by Carla Angela
Lake leant in closer to the mirror again, wondering if she’d put too much peach blusher on. She dragged a white tissue over her cheeks to pick up any excess, just in case.
She was starting to get really nervous. This was it. People were either going to love her artwork or absolutely hate it. The proof would be in the form of the tiny, red dot stickers stuck to the picture frames at the end of the night. Or the lack thereof. Still, there was nothing she could do about it. She just had to wait it out.
Giving herself another blast of floral-scented perfume, she dropped a gold tube of lipstick into her red satin clutch—another Fenella fashion idea—along with her mobile phone and snapped off the heater, while Cupcakes mewed in protest. Grabbing her set of silvery keys, Lake headed for the door. The less time she spent idling in her bedroom waiting for Fenella and Bert to show up, the less chance she had to ditch the red frock for a comfy top and a pair of jeans in a moment of panic.
Waiting on the porch, she checked the time on her mobile phone. She was still seven minutes earlier than Fenella and Bert were due to arrive as her transport, like a fairy-godmother-induced coach. Darn. The night air was growing decidedly chillier. She wished she’d grabbed at least her thin, black cardigan, although she knew she wouldn’t need it in the crowded gallery. Well, at least she hoped it would be crowded. She’d sent out enough invites.
Suddenly, Lake cocked her head. It sounded like a door was banging gently in the breeze. The sound was coming from out back. Where could it be coming from? Oh, God! It couldn’t be, could it?
Lake’s mind raced. The darkroom! Had she forgotten to lock it since Hunter had turned her into a hot mess, from her steamy dip in the bath to roaring along in his Ferrari? Darn. She was well and truly losing the plot right now. The sooner she put time between her and Hunter having met in the first place, the better.
Lake ran from the porch down to the side gate, unclipping it, and then along the concrete path, bordered by lawn, to the darkroom. Darn. She could see it from a few feet away. It was indeed the darkroom’s wooden door tapping against its frame in the breeze. Lake swore under her breath, just thankful the darkroom was out of sight from the main road and wouldn’t be too likely to attract curious strangers. And that the equipment inside wouldn’t be of much interest to the average burglar. But still.
She pushed open the door, felt inside for the light switch, and flicked it on. The tiny room was immediately flooded in light. Lake breathed a sigh of relief. Everything seemed to be in place. The enlarger, the trays, the light-proof, black plastic bags of photographic paper… Hang on a sec. There was something resting on the projector-style enlarger. A single piece of paper. Had she left it there absent-mindedly? Or—oh, God—had someone else?
She took a few tentative steps forward, swiping at the paper fearfully, afraid of what she might discover.
Her eyes squinted at the glossy whiteness, finding an unfamiliar, darkened image at its centre. Oh, God… Suddenly, the paper felt too hot to touch and slipped from her fingers. She must have imagined it. It couldn’t have been! She was going crazy. She had to be. Still, she licked her lips subconsciously, her downstairs area already pulsing.
Shaking herself, she bent to scoop up the piece of photographic paper again and held it up in the light. Oh, God, oh, God, which she may have actually just said out loud. At the top of her voice. The image was exactly how she’d just imagined it seconds earlier. It was real.
It was the darkened outline of a perfect, thick, totally suck-able penis.
For the image to have been created, someone—a man—would have had to have unzipped his pants, put his crown jewels on the photographic paper under the enlarger, and shined the light on it, exposing it to leave this naughty silhouette. The person would have had to have known more about the craft of making a photo from film than they’d let on.
Hunter. It had to be. Could he actually be interested in her? Or was he just playing games with her mind?
‘Lake? Are you there?’
Lake closed her eyes. It was just Fenella calling out to her, not Hunter. Phew. Fenella was likely wondering why the darkroom’s light was on at this hour, before her exhibition.
Without thinking, Lake suddenly kissed the very tip of the darkened penis pictured on paper before placing it upside down on her workbench, slightly annoyed that the image wouldn’t fit in her purse without folding it. She would have liked to have had it near her. A security blanket of sorts for her for the night. A very naughty one. Even if she wasn’t exactly sure what message the “gift” was meant to convey, even if he was just teasing, the thought of it still warmed her.
‘On my way!’ Lake lied, calling out in Fenella’s direction. ‘Just checking a few last things.’
Then, exhaling a few times and fanning her cheeks, Lake opened the darkroom door and shut it behind her again, making sure this time to turn around and lock it tight.
Fenella was waiting near the side gate, looking ubergorgeous, as always, in a body-hugging, strapless, jade-green number. She flashed her pearly whites at Lake and then whistled teasingly. ‘Looking hot, sista!’
‘All thanks to you and your styling work. You’re not looking so bad yourself.’
Fenella gave her a wink from beneath her heavy fringe before linking her elbow through Lake’s, who was now at her side. ‘Got to keep Bert on his toes. Hey, you’re gonna knock ’em dead tonight, I tell you!’
Lake looked back at her best friend. ‘Let’s hope so,’ she said, grinning. She was still unable to shake the dirty, silhouetted image from her mind, nor did she really want to.
* * * *
The exhibition opening night so far appeared exactly how Lake had dreamed it would be—and that was just from her stance in the doorway. The space, which earlier in the day had seemed empty and cavernous, was now jam-packed from wall to wall with people. Like sardines. People with a passion for art. People with money.
And there was her photography, dotting the walls, glistening under the lights. The naked, feminine images portrayed as raw and exposed, as she herself felt right now, set to be judged by the art world. Like a gladiator entering the ring. Tonight, she’d either be torn apart or victorious.
As soon as she stepped over the threshold, the people seemed to swoop. First the gallery director in a navy, pinstriped suit, with gelled-back, black hair, which looked even glossier under all the lights, and a whiter-than-white smile. He took her hand in his in a warm, bear-like grip. ‘Fabulous, darling! Such a creative eye. Such talent. Well done!’ Then he wet her cheek with a smacking kiss.
Then a beret-wearing critic with a thin, porn-star-like moustache, who she recognized from a local art magazine, wanted to know all about how she’d come up with the vision for the exhibition’s theme, how she’d got the lighting just right, and who her mysterious subject was. The latter she had kept mum about and wanted to continue to do so, so she put him off the scent by giving the vague—she hoped elusive—response of, ‘Unfortunately, that I have agreed to keep between me and the subject herself,’ offering just the merest arch of an eyebrow. Thankfully, the critic had just scribbled furiously in his notepad some more and not probed any further.
Finally she got a chance for a breather when Fenella, in tune to when she needed an ‘out’ as her best friend, grabbed her by the elbow and herded her toward the bar, agreeable Bert trailing behind them.
‘Champagne?’ Fenella asked Lake lightly.
Lake nodded, trying to catch her breath. The excitement of it all—her exhibition finally happening—was just too much to take in. It all seemed to be going swimmingly. Perfectly. She’d even spied a blur of red stickers dotted about the frames. Her artwork was about to adorn the walls of other people’s homes. Providing them with life-long, artistic pleasure. It was such a thrill. A joy.
Yet her mind also kept jumping somewhere else. To that darkened silhouette captured on photographic paper. Of Hunter’s member, undoubtedly. Exactly what it could mean—
‘Earth to Lake!
’
Lake jolted back to the present as Fenella’s hand waved before her face. Fenella then reached for a glass of champagne on the wooden bar and handed it to Lake, advising her to ‘Put this down your hatch. Should help take the edge off!’
‘Uh, okay,’ Lake responded, clutching the thin stem, her cheeks warming again at the memory of what she’d just discovered in the darkroom. She tipped her head back and let the fizzy, golden liquid tickle her throat, bubbling in her nostrils. Mmmm… It tasted divine—expensive—and it was like an instant relaxant. She could feel her limbs loosening up and her mind freeing. She took a few more hearty gulps, barely noticing Fenella raising an eyebrow at her.
Lake put the champagne glass back down on the bar, now finished, and Fenella reached over to squeeze her hand. ‘It’s all going excellently. You’re going to be a star of the art world—I can just feel it! Don’t fret, like you always do, and just enjoy the moment, okay?’
Lake grinned back at her. ‘It is going kind of well, isn’t it? Who would have thought?’ she squealed, squeezing Fenella’s fingers in return.
‘And you of all people deserve it,’ Fenella responded. She arched an eyebrow. ‘If only Chase could see you now. He would be kicking his own sorry arse!’
Lake smiled. ‘And you know what the best news is? I think with all of this’—she spread out her arms wide—‘using my pain for art, I’m finally over him.’
‘Good on you!’ Fenella said, her eyes shining, releasing Lake’s hand to give it an assuring pat. Bert, large-boned and tall with friendly eyes, pink cheeks, and sticky-up, brown hair, seized the moment to sling his arm over Fenella’s shoulder again and draw her close to him, showing off to the crowd that she was actually, proudly, his. Fenella leaned in to kiss his cheek affectionately.
‘Well, I might leave you lovebirds for the moment and duck out to the ladies if you don’t mind,’ Lake said, grabbing her satin clutch off the bar.
‘No problems,’ Fenella said, as Bert nuzzled into the top of her blonde head. Lake rolled her eyes teasingly. They were still so in love. She was happy for them.
There was even now a teeny flicker of hope within her that maybe even she could one day be that happy again. God willing.
Chapter Eight
Even if she was the star of the night, Lake still had to wait in a four-person queue at the ladies until there was a free cubicle. After relieving herself she washed her hands at the basin, looking at her reflection in the vast mirror, which stretched up to the ceiling.
Even though the night had worn on and she’d had some champagne, she was pleased to see she was still holding it together. In fact, she looked quite good, if she did say so herself, illuminated against the white-tiled backdrop. Her cheeks were flushed, her russet hair appeared to shine like copper in the bathroom lighting, and there was a real sparkle in her eyes. She looked…well…alive again. All thanks to Hunter and the fantasies he’d helped stir up in her. Even if the picture of his penis was the last thing she’d see of an Adonis like him. Likely he’d gotten his titillation.
Lake made her way to the door, her satin clutch in hand, thanking a gushing female guest sporting a black, chin-length bob, for her compliments about her artwork—and her red dress—along the way.
Back inside the exhibition space, Lake stood for a moment in the crush of the crowd, just drinking it all in, the walls throbbing with music and conversation, the visual feast of her very own black-and-white, naked images adorning the place, the exquisite buzz of taking a risk and it paying off…
Then she gasped.
Him. H-I-M.
What the hell was he doing here? They really ought to stop bumping into one another.
Her mystery man paused amid the crowd then began languidly weaving his way toward her, his aquamarine eyes pinned on hers like a man on a mission, like something out of her dreams. She desperately needed another glass of champagne, but she wouldn’t make it to the bar in time. All that kept running through her mind at the sight of him was that huge, darkened, shaft-like silhouette, as though tattooed in her mind.
He had his blond hair slicked back with gel, like he’d just emerged from the pool. He pulled off the look far better than the gallery director had earlier on. Looking decidedly un-hobo-like, he was also wearing a suit. A black suit, which hugged his muscular frame superbly, with a crisp, white shirt underneath, unbuttoned at the top. No tie.
Lake felt herself weaken, like someone had shoved into her, sending her off-balance, as though she needed something to grip onto. She wanted him by her side right now as much as she wanted him to sail past her out the door, because she could hardly bear the disempowering, totally paralyzing effect he had on her.
Just when he was mere feet from her, he was suddenly waylaid by a raven-haired girl in a black, leather-like, cut-out minidress, showing off ample bosom and endless toned, tanned legs. A stunning socialite Lake recognized from the local papers—obviously on the gallery’s invite list, not hers. Lake could barely stand to see the socialite’s paws all over Hunter like a rash.
The man himself looked as though he belonged in an Armani ad, not just here at this small, downtown gallery. At Lake’s very own exhibition.
The woman had cat-eye liner on, and right now Lake felt pretty catty herself, like she wouldn’t mind ripping out some of the woman’s glorious, glossy, black hair from its very roots.
Looking down at herself, Lake suddenly felt too demure—too contrived, too prissy—in her rose-adorned, red chiffon dress. Why hadn’t she gone for something that screamed sex, like the socialite had, so that it reverberated off the walls? She was no match for that woman. Especially not in the chest area, even if the socialite’s rack wasn’t what God had naturally given her. It didn’t matter. She was every inch as glamorous as a man like Hunter required. Lake could only ever be a mere distraction.
Lake’s earlier confidence had now seeped below the second storey to the bottom floor below. No beneath that. Deep down through the concrete foundation to the muddy dirt. She may as well just turn on her red, satin heels now and call it a night. The gallery could tell her how just how much she’d sold in the morning.
Just as her mind was made up, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hunter give the socialite a chaste kiss on the cheek and then expertly maneuver her to one side as easily as though she was a silver ball being knocked away in a pinball machine. Almost without breaking his stride, he continued on toward Lake.
Now Hunter was just a foot’s length away from Lake, still staring at her. She breathed in his woody scent as though to clear her head, but it only made her woozier. She wanted to throw herself at him. Suck on his bottom lip, like, forever. But there were oodles of people here. She had to be a professional. She didn’t even know what Hunter’s parting gift really meant.
‘So…’ Hunter said at last, a dimple carving into his tanned, right cheek. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
The words thrust Lake right back to the present. Instinctively, she whacked him on the chest with her satin clutch. ‘Fancy seeing you here, you mean! When I told you where my exhibition was, I didn’t think you’d actually turn up.’
Hunter gave a careful shrug of his shoulders. ‘Can’t a gallery owner keep an eye on his premises?’
Lake spluttered disbelievingly. ‘You…you own this place? C’mon! You didn’t say anything when I mentioned it earlier.’
Hunter shrugged again. ‘I prefer to keep my investments low-key. That’s why I’m what you call a silent owner of this place.’
Lake saw the honesty burning in his eyes. He really did own this place, which shouldn’t have been so hard to believe to begin with. He seemed to have pots and pots of money, after all, despite his disheveled appearance earlier on. ‘Well, Ms. Socialite of the Year didn’t seem to give a damn who you were—or weren’t,’ Lake pressed on. ‘She still couldn’t keep her claws off you.’
Hunter leaned in close, causing Lake to almost faint at the proximity. ‘Oh really? What do you think the cause o
f her interest was in me then?’
Lake crossed her eyes, knowing she’d backed herself into a corner. ‘Well, of course, you’re quite the attractive, eligible bachelor.’ There, she’d said it. ‘Though for how much longer I don’t know now that you have actual professional photos for your online dating profile.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Hunter moved an inch closer, daringly close, a smile playing at his lips.
Lake frowned and then thrust her hands on her hips. ‘Are you saying my photos aren’t professional? I mean, look around you! This is an actual exhibition.’
‘No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying you never gave me the photos. You took my money, but you never actually physically handed over the disc of pictures.’
Lake squinched up her forehead some more and then clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God. I’m so sorry. You’re right. How unprofessional of me! I totally forgot. My mind must have been…somewhere else. I—I can get them to you though. First thing tomorrow. I promise! I’m so, so sorry.’
‘Oh, that’s okay,’ Hunter said, his eyes sweeping up and down her body, like the beam from a lighthouse. ‘I don’t think I’ll be needing them anymore.’
‘Oh…right. Okay then.’ Lake was dumbfounded. Could he have met someone? A new plaything already? Or perhaps much more than just a plaything. The naughty silhouette must have been just a prank, after all.
Hunter smoothly changed the subject, like switching gears in his gleaming car. ‘Did you know I’m also a silent owner of the picture-framing shop across from your photography café? Well’—he gave a throaty laugh—‘not so silent anymore.’
Lake felt goose bumps prickle her skin. The shop was where she’d gotten her nudes framed for the exhibition. ‘Wow…’ she said mildly. ‘You do have a passion for the arts when it comes to your business investments, don’t you?’