Modern Heart: City Love 3

by Belinda Williams

  I quickly shut down my computer and picked up my wallet and phone, shoving them into my jeans pocket. I raced toward the door to my office.

  “Whoa! Where’s the fire?” Tony grabbed my shoulders, and I narrowly avoided colliding into his chest. He waited until he was sure I had stopped then released his grip.

  I held back a shudder. Good looking or not, being touched by Tony was so many levels of wrong.

  “Can I speak to you for a minute?” he asked.

  Shit. Could his timing be any worse? “Ah, sure.” I resisted asking if he could make it quick. I only had a week left of work, or a week until we had our official “discussion.” Telling him to shove it was tempting but ill advised. I may not be working for him soon but he still had plenty of contacts in the advertising industry.

  “You look like you’re in a rush, so I won’t keep you.”

  I snapped my mouth shut so my jaw wouldn’t drop to the floor. Tony didn’t do considerate.

  “It’s come to my attention that you’re making an impact on the art world,” he said. “Your talent is being noticed and talked about by a lot of people.”

  I immediately wanted to ask “what people” but given his previous lack of support for my art career I decided to just let him talk.

  “With the level of exposure you’re now gaining, I foresee this being of considerable benefit to the agency.”

  “I’m sorry?” Had I heard right? Had Tony just said my art career was a good thing?

  Tony cleared his throat and appeared uncomfortable. “Clearly I hadn’t been made aware of the entire situation. I thought your art was a hobby distracting you from your responsibilities here. Now I can see it is complementary to your role as creative director.”

  “What are you saying?” My voice came out hoarse, but I didn’t care.

  “I’m saying you have my full support in pursuing your art career and the full support of Shout.”

  Holy shit. Was that Tony speak for I still had my job? “Thank you,” I managed. My mind was reeling.

  “Good,” Tony said, looking more relaxed. “I’m glad we’ve got that sorted. I’ll let you get going.”

  He moved to go but my whirling thoughts suddenly came together in a moment of clarity. “Tony? Before you go, if that’s the case, I need to talk to you about how I’m going to meet the demands of my art career in such a way that works for both of us.” Nice, I thought. That was the politically correct way of saying I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.

  Tony leaned on the edge of the door and arched an eyebrow.

  I spoke quickly before I could think the better of it. “I have a number of commissions coming up in New York, which will require time away from Shout. I’m estimating two to three weeks at this stage. As I understand it, we have links to agencies in the States. I’d be open to incorporating some business development while I’m over there if that would work for you.”

  Tony’s expression was unreadable. He focused his gaze past me out the window, drumming his fingers on the door frame. “Good point. Let me know the dates and we’ll see what we can organize. I might even be able to take care of the flights for you.”

  “Thanks.” I clenched my jaw. Either that or I was going to open my mouth and scream – hardly an office appropriate reaction.

  Tony turned and sauntered down the hallway. I watched his back as he retreated, putting a hand out to steady myself. I willed myself to breathe normally.

  “Oh, Scarlett?” he called, stopping and turning around. “Good luck at the exhibition tonight. It’s tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And thank you.”

  He nodded. “Next time I’d like an invite.”

  *

  The opening night of my exhibition at Doherty’s didn’t have the same fanfare as my New York exhibition, but it was exciting anyway. I was only one of ten artists on display. For this reason, personal invites had been restricted. John was my plus one, and I’d managed to get Christa and Cate included as well, but that was it. The majority of the attendees were the who’s who of Sydney’s art scene. Art lovers with a proven history of translating their art appreciation into dollars.

  “It looks like it’s going well,” Christa said to me, about an hour into the evening.

  “Looks like it,” I agreed. There’d been a lot of interest in my paintings so far. If this exhibition went half as well as the New York one I’d need to spend some time creating new works or else I’d be running short of material for any future exhibitions I might get invited to.

  “Have you sold any yet?” Cate asked with interest.

  “I’m not sure. Sandra will give me an update after tonight. She seems pretty busy though.”

  That was an understatement. The mid-forties gallery director who I’d originally typecast as a little too upper class for my liking had surprised me. She’d been working the room like a pro, laughing and conversing with so many guests it left my head spinning.

  As if reading my thoughts, Sandra looked up and caught my eye. She raised a hand to indicate she needed to talk to me and started walking in my direction. The girls and I waited in silence until she was beside us, her sensible high heels announcing her arrival with a sharp click on the wooden floor.

  “Scarlett,” she said, all business, but paused long enough to nod at my girlfriends. Her platinum blonde hair was tied back severely and her cool blue eyes were piercing. “You’ve made quite an impact tonight.”

  “I’d say all the artwork here tonight is making an impact,” I replied awkwardly. I was never good with compliments.

  “Yours particularly. By the end of the night I think we’ll have sold more than half of your paintings.” She waited while her statement sank in. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider selling ‘Patient Tiger’?”

  A jolt of surprise rippled through me. “No, I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “As we discussed I’m not in a position to offer that one for sale.”

  Sandra nodded. “Understood. I won’t ask again. It’s just that we’ve had quite a lot of interest in that piece of art tonight.”

  “Oh?” I don’t know why it came as a shock, but it did.

  “Absolutely. I realize it’s one of your older pieces, but it’s compelling nonetheless.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sandra offered me a genuine smile and it softened her features, making her look at least ten years younger. “You’re welcome. You should be proud, Scarlett.”

  “Hey,” John said, arriving beside me and squeezing my hand gently before releasing it.

  Sandra nodded again. “I’ll leave you to enjoy the night. Well done again.” She sashayed off toward another group who had no idea she was about to do the hard sell.

  “Where have you been?” I asked John. He’d left me twenty minutes earlier and I hadn’t seen him since, which struck me as unusual. In New York, he’d stuck to my side like glue, and although I wouldn’t have told him as much, I appreciated the moral support.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I ducked off to the men’s room and then got accosted by some people who’d heard about my architecture firm.” His expression was apologetic. “It was hard to get away.”

  I nodded.

  “Which painting was she talking about, Scarlett?” Cate interrupted, her green eyes curious.

  “‘Patient Tiger’? That’s the painting of—” I broke off before I could say my father. I didn’t need to go there tonight. “It’s that one over there.”

  Cate turned in the direction I was pointing. “Oh. That one was at your New York exhibition too, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it someone you know personally?” she asked.

  I knew Cate wasn’t trying to be pushy, she was only interested. I struggled to find the words to explain the painting without giving too much away.

  John spoke, his deep voice gentle. “It’s someone she knew during her childhood, a long time ago.”

  I shot him a grateful look.

  “Oh.” Fortunately Cate
’s eyes were still on the painting and not me. “Well, I can understand why you would want to hold onto it then, but it’s definitely worth being on display. It’s amazing.”

  When I glanced over at Christa I discovered she was watching me and John, not Cate or the painting. I dropped my eyes.

  Sensing my mood, John squeezed my hand. “Come on. I think a round of drinks is in order. We need to make a toast.”

  The girls eagerly agreed and we waited until we could get a waiter’s attention. Then, with glasses of champagne in hand, John indicated for us to raise our drinks.

  “To Scarlett,” John announced. “In no particular order, we admire you for your talent, beauty, wit, and determination. It’s a scary combination but we love you for it.”

  The girls laughed loudly and made a show of clinking their glasses. “To Scarlett!”

  I took a long sip of my champagne, the bubbles burning my throat as they went down.

  “I think she’s all choked up,” Cate teased.

  “Shut up. It’s the champagne,” I complained. I usually preferred wine or spirits.

  “Oh sure,” Christa scoffed.

  “Don’t deny it,” Cate said. “You’ve been like this all night. I think you might actually be happy.”

  John’s eyes settled on my face. “It suits her,” he said softly.

  I saw Cate grin girlishly out of the corner of my eye.

  “I’d say you suit each other,” Christa added boldly.

  John looked over at Christa and his mouth quirked playfully. “Shh. Don’t tell her that.”

  Christa and Cate laughed and I could read genuine happiness for me in their expressions. I had the sudden urge to hold tight to this moment so I wouldn’t forget anything about how good my life was right now. This list of reasons was impressive: a promising art career on the rise, a job that would let me focus on my art, wonderful, supportive friends, and a man standing beside me who loved me for me.

  And who I loved.

  My smile must have faltered.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Christa. “Don’t tell me you’ve found something to be unhappy about after all?”

  I forced the smile back on my face. “Ha, ha. Very funny, Bubbles. Just a moment of ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ that’s all.” My voice wavered slightly.

  “Well, it is,” Cate replied firmly. “And you deserve all of it.”

  “She does.” John put an arm around me and pulled me close.

  I inhaled the scent of him. He always smelled the same – fresh and salty, with a hint of spice. I closed my eyes. I’d willingly drown in him if he’d let me.

  “Hey,” he whispered into my hair. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

  I looked up at him. Into his earnest, concerned eyes. It would be so easy to say it, I realized. I could tell him I loved him right now. It wouldn’t matter that Cate and Christa were standing beside me. Hell, they’d cheer me on if I gave them half the chance.

  My heart pounded wildly in my chest and I felt breathless. I’d never told anyone I’d loved them. In my entire life, there’d been no one. I’d always been alone. But the man currently holding me in his arms was someone. Someone I wanted to love. Someone I wanted to hold. Someone who’d had the strength of character – and let’s face it, the optimism – to push past all my bullshit and get to know the real me.

  “Scarlett?” He looked genuinely worried now.

  I opened my mouth, closed it again. Swallowed. Goddamn it, why was my mouth so dry? “I—”

  “There she is!”

  I stiffened and all the breath left me, my confession of love dying on my lips.

  No. It couldn’t be. Not here. Not now. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t.

  “Ska-lit! I been looking everywhere for you.”

  I drew in a shuddering breath and John’s arm tightened around my waist. I resisted putting a hand to my mouth. Instead, I forced myself to breathe through the shock and released myself from his grip. I turned in the direction of her voice.

  “Mother.”

  Chapter 29

  It wasn’t like we were estranged, I reasoned. Until recently they’d been living interstate. But I wasn’t prepared for this. This was my world. It was one of my most important art shows to date and she couldn’t just barge in and ruin it for me. She didn’t support my art. She’d bloody well thrown me out of the house when I was eighteen because of my art.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked coldly.

  I saw Cate stiffen out of the corner of my eye. Predictably my mother seemed oblivious to my frosty reception. The woman was a wall.

  “Looking at art,” she replied tersely. “Some of this art very strange.”

  “It’s called Expressionism,” I told her, annunciating the words like I was speaking to a small child.

  My mother waved her small hand at me. The movement was bird-like and it made me stop and look properly at her. She was dressed beautifully, in a red silk blouse and black trousers. She appeared older, I realized, her chin length jet black hair showing strands of gray. Her sharp, attentive eyes were also like a bird’s, and they didn’t miss a thing. They were hard as they met mine.

  “I know what Expressionism is,” she said. “But even for Expressionism some of this art very out there.”

  I resisted the urge to sigh and looked past her shoulder in the vain hope that I would be able to spot Bàba. He was about the only one in the entire human population that could take the edge off my mother. He’d be here somewhere because my mother didn’t drive, but I couldn’t see him. Knowing my mother, she’d probably taken the opportunity to ambush me while he was parking the car.

  “That’s because it’s based on the emotion the artist is trying to convey,” Cate said, in a misguided attempt to be helpful.

  “Who are you?”

  Cate blinked. She looked between me and my mother uncertainly. I knew she’d be finding the force of my tiny mother’s presence unexpected. I also knew she wasn’t used to being spoken to so rudely, and that took into consideration having a friend like me.

  “This is Cate,” I said to my mother. “She’s a good friend of mine.”

  “What she do?”

  I resisted rolling my eyes. Status. It was always about status with my mother. Cate was watching on in astonishment, not used to being the subject of discussion when she was right there.

  “Cate’s a financial planner.”

  My mother’s lips pursed thoughtfully.

  I sighed. “An accountant.” Why on earth I was standing in the middle of my art show having this discussion, I had no idea. I dared a look up at John. He was watching on soberly, his expression unreadable.

  My mother nodded. “Accountancy. Very good profession.”

  Cate noticeably relaxed. “Why thank you—”

  “Christa!”

  Cate jumped and Christa bit back a smile. She obviously hadn’t forgotten those phone messages left by my mother despite it being years ago.

  “Hi, Mrs. Wong,” she said easily.

  “You still doing drawing on computers?”

  Christa attempted a more serious expression. “Yes. Graphic design—”

  “Silly, silly job,” my mother spat. “But at least you make money from your art.”

  Christa bit her lip and looked over at me. I immediately felt bad that I’d shared even that small amount of information about my closest friend with my mother. I shook my head at Christa, indicating she shouldn’t worry. Hey, at least she wasn’t related to her.

  My mother swung around to face me again. “You earn money for your paintings here tonight?”

  “They’re for sale, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I know. I already ask. Lot of money. Very good.”

  Well, that was an improvement. That was possibly the most positive she’d ever been about anything to do with my artistic career in my entire life.

  “You make enough money to stop working in silly advertising job?”

 
“Not yet.”

  My mother nodded, as if that was the response she expected.

  John cleared his throat and I felt a jolt of fear go through me. Please, please don’t say anything, I begged him silently.

  “Scarlett’s art career is going very well, Mrs. Wong. I’d say in another year she will be in a position to do her art full-time.”

  I gripped my glass of champagne tighter. I had to admire him for his optimism, but naively he had no idea what he was up against.

  My mother’s eyes narrowed. “This your boyfriend?”

  No, I wanted to say.

  “Yes,” John said.

  “What you do?”

  “I’m an architect.”

  “Mmm. Buildings.” She cast a calculating eye over him, taking in his height and his all black attire. John completely dwarfed her but she didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed. She tipped her chin up at him, her mouth turning down in a frown. “You half-caste, aren't you?”

  Cate sucked in a sharp breath and Christa put a hand to her mouth. I couldn’t tell if it was to suppress a giggle or a gasp. My blood was pounding through my veins and I could feel a bubble of fury rise in my chest. I gripped John’s arm tightly.

  He ran a tender hand across my back, out of my mother’s sight, and looked at her calmly. “My mother is Chinese and my father is Australian.”

  My mother’s frown softened. “Chinese mother very good thing.”

  I choked on a bitter laugh. John’s thumb stroked the small of my back through my clothing. It was the only thing preventing me from pouncing on my mother and forcibly escorting her from the building.

  “My mother and I are very close,” John said.

  My mother’s eyes darkened. “You lucky.”

  She wasn’t looking at me, but what was she saying? I had no idea and couldn’t even begin to contemplate that her words may have been an attempt at regret. The idea was fanciful.

  “I’m lucky to have Scarlett in my life too,” John said.

  I shot him a warning look. That, right there, was not the way into my mother’s good books. I’d been torn from the pages of her good books so many years ago that he’d be better off not highlighting any association with me.

  My mother was still staring hard at John. “You were the one who left the invite?”