by Lee, Mandy
‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
Of course not, you prat.
‘Why do you ask?’
He points at my face. ‘You’ve been crying.’
‘I stubbed my toe,’ I lie. ‘And now I need a glass of wine.’
‘Allow me.’
Remaining silent, I watch as he orders the wine and slides it under my nose.
‘I thought this was a kinky club.’ I slug back a mouthful.
‘It is.’
‘But …’
‘Rooms at the back,’ he explains. ‘That’s where all the action takes place. New to this?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes.’
I scan the bar. No sign of Lucy. I can only assume she didn’t dare enter this den of filth. And I’m glad. The last thing I need right now is her gabbling in my ear like Jiminy Cricket. Focussing back on my blue-eyed companion, I realise that the reckless part of my brain has thoroughly taken the helm. ‘He’s nothing special,’ I tell myself. ‘But he’ll do.’ I watch as he sips at his pint. He doesn’t seem to be about to push things any further, so I guess it’s all down to me.
‘Will you show me the ropes?’ I ask.
He raises an eyebrow.
‘Talk about going in at the deep end. Maybe not rope … not yet.’
‘Well, what do you suggest I start with?’
He purses his lips, thinking for a moment.
‘I’d say a light spanking, but if stubbing your toe made you cry, I’m not sure you’d enjoy it.’
Seriously? Do I actually look like a kink virgin? I lean forward, swaying slightly.
‘Oh, I like a good spanking, but I’ve done that, been there, worn the T-shirt. And now I want something more.’
‘Which is?’
I hold my breath. I know exactly what I want. I’m feeling pain and craving pain. And I want to take it to the extreme.
‘Whips. I want whips. Do they have whips here?’
He opens his mouth.
‘Trust me, you don’t want to be whipped.’
I blink into his face. I definitely just heard those words, but the lips didn’t move and there was something distinctly American about that accent. I turn slowly, only to find Gordon standing behind me.
‘What would you know?’
‘Quite a bit, actually,’ he says breezily. ‘I once spent an entire week with my butt cheeks on fire. It wasn’t pleasant. Now, I don’t know why you’re jonesing for agony, but let me tell you something. It’s not what you need.’
‘And I don’t need you telling me what I don’t need. And anyway …’ I prod him in the chest. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Lucy came to get me. She wants me to take you home. I’ve got a ride waiting outside.’
‘I’m staying.’
‘You shouldn’t.’ His eyes flash with something I can’t quite understand. ‘Now, let’s go.’
‘I don’t have to do what you say,’ I slur. ‘You’re not actually my boss or anything.’
‘No, I’m not. But I’d like to consider myself a friend. Whatever happened back there at the club, this isn’t the answer.’
‘Oh yes it is.’
He shakes his head. ‘You won’t feel that way in the morning.’ He pauses. ‘And I won’t take no for an answer.’
He holds out a hand, and I stare at it. I’m exhausted and drunk, and in actual fact I’d love nothing more than to climb into bed and curl up in a foetal position. With no further complaints, I give in, letting him lead me back outside and guide me to a car. Lucy’s already in the front, sitting next to the driver. I slide into the back, with Gordon at my side.
‘You okay?’ he asks.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Maya!’ Lucy barks. ‘Don’t be so rude. What’s got into you?’
‘Men.’ I look out of the window, unable to focus on anything. The booze is really kicking in now. ‘They all think they can boss me about, and they all want the same thing. A good fuck.’
‘Maya!’
‘Well, it’s the truth. He wants to fuck me.’ I wave a hand at Gordon. ‘Knights in shining armour. They’ve always got a hard-on underneath all that chain mail.’
‘Well, this particular knight in shining armour doesn’t fit your generalisation,’ Gordon argues. ‘He just wants to see you through your front door, make sure you’re okay, and then be gone.’
I laugh.
‘Oh come off it. Sex. That’s all men ever want. And when they get what they want, they chuck you in the bin and move on to the next conquest.’
‘What makes you say that?’ he asks.
‘My ex,’ I mutter, hating the sound of the word in my mouth. Daniel Foster, my ex. A man who belongs to the past. ‘He’s changed his mind and wriggled out of it. He just never had the fucking balls to tell me straight. Lucy was right. Men are shits.’
I close my eyes, descending quickly into a stupor. I don’t know whether I dream it or imagine it, or if it’s real, but I feel a finger brush against my cheek and hear Gordon’s voice again.
‘Don’t believe it,’ he says quietly, his words almost lost in the rumble of the engine. ‘Hold on.’
Chapter Eight
We stagger into the arrivals hall at JFK. Immediately, we’re greeted by a chauffeur and escorted outside to a black limousine.
‘We’ve had some pretty heavy snowfall,’ he informs us. ‘I hope you’ve brought your thermals.’
I glance at the snow – heaped up at the kerbside, piled against bollards and bins – and then I thank Lucy for checking on weather reports, insisting we bring our thickest coats.
‘Get in the car,’ she urges me, breath clouding in front of her face. ‘I’m freezing my knackers off.’
Satisfied with my achievements so far, I settle in for the next leg of the journey. Apart from one slight hiccough, I’ve managed to stay relatively sane on yet another trans-Atlantic flight, not an easy task with my travel companion bouncing and babbling at my side. Luckily, after a few glasses of wine, she became almost bearable, even drifting off to sleep for a couple of hours and leaving me in peace. But now she’s conscious again, and practically vibrating with excitement. I can only hope it’s a short drive into Manhattan.
Before long, the suitcases are loaded and we’re rolling out of the airport, along snow-lined freeways, through suburbs, past houses, shops, industrial estates. I sit with my face practically squashed against the window. This is my first real taste of the United States, and I’m determined to make the most of it.
‘Fucking hell, Maya! Look at that!’ Lucy taps me on the arm and points out of her own window. ‘There it is!’
I lean over, as far as I can, sensing the first pin-pricks of excitement. In the distance, I make out the jagged skyline of Manhattan, a forest of skyscrapers wrestling for supremacy, sharp-edged against a cold November sky. Squinting a little, I locate the unmistakable silhouette of the Empire State Building but as soon as it appears, it’s gone again, hidden behind a jumble of buildings. I’d carry on searching for it but the limousine dips into a tunnel and anxiety sparks into life, playing havoc with my heart rate until daylight greets us again, and we emerge onto the streets of Manhattan.
Suddenly, the world’s transformed.
I’ve seen it plenty of times in films, but I’m stunned by the reality of the city. With our limousine bouncing along uneven roads, I watch as New York slips by in the late afternoon sun. At first, it’s a blur, an attack on my senses, one iconic image instantly replaced by the next: a swarm of yellow taxis, steam rising from manhole covers, a subway entrance. Down-at-heel tenements give way to brownstone townhouses, up-market office blocks and a jumble of shop fronts. I begin to make sense of it now, quite inevitably looking up and taking in the mishmash of architecture, an intricate patchwork – stone, brick, steel, glass – a crazy collection of angles and heights, an eclectic mixture of styles, the new squeezed in next to the old, every possible space filled, everyt
hing reaching skywards. Nothing seems to match, but in amongst all the clutter and confusion, everything seems to fit. Finally, with an aching neck, I focus on the busy sidewalks. Swathed in thick scarves and hats, New Yorkers go about their daily business, apparently oblivious the magnificence around them … but I’m mesmerised by it all.
Before long, the road widens out. Skirting a roundabout, we join the traffic at the edge of a park. Beyond the railings, a thick white blanket lies heavy on the ground, and there’s not a soul around. Too cold, the driver tells us. Minus sixteen with the wind chill. Anyone with a scrap of sense has stayed inside. We take another left, pulling up outside a hotel, clearly a cut above with its darkened glass doors, gold embossed signage and black canopy. Gordon’s made absolutely sure we’re in the lap of luxury.
‘Where are we?’ Lucy asks.
‘Central Park, ma’am. East Side.’
‘Bloody hell …’ Clasping her palms to her cheeks, she’s in a state of shock.
While the chauffeur collects the luggage from the boot, a doorman steps forward and opens Lucy’s door. We climb out into icy temperatures, catching a blast of wind that rolls in from the park. It steals my breath for a split second, almost freezing me on the spot. Fortunately, we’re ushered straight inside by the doorman, leaving a bell-boy to deal with the cases. While Lucy checks in, I marvel at the marbled entrance hall, soaking up an overdose of Art Deco magnificence before we’re guided to our suite on the twelfth floor.
‘Jesus,’ Lucy cries as the door swings open and we step inside. ‘I feel like the Queen. I’ve died and gone to heaven.’
Well, I’m pretty sure heaven’s not quite as sumptuous as this. Even after my time with Dan, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this level of opulence. While the bell-boy offloads our luggage in the bedrooms, I explore the suite with Lucy: two bedrooms, two en suites and a sitting room the size of a football pitch. Forgetting to tip the bell-boy, we’re lost in a daze, admiring massive sofas and chunky furniture, appreciating gigantic beds and luxurious soft furnishings, exchanging numerous ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over twinkling chandeliers and expensive art work. Finally, we stand together by the window in the sitting room.
‘This is weird.’ I gaze out over a snow-covered Central Park. ‘Are we really here?’
Lucy pinches me. ‘Yep. It’s all real.’ She surveys the scene. ‘A marathon journey, but definitely worth it.’
‘Definitely.’
‘We’re living the dream, Maya. And well done, you. Only one panic attack.’
Yes, just the one. Shortly after take-off, I lost control of my breathing and burst into a fit of tears. But never mind. Digging my head into Lucy’s chest for a good half an hour got me back on a fairly even keel.
‘Are you okay?’ She examines me closely. ‘I mean, you know … what with the Dan thing.’
‘Of course.’
But I’m not entirely sure about that. It’s going to take a whole lot longer than a week to get over the man. And so far, I think it’s safe to say I’ve made a complete pig’s ear of the process. Spending the last few days locked away in Camden, I’ve cried an ocean, carried out the inevitable post-mortem, and come to the only conclusion I can – I’ve fucked up on a grand scale, and lost the only man I ever really loved.
‘We’ve got an hour.’
‘I know.’
As if I need a reminder. In his wisdom, Gordon’s shipped us over on the very same day as the exhibition. And now, utterly knackered from the flight, I need to get ready, put on a positive face and present it to the world.
‘Did you pack anything posh?’
‘I’m not a complete idiot.’
Although I’ve opted for scruffs for the journey, I’ve packed a selection of Harrods dresses for New York. On more than one occasion, I’d been on the verge of carting the whole lot off to a charity shop, but now I’m glad I never got round to it. I need to look the part for the next couple of days, but as soon as this trip’s over, they’re all off to help out a good cause.
‘You’d better make an effort for the exhibition,’ she warns me. ‘I’ll do your make-up.’
‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘Did you bring jewellery?’
‘Yes.’
But not the sweet pea necklace. That was carefully packed and despatched back to Lambeth three days ago. Despite the fact he told me to keep it, I had some clearing out to do.
‘Right then.’ Lucy claps her hands. ‘Let’s get this show on the road. See you in a bit.’
We go our separate ways. I take a shower, pull a brush through my hair and dry it off before emptying out my suitcase, choosing a simple black dress for the night and opting for stockings underneath. The usual bare minimum of make-up completes the preparations, along with the Yorkshire jet earrings. I’m examining myself in the mirror, thinking of how I wore the very same earrings on my first date with Dan, when Lucy bursts into my room.
‘Are you ready? Gordon’s downstairs in the lobby, waiting for us.’
‘Yes. All ready.’
Grabbing a clutch bag and my coat, I follow Lucy to the lift, noting that underneath her coat, she’s squeezed into a purple cocktail dress.
‘This is going to be a brilliant night,’ she says. ‘I can feel it in my water.’
‘I bet you can.’
I wish I could feel it too, but I’m as frozen as the streets outside. Despite spending an entire week in a slough of self-pity, I haven’t moved on an inch. When all’s said and done, I’m still imprisoned by shock, simply going through the motions. The door slides open onto the lobby where Gordon’s waiting for us at the reception desk.
‘Good evening, ladies. Looking delicious.’
‘Thank you,’ Lucy giggles. ‘You too.’
He lifts an eyebrow.
‘Ready for your big moment, Maya?’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’
I follow Gordon out into the night. Another ride in the black limousine through snow-lined streets brings us to the gallery. Glowing with warmth and light in contrast to the dark avenue, a glass frontage stretches out before us. It’s busy inside. Very busy. My pulse trips while my brain enters meltdown mode. I’ve been through this before, at Slaters, but it’s different this time, on another level entirely. Taking a few deep breaths, I remind myself that I can do this. I can cope.
It only takes a couple of minutes to extract ourselves from the car and make it into the building, but by the time I’m inside, I’m already half frozen.
‘Fuck,’ I gasp, forgetting myself for a moment. I shake off my coat into an attendant’s hands, straighten out my dress and scan the room, only to discover I’m surrounded by very arty types … and they’re all staring at me. A great start. ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ Gordon touches me on the back. ‘This is Maya Scotton, everyone.’
Still shivering, I’m guided through the crowd, introduced to one important person after another, asked repeatedly if I’ve had a pleasant journey. At last, I’m set free and I move on, taking in the space around me. It’s ultra-swish: marble floors and plain white walls, adorned with a sea of canvases depicting naked bodies in one pose or another. I examine them all, one after the other, and at last I come to the triptych. It’s spread out in its own area, spaced and lit to perfection. Several groups are standing in front of it, deep in conversation, motioning to it every now and then. Uncomfortable with the world scrutinizing my innermost thoughts, I falter. But I’m quickly recognised, thrust into a mad whirlwind of conversation, and questioned about my work. It’s a thoroughly awkward experience, and I’m amazed I manage to keep control of my answers. Yes, it’s a personal exploration of preferences. The man in the middle? No one in particular. Indulging in a little deflection, I bring the conversations back to the mechanics of painting, explaining how I wanted to tie the three canvases together, giving only the briefest over-view of what I was trying to explore. It seems to keep them content.
I decline a glass o
f wine, opting for juice instead. Lucy appears by my side.
‘I’m knackered,’ I chunter. ‘This is relentless.’
‘Don’t worry. You’re doing brilliantly. They’re loving you. Just take a look around.’
She waves at the gallery, and I see her point. Most of the guests seem to have gravitated towards my canvases.
‘You deserve this, Maya.’
‘Thank you,’ I say quietly. ‘You know, if Dan’s done nothing else for me, he got me here. He was a catalyst. He got me painting again … and believing.’
‘In what?’
‘Myself.’
‘Now, don’t get big-headed.’
We smile at each other.
‘Well, here’s to Mr Mean and Hot and Moody.’ I raise my glass, and so does Lucy. ‘He may have screwed me over, but he also flicked the switch.’
‘Ah, here’s the artist,’ Gordon announces, approaching me with an extremely hip and trendy woman on his arm. Squeezed into a tight tartan dress, she’s all tiny fringe and bright red lipstick and supreme self-possession, the polar opposite of me.
‘May I introduce Mindy Summers? She’s going to interview you.’
Oh shit.
‘Okay.’
I sense a knot of unease in my stomach and it’s nothing to do with Mindy Summers or the impending interrogation. There’s something strange in the look Gordon’s giving me now, a mixture of pride and admiration … and something else. Oh yes, I’ve definitely fallen into the sights of yet another millionaire. Maybe I should just tell him he’s wasting his time, that I’m determined to give his sort a wide berth from now on, that he can stick his Lear jets and luxury apartments where the sun don’t shine.
‘We’ve got a quiet space set aside for you.’
Taking hold of my elbow, he guides me to the back of the gallery. I seat myself on a velvet-covered bench and Mindy Summers sits opposite me. Gordon stands back, with Lucy at his side.
‘You’re not watching,’ I tell them both.
‘Why not?’ Lucy demands. ‘It’s all going to be public sooner or later.’