by Mandy Lee
‘Maya! It’s good to see you. What are you doing here?’
I force myself up from the sofa, move forwards, and let him throw his podgy arms around me. ‘I’ve got nothing to do today. I thought I’d give Lucy a hand.’
‘Where is she?’
‘In the kitchen, making tea.’
‘Thank fuck for that.’ Little Steve motions towards the sofas. ‘I’m about ready for a cuppa. I’ve had a hell of a morning.’
As we lower ourselves down at opposite sides of the coffee table, a second set of footsteps clomp their way up the stairs. A few seconds later, Big Steve emerges from the basement. In a matching check shirt, this time paired with jeans, Big Steve is tall and trim. In direct contrast to his partner, he’s clean shaven and dark haired, although seeing as the pair of them are in their mid-sixties, I’m pretty sure that the hair has been helped along by a good dollop of dye.
‘Maya,’ he grunts, seating himself next to Little Steve. ‘Good job you’re here. It’s all hands on deck. Me and him have been falling out big time this morning.’
Lucy pokes her head out through the kitchen door. A few moments later, she joins me on the sofa with a tray of mugs. While we each pick up a mug and begin to sip at the tea, Big Steve scowls at Little Steve and Little Steve scowls back.
‘So, what’s the problem?’ Lucy sighs.
‘We’ve just sold both of those seascapes downstairs,’ Little Steve explains. ‘Some weird bloke with bad breath and an ugly shih tzu. Big Steve’s fucked up the books.’
‘I did not fuck up the books.’
‘You did too. He’s gone and put everything in the wrong columns. And we’ve got to arrange delivery for Monday because weird bloke wants them pronto. And he’s gone and moved everything round downstairs.’ He shoots a look of death at his partner. ‘It’s not right, Lucy, but he won’t have it. And we haven’t even started on the invitations yet.’
‘Calm down,’ Lucy snaps. ‘I’ll sort it all out.’
‘And you’re here to help, Maya?’ Big Steve arches an eyebrow at me.
‘She’s here because she’s avoiding a man,’ Lucy intervenes. ‘He’s a rich, sexy bod but Maya’s scared she’ll fall for him and he’ll shit on her.’
‘Oh, give him a chance,’ Little Steve advises. ‘This one here changed his ways. It can be done.’
I take a look at Big Steve. Now this pair have been an item for over thirty years. The typical married couple, always in each other’s pockets, frequently arguing, forever making up. I can’t imagine that Big Steve ever played the scene.
‘I tamed him.’ Little Steve grins. ‘And he’s been all mine ever since.’
‘Not all men can be tamed,’ I grimace.
‘Oh, they can.’ Big Steve frowns. ‘It just takes the right person. Now, shall we get some work done here?’
That’s all it takes. A frown from Big Steve is like an order from up above, a commandment set in a tablet of stone. The tea is finished, Lucy clears up and we set about sorting out the basement. While Lucy disappears into the office to fix the mess with the books and arrange delivery of two paintings to a man with halitosis and a questionable dog, the two Steves argue incessantly and I take on the job of rearranging the paintings one more time. I order them about and they scurry here and there, practically falling over each other. By lunch time, we’re all pooped. Big Steve takes himself off to a local deli to get sandwiches while Little Steve fetches two bottles of white wine and a collection of mismatched wine glasses from the kitchen. At last, we all collapse back onto the sofas, and settle in for food and beverages.
‘We’ll be doing no more work today after this.’ Big Steve raises a glass. ‘But never mind. Here’s to the ladies! They’ve sorted us out good and proper.’
I squirm at the phrase. Suddenly, I’m thinking about Daniel Foster again, and his threat to sort me out good and proper. Eyeing up my handbag, I’m on the verge of checking my mobile when I hear the door wheeze open. I’m facing away from the door, lifting a glass of wine to my mouth, but from the expression on Big Steve’s face, I know that it must be a welcome visitor.
‘Well, hello stranger!’ He springs up from his seat.
Little Steve chokes on his sandwich, spraying chunks of half chewed chorizo across the table. With a jittering hand, he lays his lunch back inside its wrapper and peers over my shoulder. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
‘Just passing.’
At the sound of the velvety voice, my own sandwich decides to jitter about in my hand. I glance across at Lucy to find that she’s gazing over the back of the sofa, her eyes wide with astonishment.
‘We haven’t seen you in a while, darling.’ Little Steve wipes his mouth. ‘Have you been busy?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Ladies,’ Big Steve calls. ‘Come and meet Daniel Foster.’
I glance again at Lucy only to find that she’s staring back at me, open mouthed, and I rather suspect that she’s already put two and two together and come up with the right answer. Her mouth begins to open and close, something like a goldfish, and I will her to stay silent.
‘Dan,’ Big Steve goes on, ‘this is Lucy, our manager. And this is Maya, her friend. Come on you two!’
As I raise myself up from the sofa, I wonder how the hell he’s managed to track me down to Slaters, and then, very quickly, I wonder if my legs are about to give way. Unwillingly, I turn, and it hits me straight away: the full-on impact of the sex god in all his glory. He’s dressed in black this morning: jeans that hang loosely from his hips, matched with a T-shirt that shows off the contours of his upper body to perfection. There’s not an extra ounce of body fat anywhere on this man, and fuck me it’s hot. He smiles down at me, his eyes shimmering in a ray of sunlight. He looks good enough to eat. I’d like to pounce on him right now and demand to be fucked good and proper. I catch my breath at the very thought of it, and then I hear myself begin to pant. Shit! No! Don’t do that, my brain complains. Don’t go acting like a prize idiot in front of your friends. Remember, this can’t end well!
It’s Lucy who sidles forwards first to greet him.
‘Hi,’ she simpers, holding out her hand.
‘Hi back.’ He takes Lucy’s hand, kisses it quickly, and lets it go. And then he turns to me, full on. ‘And you are?’ He smiles broadly. ‘Sorry, I’ve forgotten.’
‘Maya,’ I mutter.
I can see that my hand is quivering as I hold it out. His fingers lock themselves around mine and immediately, I feel it, that super-heated charge of energy that shoots around my body every single bloody time he touches me. I’m a quivering wreck as he leans down and brushes his lips against the back of my hand.
‘What a beautiful name. It’s good to meet you, Maya.’
‘Maya’s a talented artist,’ Little Steve announces. ‘Shit hot with the oils.’
‘Is she?’ Keeping a firm hold of my hand, he turns away.
‘Well, she would be,’ I hear Lucy pipe up, ‘if she actually had any paints.’
‘A painter with no paints?’ He homes back in on me and I’m done for. All manner of sensations kick off into action and my brain takes its customary Daniel Foster holiday. ‘Well, that’s not good enough.’
‘So, why haven’t you been round in a while?’ Big Steve demands.
‘Too much on at work.’ Slowly, he unwraps his fingers and turns away. ‘But I’m looking to acquire something. I thought I’d come and take a look at what you’ve got to offer.’
‘Well, let’s have a browse. Glass of wine? It’s good stuff.’
‘That would be wonderful.’
While Big Steve picks up a spare glass and fills it with white wine, Daniel Foster gazes down at me. Now what’s that look on his face? As far as I’m concerned, it’s unfathomable. Big Steve thrusts the glass at him. The big kahuna accepts it, shoots me a dark glance, and finally allows himself to be manoeuvred into the main space of the gallery.
I catch hold of Little Steve’s arm befor
e he can make a move.
‘How do you know him?’ I whisper.
‘He’s one of our best customers. He spends thousands in here.’
Thousands? In here? Completely out of nowhere, I’m knocked flat on my backside in a metaphorical kind of a way. This can’t be true. Daniel Foster? An art lover? I shake my head. No, it can’t be true at all. In fact, it’s impossible. No way does this arrogant, self-satisfied, sexist pig of a womaniser admire the finer things in life. I’m not falling for that.
‘Ooh, I love it when he comes in,’ Little Steve gurgles dreamily. ‘I can’t get enough of that man. Look at his arse!’
‘How come I’ve never met him?’ Lucy demands.
‘We usually we do private showings for him, darling. He works long hours so we open up at night, and he makes it worth our while. You must have seen his name in the books, Lucy.’
She shakes her head, but I’m not surprised. Lucy’s brain is a colander at the best of times.
‘But this is strange.’ Little Steve gawps at Daniel Foster’s backside. ‘He’s never come in at the weekend before now, and certainly never without prior arrangement. He’s got a good eye and he knows his art. He’s very picky though. I’d better go and help. This could fund our new camper van.’
While Little Steve scurries off to join the other men, I shake my head again. So, it is true. He knows his art.
‘That’s him?’ Lucy gasps. ‘Mr Mean and Hot and Moody?’
I drop my head.
‘For God’s sake, he’s sex on legs. And he’s into art. And look at that! He’s a gay icon to boot. Why don’t you want any more to do with him?’
‘I told you, Lucy. He’d break my heart.’
‘Well, I think it’s worth the bother. And you saw him in the buff?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Lucy!’
‘I’m not on your side any more,’ she scowls. ‘You’re going to have sex with that man if it kills me.’
While Lucy rushes off to help with the viewing, I slump back down into the sofa. In one fell swoop, I knock back my glass of wine. Refilling it, I gulp down a second. Every now and then, I risk a peek at the happy crowd of art lovers. They’re admiring a landscape here, laughing together there. The two Steves take every opportunity to touch their favourite client on the arm or on the back and finally, after at least half an hour, they return to the sofas.
‘Sit down, Dan.’ Lucy points at the space next to me.
I wince.
‘No, I can’t stay.’
He’s staring down at me now, his blue eyes dancing in the sunlight. He leans forwards, taking his time, positioning himself deliberately close to me, and I drink in his scent as he places his empty glass back onto the coffee table. When his head is next to mine, he turns and looks me directly in the face. He’s so close now I can practically feel his breath on my lips.
‘Have you seen anything you fancy?’ Lucy asks mischievously.
‘Yes, I’ve spotted something I want.’
He doesn’t move. Without a care in the world for what’s going on around him, he continues to stare into my eyes. And then he turns his attention to my mouth, his lips parting slightly for a moment. At last, he seems to gather his wits and straightens himself up.
‘Shall we reserve it for you?’ Big Steve enquires.
‘No need.’ He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his mobile and begins to enter a message. ‘I always get what I want in the end.’ He pushes the mobile back into his pocket. ‘Thanks for the wine,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll be back to seal the deal. See you soon.’
I stare at my handbag. Amongst the sound of polite goodbyes, I hear yet another ping. I wait until the door closes before I reach down for my phone. There’s another message waiting for me. With a jittering hand, I open it up. I swallow hard. It’s one word. And one word only.
Monday.
Chapter Eleven
Sunday begins with an inevitable hangover. Drinks at the gallery were quickly followed by drinks at various bars in Soho. And all of this culminated in the usual taxi drive home, during which I propped up Lucy’s semi-comatose body and reassured the taxi driver more than once that there’d be no vomiting. Finally, just after one o’clock in the afternoon, I return to something close to consciousness and check my mobile. Nothing. Not one single message from Daniel Foster. Obviously, he’s already said everything he wants to say, and there’s no need to say any more.
I peel myself out of bed and stagger into the kitchen. As soon as I make it through the doorway, I come to a halt, amazed at what I find. Not only has Lucy managed to rouse herself and get dressed, but she’s also decided to take it upon herself to prepare a full Sunday roast. I sit down on a rickety chair, my mouth hanging open in astonishment at the sight. A panful of potatoes is busy simmering on the hob, right next to a second panful of Brussels sprouts. And there, hunched over the sink, struggling to wash a chicken under the tap, is Lucy.
‘Afternoon.’ She flips the chicken over, wrestles with its legs and dowses it some more.
‘Afternoon,’ I mutter back. ‘You’ve not used soap on that, have you?’
‘I’m not a complete idiot. How are you?’
‘Gruesome. I feel like the walking dead. And you?’
‘Fine.’
Fine? Well, that’s a bloody miracle, considering the industrial quantities of wine that were downed last night, along with the endless shots … and the cocktails.
‘Do you remember anything about last night?’
Lucy shakes her head.
‘Not much.’ She turns, waving the chicken about in her left hand. ‘Did we go dancing?’
‘Sort of.’
‘And did we get chatted up by a load of Elvis impersonators?’
‘You did. I couldn’t be bothered with it all.’
‘Well, of course not.’ The chicken is raised and lowered again, and already I’m worrying about hygiene matters. ‘You’ve got Mr Sex on Legs.’
I let out a loud sigh.
‘I’ve not got Mr Sex on Legs.’
‘Yes, you have.’ She slaps the chicken down onto a baking tray. ‘The way he was looking at you in Slaters, I’d say you’ve got him.’
‘Pphhh.’
I gaze at the kettle, wondering whether or not there’s enough energy in the reserves to force myself back up onto my feet, cross five feet of linoleum and make a cup of tea.
‘He’s seriously into you, Maya.’
‘He’d seriously like to get into me. He wants a quick shag and that’s about it.’
‘Well, if I were you, I’d let him get on with it. Bloody hell, that’d be a ride and a half. Did you see the bulge in his jeans?’
‘I didn’t bother looking.’ I shake my head, trying my best to sound all complacent about the matter. It’s not in the slightest bit easy. Just thinking about the bulge in his pants has set my pulse racing. ‘I’ve already seen it all.’
‘Lucky bitch.’ She turns away for a moment, prods the chicken with her forefinger and then turns back. ‘So, are you seeing him again?’
‘Only at work.’
‘But he came into the gallery on purpose.’
Oh God, she’s not going to leave it alone, is she? In fact, I’m pretty damn sure that there’s a Lucy inquisition on the way, and I’m not in any fit state for that. I’ll just have to bat it away with some heavy duty nonchalance.
‘Whatever,’ I sigh.
‘To see you.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘That wasn’t a coincidence.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘I just can’t work out how he tracked you down.’
‘Yada yada yada.’
‘But the thing is this.’ She puts her hands on her hips. ‘If he is just out for a quick shag, then he’s going to a hell of a lot of trouble to get it. And looking like that, I’d say he doesn’t need to go to a hell of a lot of trouble to get it at all. All of which suggests to me that he’s really got the hots for you
and he’s not just out for a quick shag at all.’
‘Brilliant deductions, Lucy. Now let’s change the subject. I’m bored.’
‘You will have sex with him,’ she grins, unfurling a length of tin foil. ‘I’ll bloody make sure you do.’
While Lucy begins to shroud the chicken in aluminium, I stumble to my feet and focus my eyes firmly on the kettle. It’s nestled in amongst a mess of potato peelings, calling out to me. I might have the mother of all hangovers but I must have that cup of tea now. I’ve just about managed to stagger a full three feet across the lino when the doorbell rings.
‘Get that, will you?’ Lucy mumbles, tucking the chicken in.
‘Oh, bloody hell.’
With another huge sigh, I veer away from the kettle, lose my balance for a split second, and then drag myself out into the hall. I open the front door to find a strange man on our doorstep. I squint at his name badge, only to discover that he’s called Dave and that he’s a delivery man, but then again that much is pretty evident because sitting in front of him is a huge wooden crate. I stare down at the crate in bewilderment. This has got Lucy Godfrey stamped all over it. The woman’s an internet shopping fiend. But what the hell has she gone and ordered now?
‘Luce!’ I call out. ‘It’s for you!’
I’m about to turn away when the delivery man pipes up.
‘Actually, it’s for someone called Maya Scotton.’ He thrusts a clipboard at me. ‘And I’ll need a signature.’
‘For me?’ How can it be for me? I don’t remember ordering anything. I never order anything. I just don’t have the spare money to buy stuff at the minute. I stare blankly down at the crate.
‘Look,’ he complains. ‘It’s definitely for you, so can you just sign for it and take it off my hands? It weighs a ton.’
Reluctantly, I sign a slip and watch as the delivery man trundles off back to his van. Before long, he’s gone and I’m left alone with a gigantic box. Leaning down, I slap a hand on either side of the crate, and try to pick it up. But it’s impossible. The delivery man was right. It does weigh a ton.