Shut Your Eyes (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 3)

by Lee, Mandy

  ‘I’m loving your style, Miss Scotton.’

  Oh Jesus, I seriously hope he’s talking about my painting. I seriously hope this isn’t flirting because if it is, he’s wasting his time.

  ‘You know my name?’

  ‘Sure.’ He goes back to studying the pictures. ‘So, what do you know about me?’

  ‘Not a lot. Well, you’re American, and you’re probably rich. And your name’s Gordon.’

  ‘You don’t miss much.’ There’s something about the way his lips have parted now. And the glimmer’s back. Oh God, he is flirting. ‘I also own a gallery in Manhattan. Forty-fourth Street. We specialise in avant-garde material.’

  He wanders round, examining the walls, floor and skirting boards, stopping by the window at the front to take in the view of Frith Street. Then he crosses the room, peering out of the rear window.

  ‘So, what are your plans for this place?’ I ask. Because Slaters is anything but avant-garde.

  ‘Plans? Well, subject to permissions, this needs to be blocked off.’ He gives the back door a gentle kick. ‘New windows, a complete refit and, of course, we need to open up a staircase to the ground floor.’

  ‘I didn’t really mean that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I meant the art work.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Giving me a toothy smile, he scans the room. ‘We’ll just carry on.’

  With a shrug, he thrusts both hands into his pockets. For a man who apparently owns galleries in Manhattan, he seems pretty clueless. Whatever’s going on here, I need to dig further.

  ‘Which artists do you favour?’ I ask.

  ‘The ones I’ve seen downstairs.’ He notes the incredulity in my eyes. ‘I’ll be honest with you. This isn’t my comfort zone. I’m branching out. I’ve always loved London, always wanted a foothold here. This is perfect.’

  ‘You’re not going to change Slaters?’

  ‘If it ain’t broke, why fix it? Landscapes, seascapes. It works.’ He looks at the triptych and then at me. ‘But you’re outgrowing this place, Miss Scotton. That’s clear to see. We have an opportunity coming up in New York, an exhibition devoted to the subject of sex.’ He pauses. ‘Just sex. All forms of sex. We’re calling it, well … Sex.’ He raises both hands in the air, palms upwards, as if he’s apologising for stating the obvious. ‘I’d like to exhibit this.’

  It hits me all at once: a strange brew of amazement, excitement, pride and disbelief.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because it’s wonderful.’

  And now a touch of fear.

  ‘It’s too personal. If I display this, if I go public, then I’ll have to talk about it.’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘I’m not sure I could do that.’

  ‘Why not? Are you ashamed of who you are?’

  ‘No.’

  I bristle. Because I’m not entirely sure I’m being honest. Am I ashamed? And if so, then what am I ashamed of? That I’m different? A kinky freak? Or is it something else, something hidden away deep inside?

  ‘The truth is …’ I hesitate. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

  And maybe that’s it. If I’m ashamed of anything, perhaps it’s my own confusion, the fact that I’ve never really worked out how I came to be who I am.

  ‘Then think it through,’ Gordon answers. ‘Why hide your true self? It can cripple you, believe me.’ He gives me a knowing look and I wonder what he might be hiding. ‘Show yourself to the world. Set yourself free and liberate your talent.’

  ‘That’s what he wanted.’ I gaze at the centre panel.

  ‘Then he sounds like a wise man.’

  I turn back to Gordon. He’s deadly serious. Any signs of flirting, if that’s what it was, seem to have disappeared.

  ‘He may not be with you,’ he says. ‘Not now … but you’d do well to follow his wishes.’

  My lips tremble. They’re about to ask why, but before they get a chance, Mr Finn’s talking again.

  ‘Tell me, why did you specialise in landscapes?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I suppose I was fascinated by the world. Colours and light.’

  ‘Were they less personal to you than these?’

  I stare at Dan’s form, and it becomes clear. Every time I set a brush against canvas, it’s nothing but personal.

  ‘There’s always emotion,’ I explain as best I can. ‘When I painted the sea, I felt free. When I painted the woods, I felt safe.’

  ‘It’s like Picasso said: painting’s just another way of keeping a diary. But you need to learn to let go of your creations.’

  ‘I let go in the past …’ I stumble to a halt. What else can I say? I sold a picture to a certain Scottish maniac who used it to find me again? I’m being silly and I know it, and Mr Finn, whoever he is, is being eminently sensible.

  ‘Take control of your career, Maya. There’s too much talent here.’

  I twirl the paintbrush in my hands.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good.’ He claps and I give a start. ‘So, let’s cut to the chase. I’m serious about displaying the triptych, but it has to be available for sale. I’m guessing it’s already done its job.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Then move on. This is a real opportunity for you. I’ll get it shipped over to the States. The exhibition’s next week. I’d like you to attend the opening night.’

  My thoughts snap to attention. Exhibition. New York. Planes. Big scary things. I can’t do it. Not without Dan.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, you did paint this.’ He arches an eyebrow.

  ‘But …’

  But what, I wonder. This is a real opportunity, probably the biggest opportunity of my life. Am I really going to let fear get in the way?

  ‘You should be jumping at this chance,’ he presses. ‘Why are you still hesitating?’

  ‘Because she’s a scaredy pants,’ Lucy intervenes, kicking open the door and swinging a champagne bottle in each hand. ‘And she doesn’t like planes.’

  ‘Witchcraft,’ I murmur, eyes wide.

  ‘Technological wonders,’ Gordon counters. ‘I’ll pay for the flights, of course. And the hotel. Won’t cost you a penny. You can bring Lucy. Would that ease the pain? How about a couple of seats in first class?’

  ‘Maya,’ Lucy gasps. ‘We’re doing this.’

  ‘But …’

  This is all moving too fast. I can barely keep up.

  ‘New York. The Big Apple. The city that never sleeps. I’ve never been to New York. We’re doing it. Fucking hell, Central Park, that big thing you go up …’

  ‘Rockefeller?’ Gordon asks, bemused.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lucy breathes. ‘No! Empire State … and …’ She’s almost bouncing now. ‘That statue.’

  ‘Liberty,’ Gordon laughs. ‘Set yourself free.’

  ‘But …’

  I don’t even know why I’m making a noise. No one’s listening. Lucy’s caught up in a New York reverie, and Mr Finn seems determined to fill us in on details of a trip I’ve not even agreed to.

  ‘Plenty of sight-seeing. Anything you like. But don’t forget the exhibition. We need to get Maya noticed. A couple of interviews. Maybe a feature in a magazine. Yeah, I think we’ve got a new star on the rise.’

  He moves over to Lucy. She’s still grinning from ear to ear like a lunatic. He motions to a bottle. She lifts it.

  ‘Moët,’ she announces.

  ‘Very nice,’ Gordon comments.

  ‘It cost a bomb.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘I’ve got change.’

  ‘Keep it.’

  ‘But it’s over a hundred.’

  ‘Treat Maya to dinner.’

  ‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘And what are those for?’

  ‘You,’ Gordon informs me, as if it’s perfectly obvious. ‘Something to take the edge off. A little birthday present … from someone who’d like to see you happy. Now, I’ve got to go. Dinner at The Ivy.’
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br />   With no further ado, he disappears through the doorway, taking the steps back down to the gallery and leaving an uneasy silence in his wake.

  I glare at Lucy.

  ‘I can’t go to New York.’

  ‘Are you a complete fucking moron? He wants to push you.’

  ‘Yeah, but why?’

  ‘Because of your talent.’

  ‘You think? Champagne, Lucy. He’s bought me champagne.’

  ‘And?’ She watches me. ‘Oh, you think he …’

  ‘Champagne. Dinner. New York. He’s chucking money at me. And he couldn’t take his eyes off that.’ I nod at the triptych.

  ‘God, you’ve got an overblown sense of yourself. Ever since Dan, you think you’re some sort of sex siren.’

  ‘He wants to get into my knickers, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘You’re in full control of your knickers. Another fact. And don’t think the flying thing’s going to get you out of this. You’ve already flown and you can do it again. You and me are going to New York,’ she growls, waving a champagne bottle at me for good measure. ‘And that’s another sodding fact.’

  Chapter Six

  I really should have chosen the other queue. It’s moving far more quickly than this one. It’s taken half an hour to almost reach the front, and now I’m here the customer ahead of me is taking his time, changing his order over and over again. I’m sorely tempted to kick him up the backside and tell him to get on with it, but that wouldn’t be the right way to go. Instead, I settle for rubbing my hands together, trying to work a little life back into them while I politely wait my turn. A couple of ancient radiators are no match for a London winter. After a morning’s work in semi-Baltic conditions, my fingers are numb and I’m glad of a chance to escape.

  After a quick sandwich and a mug of tea, I’ll return for the afternoon session, watched over by Barry’s ridiculous calendar – November’s kitten wrapped up in a tiny, kitten-sized scarf and posed next to a vase of cheap red roses. Every time I look at them, I think of Boyd. At least once a week, the roses have continued to arrive. I’d love nothing more than to tear November out of the year, but I won’t be beaten. Besides, December’s only a few days away. I’ve already had a quick peek. I’ll be passing the time in the company of a pair of kittens disguised as reindeer, curled up next to a fake poinsettia.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I’m yanked out of the kitten trance by the grumpiest woman in the world. Clutching a bread knife, she glares at me from beneath a hairnet. I swallow hard, temporarily forgetting my order, fixated on a pair of lips that seem to be curling into a sneer.

  ‘Prawns …’ I stammer.

  ‘Just prawns?’

  ‘No, no …’ I shake my head. ‘Prawn salad on white … no, brown.’ And now I know why the previous customer was so indecisive. I’ve got the distinct feeling this woman’s silently planning my demise. ‘And BLT on white.’ My voice jitters with nerves. ‘Extra mayonnaise please. My friend’s not on a diet.’

  Ignoring my pathetic attempt at humour, she sets about preparing the order while I watch an endless parade of downcast faces passing by the window. Winter’s thoroughly staked its claim on the city, stripping it bare of colour and imposing a reign of cold, grey misery. Why the rest of humanity has descended into a mire of gloom, I have no idea. I can only vouch for myself. Still no contact. Still no news.

  And faith’s at breaking point.

  ‘Your phone’s ringing.’ Grumpy woman points a knife at me.

  With a start, I pull my mobile out of my pocket and check the screen. Lucy.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she demands.

  ‘I’m being served now.’

  ‘You need to get back here.’

  My God, I knew she was hungry, but I didn’t realise she was this desperate for a bite to eat.

  ‘I can’t help it. There was a queue and …’

  ‘Never mind that. There’s a woman waiting for you. Posh sort. Wants to talk.’

  For the first time in weeks, my heart quickens. Lily Babbage. Now, there’s a ‘posh sort’ if I’ve ever seen one. And if she’s come to see me, then I could be in for some news.

  ‘What does she look like?’ I ask eagerly, watching as two huge wrapped sandwiches appear on the counter in front of me.

  ‘A high-class prostitute.’ Lucy cackles. ‘Skinny. Red hair.’

  It’s a brief description, but enough to banish any further excitement. My heart’s still racing, but now it’s all down to anxiety, because unless Lily’s opted for a radical change of hair colour, I’m pretty sure my visitor is a certain kinky madam.

  ‘Nine pounds eighty,’ grumpy woman says gruffly.

  Absent-mindedly, I reach into my pocket, pull out a twenty and hand it over.

  ‘What does she want?’ I ask.

  ‘She’d like you to clean for her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She wants to talk to you about painting something for her, twat brain. Why else would she be here? Now get the sandwiches and get back, pronto. She practically stinks of money.’

  Grabbing the lunch, I flee the delicatessen, ignoring the bad-tempered calls that follow me. I didn’t collect the change, and I don’t care. I’ve got more pressing matters on my mind.

  Half-running along Frith Street, and nearly dropping the sandwiches in the process, I arrive at the door to Slaters within a minute. Coming to a halt, my pulse racing, I edge forward and peer furtively into the front window. My suspicions were correct. There she is, facing away from me. Perfectly poised on a sofa, it’s Claudine Thomas. Taking in a gulp of wintry air, I steel myself for the job ahead. Whatever reason she’s got for being here, it won’t be pleasant. I’ll have to kick her twisted backside out of the gallery before she gets a chance to spill her venom.

  I mount the steps and enter the gallery as quietly as I can. The Steves are out for the afternoon, choosing a camper van, and Lucy must be downstairs. For the time being, we’re alone, and thank God for that. Approaching her silently, I register the fact that her shoulders stiffen. She knows I’m here, but she doesn’t turn. As I move in front of her, dumping the sandwiches onto the coffee table, she watches me out of the corner of her eye, her lips curling upwards, just a little.

  ‘You need to leave,’ I open.

  ‘I’m a customer.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Nice language.’

  ‘Fuck off, Claudine.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Slipping an arm across the back of the sofa, she makes herself comfy. And despite my best intentions, curiosity gets the better of me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Didn’t your little friend tell you?’

  ‘She passed on your bullshit. What’s the real reason?’

  ‘I’d like you to paint something for me.’

  As if.

  ‘Ian’s sent you.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Her eyes glint like gem stones, hard and unforgiving even when they’re filled with light.

  ‘He set up the ambush at The Savoy,’ I remind her. ‘You were clearly in on that. You’re in contact with him.’

  ‘Haven’t seen him for a while.’

  ‘He’s sent you. I know it.’

  ‘You’re wrong. The fact is, I asked Isaac to find out where to contact you. He’s good like that, Isaac. Looking after my every need. In fact …’ She waves at the window. ‘He’s coming to fetch me in a while.’

  ‘I haven’t got time for this. Get out.’

  ‘It’s not your gallery. As I understand it, a certain Mr Finn’s in the process of buying it.’

  She’s digging for information, I know it, and I’m about to give her none. In an instant, I make my decision: if she’s not going to leave, then I certainly will. Swivelling on my heels, I make for the door and before I know it, I’m back out in the bitter air, walking fast down Frith Street, pushing my way past meandering tourists … and Claudine’s voice is following me.

/>   ‘Haven’t you seen the pictures?’

  I keep going.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what Dan’s been up to?’

  I quicken my pace. Of course I want to know, but not from her.

  ‘I’ve got them here.’

  And that does it. Sodding curiosity. It always wins the day. I turn to face her, ignoring the obvious fact that this can’t end well. I’ve been starved of information for weeks and I’m feeling reckless. Like an addict desperate for a hit, no matter where it comes from, I crack.

  ‘What pictures?’

  She pulls a magazine out of her handbag.

  ‘They’re in here.’ Dangling the bag on one arm, she fingers through the pages. ‘At the back. Society section. I’m surprised you haven’t seen them.’

  ‘I don’t read magazines,’ I lie.

  ‘Well, you should. All sorts of interesting things. Like this.’ She thrusts the magazine at me, opened at the desired page. ‘An article about one of London’s most eligible bachelors,’ she explains quickly. ‘Daniel Foster. Apparently, he’s made a good recovery from his little accident, and now he’s back at work.’ She pauses, examining my face before she drops her bombshell. ‘He went out last Friday night. He’s dating again.’

  I knew this would happen. He warned me it would. Fighting back the urge to scream, I snatch the magazine out of her hands. Slowly, I focus on the page in front of me, a mass of writing accompanied by two photographs. Nausea rises in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘In fact, he’s dating that woman.’

  A perfectly manicured index finger lands on the first picture, moving slightly to reveal him. Dressed in one of his black suits, he’s smiling straight into the camera, an arm curled protectively around a woman’s waist, holding her close, too close for comfort. She’s slim, petite, brunette. Nothing like me. I don’t recognise her, but according to the caption, she’s an actress. The finger moves to a second picture. This time he’s laughing, both arms around her now, facing her full on, eye to eye. And she’s touching his cheek … lovingly, tenderly. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ The words rumble at the back of my head, threatening to spill out into the open. ‘Get your fucking hands off my man.’