by M E Whiter
All you need to do, at this stage, is to let us know if you wish to accept this offer, and it you want to make any changes to the itinerary.
We look forward to hearing from you, and hopefully, with the opportunity to avail you of our travel services, on behalf of our client.
Your truly,
Brett Stone
Managing Director, Elite Club Vacations
________________________________________
Of course, I had to read the email several times over, before I was convinced I read it correctly, and that there wasn’t some hidden catch. I mean, no one, not even a rich art benefactor, would be willing to offer a virtual unknown talent, like myself, something as incredible as this, right? After calling Claudia, and confirming the offer was genuine, I sent a return email, accepting their offer. A week later, another email arrived, with the details of my flight plus the seven day all-inclusive holiday package, in Vancouver.
Oh My God! I couldn’t believe that this was really going to happen. To me, of all people. That someone was actually willing to pay all that money, just so they could meet me in person, and without giving me any assurances, the job was mine.
It was a scary prospect, either way. But, I wasn’t going to pass up the offer, if it meant a free overseas holiday, regardless of whether I got the job, or not. I think it took me all of five minutes to make up my mind, before I sent a reply, letting them know I was happy to accept the package; unchanged. The only thing I had to do after that, was apply for a passport.
Of course, I had to share the news with my two best friends, Morgan Doyle and Abby Turner, who were only too thrilled to hear about my trip, and the prospect of me staying in Vancouver for a few weeks, while I painted. This job is a great opportunity, one that could propel my art career, up to a whole new dimension. Beyond my wildest dreams. And now that I’m here, I just have to make sure I don’t stuff it up.
WELL NO TIME to think about that now, I realise looking down at my watch. If I don’t get a move on, I won’t have time to see more of the park, before I have to return the bike to the rental shop. Returning to the trail once again, my thoughts look ahead to what’s happening tomorrow.
Yes, the interview. My nerves are already jittery, realising I’m finally going to meet the anonymous art collector. Except, I can’t understand why, all the secrecy surrounding their identity. It snagged my curiosity, from the moment I read the email, and I’ve been trying to find out, imagining all kinds of possibilities, but the travel club refused to give me any clues, saying I’d have to wait until the interview.
When the trail comes to another intersection, I turn right onto a main road, leading through a densely section of forest, on the western perimeter of the park. After a couple of steep ascents, that burn the muscles in the back of my legs, the road eventually levels out, until I reach the outdoor cafe, at the main lookout. Puffing hard with hot sweat pouring over my windblown cheeks, I secure the bike to the rack, and head for the restrooms to freshen up, before buying a sandwich and a cold bottle of water, from the cafe.
I find a nice quiet spot to sit, on a low stone wall border, looking at the panoramic views over the harbour, and the mountains behind North Vancouver. The warm sunshine and the fresh breeze washing over my tired limbs, is a welcome blessing. And with the birds flapping their wings as they pass by me, the only noise to disturb the tranquility, as I devour my chicken sandwich, I couldn’t think of anywhere else in the world, I’d rather be, in this moment.
After I finish my lunch, I grab my sketchpad and pencils out of my backpack, and for the next half hour or so, I get to work, drawing up a few detailed sketches of the surrounding landscape. I just manage to pack up and take out my camera to take a few photos before leaving, when a busload of tourists arrive and as I’m pack up, and take a few photos before I leave, When I’m finished, I take my camera out and busily snap away, taking as many memorable shots as I can, to take back home with me.
As much as I’d like to stay here a little longer, I need to get the bike back to the rental shop by one, if I don’t want to miss seeing the Jean Lafayette exhibition at the Vancouver Art Gallery, this afternoon. When I read the itinerary and saw that a visit to the art gallery, was on the list of places to see, I was excited, as Jean Lafayette has recently become one of my favourite Canadian artists. I had wanted to visit the gallery on my first day here, but Connor, my personal tour guide, insisted on waiting until today, stating that it’s the best time, to visit the gallery.
Connor Black works for the travel club that organised this trip. When I first noticed him, standing in the international arrivals terminal at Vancouver airport, holding up a sign with my name on it, I was a little disconcerted. My first impression of his appearance, failed to convince me, that he was a real tour guide. His faded jeans, old t-shirt and dirty runners didn’t exactly speak of professionalism. That didn’t bother me, as much as, his greeting introduction, when I introduced myself, came across as less than friendly, and the look on his face resembled more of a scowl, than a smile.
Having said that, I can’t complain about his conduct. This whole week, he’s been nothing but courteous and professional, despite his less than talkative nature. Not that we’ve spent much time together, and then, it’s mainly been when he needs to fill me in on the day’s itinerary, or when he has to drive me somewhere.
That was until yesterday afternoon, when out of the blue, Connor announced that he was coming along with me, to the art gallery. Not once, has he offered to accompany me on any other occasion, so I was not impressed that he was now. The thing is, I’ve never liked visiting places such as art galleries or museums with someone else; I prefer going alone, so I can totally absorb myself in the atmosphere of being surrounded by so much talent and creativity. You can’t do that, if someone else is there with you.
The fact that he kept insisting on going, really irritated me to the point where, we ended up in an argument. But, no matter how intimidating he tried to be, I refused to back down, and it was only when he realised how stubborn I could be, that he finally gave in, but not without storming out of my hotel room, majorly pissed off.
After returning the bike to the rental shop, I hop on the next bus, back to the hotel. I have just enough time for a quick shower, to wash off the dirt and grime from my morning ride, before I need to get ready to leave for the art gallery. I’m so excited, I can feel the nervous energy zipping through my veins. I’m just glad, Connor won’t be coming with me.
Chapter Two
WEDNESDAY, 6th August
Rachel
IT ONLY TAKES me five minutes, to walk down the block, to the Vancouver Art Gallery. Lucky for me, the afternoon temperature is a lot warmer, as I’m only wearing a floral halter top over my blue jeans. In my rush, I forgot to grab my jacket before I left the hotel.
I walk up the front steps, passing through the Roman portico, that leads inside the art gallery. It’s almost like stepping into another world. The interior of the building is huge. Beyond the central courtyard is a large rotunda with a beautiful domed ceiling and circular staircase leading to the upper floors. According to the brochure, I picked up on the way in, the gallery houses collections of artworks, by both local and international artists, from all over the world.
Following the directions, I proceed to the first floor, and enter the Jean Lafayette Exhibition, situated inside a large airy display room, with a marble chequered floor. I’ve only viewed the artist’s work on the internet. So now, to be able to see her artwork in person, is a real thrill for me. And, for the next hour, I engross myself in the experience.
Most of the paintings on display, comprise of large vibrant abstract streetscapes with a few still life images, peppered here and there. Her signature style, has been a major inspiration in my own creative efforts as an artist. So much so, that I have made a note of it, on my artist’s profile. I always attach a copy, to the back of all my paintings. I’ve been told, it’s an effective marketing strategy. So far, it’s wor
king for me.
I have my cousin, Mary to thank, for recommending her work to me, in the first place. Mary lives in Victoria, on Vancouver Island, not far from where Jean Lafayette’s studio is located. She knew I’d be interested in the artist’s work, especially when I mentioned, wanting to pursue an art career. I’m just disappointed she can’t be here with me now, to see the exhibition. But, at the moment, she’s somewhere in South Africa, doing volunteering nursing. I won’t see her, until she comes home, in a couple of weeks.
When I leave the Lafayette exhibition, I decide to take a look at some of the other exhibits, while I’m here. The gallery won’t close for another hour. Not knowing where to go next, I dig into my handbag and pull out the piece of paper, Connor had handed me yesterday afternoon, when he dropped me back at my hotel. It was a list of recommended paintings, he thought I should see. I hadn’t planned on using it, but, now that I have time to kill, I’m curious to find out, why he thinks these particular paintings are noteworthy. After all, he doesn’t exactly strike me as the type, to know anything about art.
There are five paintings on the list, and after I’ve finished viewing the fourth one, I can’t say, that any are particularly outstanding. As I make my way downstairs to the ground floor, a sudden shiver comes over me, giving me the feeling, like I’m being watched. But, when I look around, I can’t see anyone that stands out. So, I shrug it off thinking I’m just being paranoid.
Standing in front of the last painting, the title reads, ‘La Belle Rose’. It’s a life-size portrait of a young woman, wearing an elegant rose-coloured evening gown. Aptly named, I think, as she looks very beautiful, standing in a small home library. The soft glow from a table lamp, illuminating her delicate features, accentuates the sweet smile on her pink lips. Her long wavy brown hair, frames her face, as it cascades over her pale shoulders.
I don’t know how long I stand there, but the longer I do, the more intrigued I become, by the woman’s image. Something about her, seems familiar to me, but I can’t pinpoint the reason. Inching forward a little closer, I suddenly notice her blue-green eyes, and it’s almost as if I’m staring in the mirror, because they bear an uncanny likeness to my own. A little bit creepy! But not as much as, the gold heart-shaped filagree necklace around her neck, with a red rose at its centre. Now, that is too bizarre! It’s identical to the one, I carry around with me, in my handbag.
It had been a twenty-first birthday present, handed to me, by my aunt. She claimed my father had sent it to her, to hand over to me, on the day. A man I don’t remember, not having seen him since I was three years old, when he walked out on our family. Questions start filtering through my head, as I continue to gaze at the portrait, drinking in every last detail, for clues that would explain why, she could be wearing my necklace. A sudden shiver runs down my spine, like someone just walked over my grave.
I’m so distracted by the thought, that I don’t even notice the man standing in my shadow, until I go to step back. I immediately sense there’s something off about his presence, even without daring to look at his face. From the corner of my eye, I can glimpse his dark coat and baseball cap, and the fact he’s wearing sunglasses, indoors, strikes me as odd.
Feeling the urge, to get some distance from him, but not wanting to make it look obvious, I slowly inch backwards, but unfortunately, my goal fails, when I end up tripping over something behind me. I try to maintain my balance, my hands grasping fists of empty air, as I fall. Then without warning, I feel a strong arm wrap around my waist, pulling me down onto a man’s lap.
“Whoa, I got you,” exclaims a deep sensual voice, that suggests of a slight Latin accent. It rolls off his tongue like an erotic tango, casting a spell over my libido.
When I whip my head around, to see who’s lap I’m sitting on, I find myself looking into the most mesmerising eyes, I have ever seen. Dreamy! Their colour reminding me of an Adonis butterfly, pools of vivid blue, outlined by long black lashes. He captures my breath, making me forget all about the creepy guy.
My cheeks blush hotly, from the gaze of his vivid blue eyes, examining me intimately, like he’s just found the piece to a puzzle, he didn’t know was missing.
Oh My! His face is just as gorgeous, with beautiful golden skin, that I’d love to lick, to see if he tastes just as yummy. With his arm still around my waist, I can feel his broad muscular frame, entrapping me in a cloak of his body heat. I inhale his male scent combined with a hint of citrus. My mind is distracted by the allusion of intimacy it creates.
When I see the flicker of amusement, dancing across his gaze, it catches me off guard. The spell he has over me, suddenly breaks. The slight quirk appearing on his lip, confounds me, not understanding, what he finds so amusing. Until suddenly, I feel something twitch beneath my hand. At first I ignore it, too distracted by the sexy way his mouth moves, when he starts to say something.
“Well, I usually prefer an introduction, before letting a woman sit on my lap and grope me, but . . .” he says, raising one eyebrow at me suggestively, before lowering his eyes to where my hand is resting.
I continue staring at his face, not following his meaning, until I glance down to where he’s indicating. My eyes widen in disbelief, as time stops breathing, caught in a moment, as I look at my hand resting on his crotch. The blush on my face turns to molten lava, then all at once, my flight responses kick in. Jerking my hand away, I fly off his lap in a panic. Backing away from him, I shake my head, my eyes still glued to the bulge between his legs, as words tumble from my lips, sound something like an apology.
“Oh my God! I’m so . . . so sorry . . . I didn’t mean to . . .to . . .” When the words fail me, so does my courage, and without waiting another second, I spin around and dash towards the door, not stopping until I exit the gallery and halfway down the street, when the burning fire in my lungs, forces me to stop and take a breath. Once my heart rate calms down, I head straight back to the hotel.
As soon as I enter my room, I kick off my sandals and collapse onto the bed, glad to put the ordeal behind me. My cheeks still feel flushed, and I can’t get the image out of my head, of my hand resting on the sexy stranger’s impressive package. And what was with that twitch? Hmm! My hand still tingles from the memory. Imagining the possibilities, tickles my sense of humour, sending my into a fit of giggles.
When I open my eyes, I don’t realise I fell asleep, until the fading light in the room draws my attention. Looking at the time, I jump off the bed and head for the shower, I need to start getting ready. To celebrate the end of my one week holiday, I have an invitation, to attend tonight’s charity benefit and art auction, at the L’Artiste Gallery.
Apparently, it’s one of the city’s most highly prized annual events. I didn’t really want to go, until Connor mentioned that my mysterious benefactor, had donated one of the paintings he bought from me, towards tonight’s auction, to help raise funds for a community arts centre. That, soon changed my mind. Especially, when I considered what it would mean, to have my painting on display, at such a prestigious event. The exposure is something every artist strives for, if they want to see their career succeed. So, all things considered, tonight could actually turn out to be, one of the highlight’s of my trip.
WHEN I WALK through the large glass doors of the Bayside Conference Centre, I feel a bit like Cinderella going to the ball, watching all the guests crowd into the foyer, looking resplendent in their formal evening attire. I’ve never attended one of these events before, and I must admit to feeling a little overwhelmed, at the prospect of spending the evening here, on my own.
After leaving my coat at the cloakroom, I follow the line of guests piling into the gallery where the artwork is on display, for tonight's auction. When I walk through the door, I’m greeted by a uniformed attendant who hands me a catalogue. Once inside, I peel open the catalogue, flipping through the pages, until I find the listing for my painting. I can't hide the grin on my face, as I stare at the glossy image, with my profile listed underneath.
I scan down the page, to where it says, donor's name: only to find the word, "anonymous" written beside it. Damn It! Looks like I’ll have to wait to find out, at tomorrow’s interview, after all.
When a waiter passes by, I eagerly accept the glass of champagne he offers me, from his tray. Putting it to my lips, I almost drink the entire contents in one sip, feeling the need to settle my nerves. When I finish the rest, I deposit the glass on the nearest stand, and then walk over and join the line of guests, slowly making their way along the rows of displays, to view the art, one at a time.
I’m already on my third glass of wine, when I spot my painting, titled ‘Self Expression’. It’s a large abstract of a naked female, standing on an open balcony, gazing over the mountain views. The title is a reflection of where my life was at, when I painted it. My divorce had just come through, and I was feeling the need to express my newfound freedom. The naked part, was supposed to represent stripping my old life bare, leaving me free, to start over again.