Perfect Blend

by Sue Margolis

  When they finally pulled away, he stood back and looked at her, his head tilted to one side. “Something’s different about you.”

  “No more hairy outcrop on my upper lip?”

  He laughed. “No, it’s not that. It’s your actual hair. It looks great—dead sexy. What have you done to it?”

  “Oh, I just washed it and gave it a quick blast with the dryer. I’m very lucky. I never have to spend too long on it.”

  HALF AN hour later they were in the car, heading toward the Tate Modern. “So,” Sam said at one point, “what’s happening with the school dinners piece?”

  She explained.

  “And you’ve heard nothing from this Boadicea woman?”

  “Not a word.”

  “That’s just so rude.”

  Amy shrugged. “In my experience, people in newspapers are all the same—even on the broadsheets.”

  “And you want to break into this world because …?”

  “I believe I’m a good writer and know I’d get a buzz from breaking stories. It’s like being first with the gossip.”

  He smiled and said he could understand that.

  The conversation got around to art, and he asked her if she’d been to the Tate Modern before. She said she hadn’t. “Which is a shame, because I love modern art. So are you good at art?” she said. “I always imagine that architects must be pretty talented, particularly at drawing.”

  “I paint a little.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Abstracts mostly.”

  “So, have you sold any?”

  “One or two. Last year, I had an exhibition at a gallery in the East End.”

  “You had an exhibition? Wow. That’s amazing. So you’re famous.”

  He laughed. “Not really. A friend of mine owns the gallery. It was my birthday, and he organized the exhibition as a sort of gift. It was just a bit of fun.”

  “Really? You sure that’s all it was?” She offered him a coy smile. “You should know that I do intend to Google you.”

  He rolled his eyes in defeat. “Okay, I sold a dozen or so paintings, and Boris Karpenko bought a couple.”

  “Karpenko? Isn’t he that Russian property tycoon?”

  “Yeah. He bought them to hang in his dacha on the Black Sea.”

  “See, you are famous.”

  “Okay, a bit, maybe. In Odessa.”

  ONCE THEY got to the Tate Modern, Amy picked up a guide. They studied it for a few moments and agreed that they should start on the top floor and work their way down.

  They wandered through rooms full of abstract canvases. Mondrian’s black lattices and brightly colored rectangles gave way to Kandinsky’s geometric lines, circles, and arcs and Jackson Pollock’s drips and spills. Amy spent ages in front of each painting, unable to tear herself away. She didn’t begin to understand what they were about, but she knew they affected her, which Sam said was the whole point.

  Eventually, they came to the Cubists, Picasso and Georges Braque. “I love modern art, but it has always baffled me,” she said. “I really struggle with Cubism. I can see it’s brilliant, but I don’t know why.” They were standing in front of a head and shoulders portrait by Picasso. Before them was a disjointed woman, her breasts where her chin should be, one eye on the side of her head, her nose where her ears should be. “You’re the expert,” she said to Sam. “What is he trying to say?”

  “Okay, Cubism is all about the artist representing an object or subject by showing all views at once. This is done using cylinders, cubes, or cones. The image is deconstructed and reassembled in the sum total of its parts.”

  “So you abandon traditional perspective?”

  “Exactly. You catch on fast, grasshopper.”

  “Big head.” She slapped him playfully on the arm.

  Amy wasn’t quite as bowled over by the art installations as she’d been by the paintings.

  The first they came upon was the Didier Le Boeuf exhibit that Bel had been so excited about. It consisted of a five-hundred-foot-long chain-link fence running down the middle of the hangar-sized gallery. It was seven or eight feet high with barbed wire looped around the top.

  It was called Animus. According to the blurb under the large black-and-white studio photograph of Monsieur Le Boeuf, the fence represented class hatred.

  Major towns and cities in the west are turning into white, middle-class ghettos. Developers in the pay of the rich are building more and more private, gated housing developments, policed by security guards. These areas are built to exclude the poor. Safe behind their high walls, residents can forget the underclass. They can lock them out of their lives and ignore their plight.

  An elderly woman with a severe slate-gray bob, her bird frame shrouded in a black silk kimono-style coat and Palazzo pants, stopped to read the blurb. She gazed at the fence and gave a grave nod of understanding and approval. A gaggle of teenage tourists went by, barely giving the fence a second glance. Then a middle-aged couple stopped to look at it. “It’s a fence,” the husband said. “It’s a bloody fence. Who in their right mind gives somebody three hundred grand to put up a fence? They should have asked me. I’d have done it for fifty quid.”

  “I’m with him,” Amy whispered to Sam.

  Sam said he was inclined to agree. “If you ask me, no real thought has gone into this. Le Boeuf’s having a laugh.”

  “And yet everybody thinks he’s a genius,” Amy said. “I know nothing about art, but to me this is like something a bunch of first-year art college students would come up with.”

  “Maybe, but I think their tutor would have taken one look at the preliminary sketches and sent them away for a rethink.”

  “If I were arts minister,” Amy said, “I’d have a real problem explaining to the struggling masses that I was giving three hundred thousand pounds of taxpayers’ money to the Tate Modern so that some poncey, deluded, third-rate creative on a social crusade could erect a chain-link fence and call it art.”

  She took a step back and felt her body connect with another. She turned around to see a fiery-faced man with beady eyes and Art Garfunkel hair.

  “I’m so sorry,” Amy said, referring to the collision. “My fault.” She found herself staring at the man. “Don’t I know you? I’m sure I recognize your face from somewhere.”

  “Oh, shit,” Sam murmured. “Amy, the photograph … over there … on the wall.”

  Amy’s eyes went from the man to the photograph and back again.

  She let out an understated “Ah.”

  “Oui,” Didier Le Boeuf said. “Zat is me—zee poncey, deluded, third-rate cree-ateef.”

  What was he doing there? Artists never visited galleries where their work was on show, at least not famous ones. They would be mobbed by fans. Then she remembered what Bel had said about Le Boeuf being addicted to praise and how he would hang out at the gallery, giving visitors informal lectures on his work.

  “Omigod. I am so sorry,” Amy said. “What can I say? Look, when I accused you of being poncey and third-rate, I didn’t really mean it. I should tell you that I know nothing about art, I mean absolutely nothing.”

  “Ah can see that.” Le Boeuf offered her a patronizing smile. “You are a philistine, n’est ce pas? You British. You are all ignorant peasants and ’ooligans.”

  “Hey, that’s enough,” Sam said. “The lady has apologized. Now let it go.”

  “Hang on. Who are you calling bloody hooligans?” It was the middle-aged chap who had offered to build the fence for fifty quid.

  The artist ignored him. Instead he took a few steps forward and squared up to Sam. “Nobody tells Le Boeuf what to do,” he snarled.

  The middle-aged man, a burly fellow, wasn’t about to be snubbed. He tapped Le Boeuf on the shoulder. “The gentleman told you to let it go. I suggest you do as he says.”

  Le Boeuf swung around. “What? You are challenging me? Okay, we take this outside, n’est-ce pas?”

  Amy and the middle-aged man’s wife exchanged
horrified looks. “Malcolm, leave it. Please. It’s not worth it.”

  “I agree,” Amy said to Sam. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Malcolm decided to stand his ground. “The young lady is right,” he said to Le Boeuf. “This so-called piece of art is nothing but pretentious, meaningless crap. Merde, as you Frenchies say.”

  “Actually, I didn’t go quite that far,” Amy whispered to Malcolm.

  “Nobody calls my work merde,” Le Boeuf roared, veins standing out on his forehead. “I am a genius. You hear? A genius.” With that he drew back his arm and punched Malcolm in the face. Malcolm collapsed to the ground.

  The two women and a handful of onlookers gasped. Malcolm’s wife rushed to his side. “Omigod, Mal. Speak to me. What has he done to you?”

  Malcolm managed to sit up. His hand was clamped to his right eye. “You bastard,” he snarled at Le Boeuf.

  By then a security guard had arrived. “Monsieur Le Boeuf, sir. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I am fine. I merely acted to defend myself. Please throw zeez troublemakers onto the street.”

  The onlookers protested that Malcolm had done nothing and that Le Boeuf had been the aggressor, but the guard refused to listen. Instead, he helped Malcolm to his feet and insisted that he, his wife, and Amy and Sam leave.

  “But why? We haven’t done anything,” Amy protested.

  “Madam,” the guard said, “I have no intention of arguing with you. You either leave now or I will be forced to call the police.”

  Didier Le Boeuf smiled a valedictory smile. Meanwhile, the two couples were escorted to the exit. Once outside, the four commiserated briefly before parting. Malcolm and his wife set off to find a pharmacy and get something for his eye. Amy and Sam decided to take a calming walk along the river.

  “I’m so sorry,” Amy said to Sam. “That was all my fault. Me and my blinkin’ big mouth.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s a free country. You’re entitled to your opinions. You couldn’t know that Le Boeuf was behind you.”

  “I guess.”

  “If you ask me, the reason he’s so sensitive to criticism is that he knows he’s a con merchant. He’ll get his comeuppance. You wait.”

  “I hope so … By the way, thanks for sticking up for me back there.”

  “You are more than welcome.”

  A few yards ahead there were a couple of market stalls full of costume jewelry. Amy would have adored nothing more than a quick look, but she wouldn’t have dreamed of inflicting her—albeit minor—jewelry habit on Sam, certainly not on their second date. She couldn’t believe it when he said, “Hey, come on, let’s take a look.”

  “No. Honestly. We don’t have to.”

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “You know you want to. It’s written all over your face.”

  “Well, okay. I wouldn’t mind a bit of a rummage, but only for a minute.”

  “There is, however, a quid pro quo,” he said. “If we are out and I find myself overcome by the need to take a look at the latest gadgets for the iPhone, you have to allow me to drag you around the Apple Store. I should warn you that this need is both powerful and frequent.”

  She laughed. “Deal.”

  She moved in on the first stall, which was covered in a tatty purple velvet cloth. “These are pretty,” she said, picking up a pair of silver filigree earrings.

  “Everything’s twenty pounds,” the woman stallholder chirruped.

  Sam looked at the silver earrings and wrinkled his nose. “Nah.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Nah’? They’re lovely.”

  “Reproduction Art Nouveau,” the woman said.

  “They’re all right,” Sam said to Amy, “but these are much more you.”

  He was holding a pair of oval drop earrings.

  “Okay, I admit that those are gorgeous.” She took them from him and picked up the hand mirror, which was lying in front of her.

  “Tell me the emerald green doesn’t look great with your auburn hair,” he said.

  She carried on staring into the mirror. “You’re right. It does. I’m taking them.” She started to unzip her bag.

  Sam covered her hand with his. “My treat. No arguments.”

  “Oh, Sam … no … I can’t let you.”

  “Of course you can.”

  He reached for his wallet and took out a twenty-pound note, which he handed to the stallholder. She asked Amy if she would like them wrapped.

  “No, thanks. I’d prefer to wear them.” As they walked away, she turned to Sam.

  “Thank you so much. They are absolutely perfect. You have great taste.”

  He thanked her and said he was glad she liked them.

  “I love them.” She said, leaning in and kissing him.

  AFTER A while, they found themselves walking along an almost empty stretch of riverbank. As they passed under a tree, he stopped her. “Come here,” he said gently. She felt his arms close around her. She closed her eyes and breathed in his warm smell. As his tongue found hers, she felt her limbs weaken. Her stomach gave its familiar flip. Warm moisture began seeping from inside her.

  She wasn’t sure how long they remained in each other’s arms, oblivious to passersby. When they set off again along the river, they stopped every few paces to kiss again or to hug.

  “You know what?” she said at one point. “I know we were supposed to have lunch, but I’ve sort of lost my appetite for food.”

  “Me, too.”

  She kissed him again. “I was thinking that maybe we could spend the afternoon at my place. Charlie’s at my mum’s until tomorrow.”

  “You sure?”

  “Completely sure. He’s not due back until the afternoon.”

  Sam smiled. “No, I didn’t mean that. I meant are you sure you want to do this? After all, we’ve only been on two dates. But don’t get me wrong, I’m ready if you are.”

  “Oh, I are. I most definitely are.”

  Amy still hadn’t gotten around to fixing the lock on the front door, but today it gave her no trouble. She took his hand and led him to the bedroom. “I changed the linen this morning.” She giggled. “I guess I was planning this all along.” If she’d been planning it, there was one thing she had forgotten: her diaphragm. “Sam, I hate to spoil the mood, but could you excuse me for just two ticks?”

  She left him sitting on the bed, flicking through one of her interiors magazines, and dashed to the bathroom. Her diaphragm was in its box on top of the medicine cabinet, well out of Charlie’s reach. She used to keep it in her underwear drawer until Charlie found it one day and appeared with it on his head while she was at the door paying the milkman.

  She was grateful that she still needed to use it. At thirty-six, thoughts of early menopause were never far away.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, returning to the bedroom. “Contraceptive issue.”

  “Oh … actually you needn’t—” He stopped himself.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It can wait.”

  He came toward her and started to run his fingers through her hair. His hand went to the tie on her wrap dress. She watched as he tugged on the bow and pulled the dress open. All the nerve endings in her body were tingling as he pulled the dress off her shoulders and slid the sleeves down her arms. The dress fell to the floor, leaving her in her bra and panties. His eyes went to her breasts.

  “They are amazing.”

  She blushed.

  “You have no idea,” he said, “how hard it’s been not to stare at them.”

  She laughed. “Most men don’t have that problem when they meet me. They don’t see my face, just my cleavage.”

  “That’s why I resisted. I thought that if you caught me gawping, you’d think that sex was all I had on my mind. I mean, it wasn’t not on my mind. It just wasn’t all that was on my mind.”

  “That’s okay,” she said, smiling. “I get it.”

  She unhooked her bra but held the cream lace cups against her breasts. “Show me,” he sa
id. He lifted her hands off the bra and let it fall on top of the dress.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  He planted kisses on her shoulders, her collarbone. Finally his lips went to her breasts. He licked and nipped at them, flicked her nipples with his tongue. She heard herself let out a soft moan. He pulled off his T-shirt, and she unbuttoned the fly on his jeans. She ran her finger along the thick hairline that led down under the waistband of his boxers. She watched his stomach quiver. As she eased his boxers down over his buttocks, his penis sprung out, thick and hard. A moment later he was completely naked.

  He bent down and trailed his tongue down her abdomen toward her panties. She thought he was about to pull them down, but he didn’t. Instead he squatted down and moved to her inner thighs with a gentle, almost imperceptible touch. He pushed his hand between her legs and traced the outline of her labia. Her body trembled.

  Sam stood up and guided her back onto the bed. He knelt in front of her. Now he pulled off her panties. “Open your legs.” She did, but he didn’t move. Instead he just looked at her. He told her to close her eyes.

  Nothing happened. She waited, wondering when and where his touch would fall. Half a minute passed, maybe more, before it happened. She gasped as he ran his finger along the outside of her lips. He came in farther, easing her apart. His finger slipped and slid over her vulva, spreading the wetness. The next moment he changed position. She felt his head between her legs. His tongue was everywhere. She arched her back, let out a whimper. His tongue probed, licked, flicked. She felt her body sink into the bed. She was aware of nothing other than this sublime sensation.

  When he stopped, she begged him to continue, begged him to concentrate on her clitoris so that she could come. “What’s your hurry?” he whispered. With that she felt his fingers hard inside her. It wasn’t painful, but she yelped in surprise. He spent time slowly exploring her. Occasionally he would stop to caress her breasts or thighs.

  At one point, she helped herself to some of her wetness and spread it over the head of his penis. She moved her hand slowly, rhythmically. He gasped, but at no point did his focus go from her. By now he was concentrating on the spot that mattered. His touch was firm one second, barely there the next. “Please. Please. Don’t stop.”