed to be in control. He was in control. But this horrible room, this house, this woman were beginning to spell bad news: seriously bad news.

  Coldness took hold, making him shiver. A kind of evil prevailed in every joist, every creaking floorboard, and each and every dark corner. He had to get out, now, before a shadow descended and blocked out all light. That’s how he felt, entombed and chilled to the bone. As a child, this blackness and “a world of make believe” had scared him. Now, in this alien situation, the old feelings of fear and uncertainty came flooding back to haunt him once again. It was as if he was hypnotised, rooted to the spot: imprisoned in this God-awful room with her.

  Just who was she?

  A fallen angel: or the devil in disguise?

  Chapter Three

  Michael awoke the next day, exhausted and bewildered by the weird events that had unfolded at Laburnum Farm. Given these circumstances, it was no surprise that he had uncharacteristically slept in. He wished only for a calmness to prevail. Clearing his head, he gulped water, checked the time by the wall clock, and cursed aloud. He padded to the kitchen, switched on the kettle, listened to the news headlines on Radio Five and slumped on the stool next to the breakfast table. His mind rattled with images of a half-naked woman lying unconscious at his feet. What was he getting himself into?

  Reality kicked in. Phone Kara, he reminded himself urgently; but his brain was having none of it. It felt like a watermelon being smashed against a wall.

  Taking two aspirin, he gradually and painfully began to recall the events of the day before. It transcended into a nightmare of sorts, one he did not care to repeat. Tarantino could not have scripted it better. But, on balance, he felt sorry for Lauren, discovering a deeply complex woman who had seen her own precious world collapse beneath her and as a result, found coping with it almost unbearable. Was that so hard to fathom?

  Aft
er she had fainted at his feet, he remembered that somehow and with great difficulty he had lifted her onto the bed. In her state of half undress, it was an undignified manoeuvre. Then he checked for facial bruising and carefully supported her head to rest atop the soft pillows. He also managed to stir her awake just sufficiently so that she opened her eyes momentarily and smiled at him. It was a confused smile. However, this simple recognition gave him the confidence to leave her alone and in relative safety. In truth, he was terrified by the strange circumstances he found himself in. What would have happened if she had hit her head? Suppose she had swallowed her tongue? How could he explain his presence right here in the bedroom? What if she had died? Fuck. His mind had been in turmoil, just thinking of how his hands had been shaking and his shirt heavy with sweat. He recalled thinking Get a grip! He had sucked in air deeply and slowly and calmed himself adequately, in order to sort things out. Before leaving, he managed to pour a glass of water for her, placing it on the bedside table accompanied by a hastily scribbled note in his own rushed handwriting. It read:

  Impossible to stay, but I’m sure that you will be OK on your own. Put the experience down to one of life’s rich tapestries which we would rather forget. I’ve turned everything off, but I didn’t dare let the dog out! Main door locked, key put back through the letterbox. Speak to you soon. Michael. P. S. In case you are wondering, no, you did not do anything to be ashamed of. Your behaviour was perfectly understandable in the circumstances. Great wine, though! I was happy to be there as a shoulder to cry on. Bruno wouldn’t be so sympathetic to me. XX.

  Now, in the cold hostility of the morning, he had grave doubts about her improper manner and the story she had told him. Hastily, he drank a black coffee, the first of several, and immersed himself under a very hot shower, lingering for an extra few luxuriant minutes. Damn. He had forgotten to contact his secretary.

  ***