by Lee, Mandy
Mindy Summers pulls out some sort of recording device. Switching it on, she consults her notes and then levels me with a gaze that tells me she’s totally in control.
‘We’d like a picture if that’s okay.’
Oh, and a sexy voice to boot. All New York and sassy.
‘Of course.’
‘Our photographer’s out front. I’ll call him in when we’re ready.’
‘Fine.’
‘So … I’d like to start with the triptych, if that’s okay.’
‘It’s the logical place to begin.’
‘Can you explain the ideas behind it?’
Bugger it. Can I?
‘I just wanted to explore something personal.’
‘Sexual?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’ she prompts.
‘Like I said, it’s personal.’
‘And like your friend said, you’re making it public.’
‘That doesn’t mean I have to explain,’ I snap. ‘People are free to make their own inferences.’
‘Maya.’
Gordon’s voice interrupts us. I look up at him.
‘What?’
‘Give us a moment, Mindy.’
Urging me to my feet, he puts a hand to my back and nudges me into a corner.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he demands, more than slightly agitated.
‘She’s being nosy.’
‘She’s a journalist. That’s her job. These people can boost your career, but you need them on your side. Be helpful, not difficult. Work with them, not against them.’
‘But I don’t know what to say.’
‘Then think on your feet. And be honest. Don’t be afraid to show the real you.’
‘The real me?’
‘That one.’
Reluctantly, and with a few deep breaths, I resume my place on the stool.
‘Okay,’ I begin. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit jet-lagged. What was the question?’
‘I asked you to explain a little about the triptych.’
‘It’s about pleasure … and pain.’
‘Masochism?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You’re into it?’
I catch a glint in her eye and for a split second, I wonder if she’s into it too.
‘A little.’ I swallow. ‘I met someone. He introduced me to it.’
‘He inflicted pain on you?’
Good God, yes. Mental pain. Heaps of it. But I’m not about to go there.
‘It wasn’t abuse,’ I explain quickly. ‘Let’s get that straight right from the start. It was consensual. I always had the option of stopping it, but I didn’t. Because I liked it.’
‘Liked?’
‘Maybe that’s the wrong word. I don’t know. It gave me something.’
Miss Summers readjusts her position, leaning forward slightly.
‘I’m interested.’
I’m sure she is.
‘I’m not a freak. There are plenty of people indulging in this sort of thing.’
‘Oh, I know.’
The bright red lips part, but no more questions come out of them. Instead, she waits for me to elaborate. I have no idea what to say next, and then suddenly I find myself mimicking Dan’s explanation, clinging on to his words.
‘Some people like the adrenalin rush. Some people use it to block things out. And then there are some who do it because they think they deserve it.’
‘And you?’
‘A mixture of all three.’
Good grief, did I just say that? Well, judging by the anticipation that’s currently lurking beneath that ultra-short fringe, it seems I did. Okay, so I’d better move on, explain a little. For a few moments, I flounder, struggling to find the right words. Finally, something begins to slip out, something I recognise … and I think it might be the truth.
‘I loved the adrenalin, feeling alive, alert, in the moment. When you’re in the moment, nothing else matters. It’s exhilarating.’
‘And blocking things out? Deserving it?’
I focus on the floor, wishing I’d just stuck with the adrenalin thing, because now I’ve backed myself into a corner.
‘Oh, I get it. You want to know about the tortured artist. Yes, I’m screwed up, but then again most of us are.’
She laughs.
‘Oh, I know. But right now, I’m interested in this particular screwed up artist. This is amazing work, Maya. I want to know what brought you to paint it.’
What brought me to it? Panicking now, I check with Gordon. He nods, prompting me to go on.
‘Say it as it is.’ He smiles gently.
Easier said than done when you’ve avoided the truth for your entire life. So, where do I begin? I need to dig back in time, before Dan, before Tom, before Boyd. Further back.
‘Some people are blessed with self-confidence,’ I begin, ‘right from the start. Some people are born with it. Some have it bred into them.’
‘And you?’
‘Neither. I wasn’t naturally self-confident. There wasn’t much in my upbringing to encourage it. I was a loner, didn’t have many friends, never felt confident with boys, that sort of thing. I didn’t understand why I didn’t fit in. I just carried on, hoping there’d be something better one day, hoping I’d find somewhere I felt at home.’
In Dan’s arms. That’s where I finally felt at home.
And now he’s gone.
‘But you had your talent.’
‘I wasn’t even sure of that. My parents praised my art. They knew I was good, but they never really thought I could make a living out of it. They said I’d be better off getting a proper job, settling down. I’m not blaming them. It’s not their fault. It was just the way they’d been brought up. The only people who really encouraged me were my art teachers.’ I sigh. ‘Look, there was no big trauma in my childhood. It was just life that made me that way.’
I’m not about to mention my sister’s part in all of this. She’s going through enough without being vilified in the press. And besides, I’ve always known that’s not the whole story.
‘I was different, and not particularly happy to be different. I could have tried to change, but the truth is I never wanted to. I wanted to read and paint and be on my own. I was too sensitive, constantly in touch with my own shortcomings.’
‘Maybe that’s part of being creative.’
‘Maybe. For some people. But it leaves you vulnerable.’ And maybe I’m getting to it now. ‘I fell into a relationship, a while before this one.’ I motion to the triptych. ‘He made me feel special, but then it turned abusive. I ran away. And then there was another. It was dull. I kidded myself I was in love, but I wasn’t. I was just doing what my parents wanted me to do, blindly sleepwalking into oblivion. I wasn’t even painting. I should have got out of it, but I didn’t. He did me a favour in the end. He called it a day. So, it was one failure after another and when you’re weak, it’s difficult to break the cycle. I suppose that’s what I was blocking out. And part of me wanted to be punished for my own stupidity.’
‘So, this man here. Is he number one or number two?’
‘He came afterwards.’ I pause, tears welling in my eyes. ‘Like I said, he introduced me to pain. It started off with the rush, but he saw what I was doing. He knew I’d be addicted … for all the wrong reasons. He told me I didn’t deserve to be punished. I deserved to be loved.’
‘A happy ending?’
‘Not exactly.’ I give her a bitter smile. ‘We’re not together any more. But I’m stronger now, I think. I know where I’m going, what I’m doing with my life.’
I come to a halt. Mindy Summers stares at me, clearly noticing my distress.
‘Thank you.’ She switches off the recorder. ‘I’ve got enough.’
More than enough. For the first time in my life, I’ve opened up completely. And now I just want to curl up in a dark room. I feel a hand on my arm.
‘It’s time to go,’ Gordon tells me, helping me to my f
eet.
With guests politely ushered out of the way and photographs taken of me sitting in front of the triptych, trying to look deep and meaningful, Gordon makes our excuses and guides me and Lucy back outside to a waiting car. A short, silent journey and we’re back at the hotel, waiting for the lift in the lobby.
‘Did I get it wrong?’ I ask at last.
‘No, you got it absolutely right,’ he replies, his face brightening. ‘You were honest, a natural.’
‘I thought I’d done something wrong. You got us out of there pretty quickly.’
‘Job done. No need to hang around. Besides, I’d like a chat. I’m staying in the penthouse.’
‘Here?’
‘Sure.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve got a little something for you.’
His face is at it again, throwing out one expression after another before I can pin down exactly what’s going on.
‘I’m a bit tired.’
I manage a yawn. There’s no way I’m going up to the penthouse with Gordon. I may well be exhausted, but I can still spot a seduction in the making.
‘You’ll be fine when you see what I’ve got.’ He winks. ‘Just give me a few minutes to get things ready, then come on up. It’s important. Believe me. Goodnight, Lucy.’
He steps into the lift. The door slides shut and he’s gone.
‘Well, that’s me told,’ Lucy grizzles. ‘I’m not invited.’
‘And I’m not going up to the sodding penthouse.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘He’s going to try it on.’
‘No, he’s not.’
‘He just winked at me.’
‘And? Just go up there and see what’s going on. It could be anything. He might have sold the triptych. He might have a commission for you. If it’s business, then great. If Gordon tries to get his wicked way, then you’re more than capable of knocking him back.’
The lift arrives again.
‘Alright,’ I mutter, stepping in and pressing the button for the top floor. ‘But I’m telling you now, I won’t be long.’
Chapter Nine
The lift opens onto an entrance hall. I thought our suite was amazing, but this is something else, the Art Deco theme at its simple and super-expensive best. I take in the marbled walls, a red leather chair, a side table topped with two massive urns, but it’s the doors leading through to the rest of the suite that really grab my attention. Slightly ajar, they’re fashioned from dark wood, adorned with straight symmetrical silver lines that fold in on themselves, creating a maze effect. I spend a moment or two admiring them, increasingly aware of music playing in the background, and more than slightly anxious that this is all part of a grand seduction plan. I glance back at the lift. The doors have already closed. I should really press the call button and beat a hasty retreat, but if Lucy’s right and Gordon’s doing nothing more than setting himself up as my patron, I need to give him the chance.
I edge toward the doors, nudge them open and sidle into a vast living area. Softly lit by table lamps, decorated in creams and browns and complete with the obligatory luxurious sofas and expensive tables, it’s an Art Deco dream. Although it’s getting late, the curtains remain open, framing a breathtaking view of Central Park in all its glory. Drawn straight to the window, I drop my handbag and take a few steps forward. Coming to a halt in front of the glass I gaze out at the skyline of the West Side, hypnotised by a thousand lights twinkling from a thousand apartments, listening to the soft rise and fall of guitar strings. At last, I recognise the song. It’s Snow Patrol. ‘Shut Your Eyes’.
Caught in the magic of the moment, I hardly notice it at first. But slowly, I become alert to my own reflection in the glass. And my heart beat catches, falters, returns with a vengeance … because I’m not alone. There’s a figure behind me.
I open my mouth, sense the beginnings of panic, inform myself that I must be dreaming because this just isn’t possible.
‘You took your time,’ he says, his voice rich and deep and velvety.
I stay exactly where I am, fixated on the window. I can see him clearly in the darkness, the tousled hair, the black suit over a white shirt, tie-less and open at the collar. Hands in pockets, head tipped slightly to one side, he’s looking straight back at me.
‘Dan?’
I get no further. In a fluster, my body launches into its habitual Daniel Foster fiasco. Bones turn to jelly, muscles to blancmange. My pulse races and my lungs shrink to a fraction of their normal size. I’m not entirely sure whether I’m breathing in or breathing out … or even breathing at all. I’d urge my brain to deal with the mess, but there really is no point. It’s currently pre-occupied with the question to end all questions.
‘What the fuck?’ I murmur, letting it into the open.
He takes his hands out of his pockets and moves closer. I fizzle with anticipation. I can smell him now, that signature scent of his, fresh and clean. He slips an arm around my waist, watching me for a few seconds before he leans in, gently skimming his lips across my skin. I feel his breath against my neck and fizzle some more … shortly before I come to my senses.
‘Stop.’
He pulls back at my command, and I jolt with surprise. This isn’t the Dan I know. He’d just carry on, regardless of complaints.
‘Let go of me.’
Again he complies, backing away a few feet and keeping his eyes firmly fixed on mine. I’d like to ask him what’s going on, but I’ll have to figure out the whole ‘personality transplant’ thing after I’ve dealt with the anger. It’s already sparking into life.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ I growl. Swivelling on the spot, I note the fact that he looks ruddy gorgeous, and then remember he’s an arrogant prat. ‘You treat me like dirt and come back for a second helping?’
‘There’s more to this than meets the eye.’
‘Of course there is. I suppose you’ve locked me in.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Why break the habit of a lifetime?’
‘It’s not the habit of a lifetime. I’ve only taken to false imprisonment where you’re concerned.’
He moves forward slightly, causing a frisson to travel down my spine. I hold up a finger in warning.
‘Do not lay a hand on me.’
‘I won’t. I promise. Not until you want me to.’
‘Until?’ I gasp incredulously. ‘Like it’s ever going to happen.’
I give him a damn good glare, knowing full well I already want both of his hands on every part of me. It’s quickly followed by a damn good mental slap. I will not cave in to lust. Not this time.
‘I don’t know what you’re up to,’ I tell him, ‘but I’m out of here.’
I begin to move and so does he, quickly positioning himself between me and the doors.
‘Look.’ He holds up a hand. ‘I know you think I’m a huge fucked-up disaster zone. You made that perfectly clear. But you need to hear me out. All I’m asking is five minutes of your time.’
‘Demanding, not asking. There’s no asking when you’re the one with the keys … unless you’re lying again.’
I spot a hint of panic in his eyes.
‘Just five minutes,’ he repeats. ‘And then … possibly … the rest of your life.’
I blink, barely able to believe what I’m hearing. The man who totally withdrew from me, who paraded his latest conquest in front of my eyes and then told me to fuck off, has actually changed his mind? Well, apparently so. Reaching into his pocket, he produces the sweet pea necklace and offers it to me.
‘This thing doesn’t know whether it’s coming or going.’
I gaze at the necklace, and then at his hand. I’m pretty sure it’s shaking.
‘Keep it.’
‘It’s yours.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘It belongs to the woman I love.’
I force out a laugh.
‘You don’t love me. You’re plain lazy, Dan. It doesn’t w
ork out with Little Miss No Tits so you’re down to recycling your ex.’
‘You were never my ex.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
I wave a hand in the air. After the weeks of torture, I should be relieved, but I’m not. I should be swooning into his arms, but I’m far too busy weighing up the practicalities of kneeing him in the nuts. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, especially in public, and if he thinks he can just pick up from where we left off, he’s in for a massive surprise. He takes another step forwards, smiling gently and causing my fury to double in size. ‘No contact!’ a voice cries out at the back of my head. ‘You’ll lose all sense, and he’ll get exactly what he wants.’
‘I said don’t touch me,’ I sneer, astonished when he comes to a halt.
‘Somebody’s pissed off.’
‘I wonder why.’ I stare at him. ‘Where’s Gordon?’
As if I need to ask. It’s suddenly completely clear. Gordon’s been in on this all along.
‘You’ve got me to yourself, and you’re worried about Gordon?’ He shakes his head incredulously. ‘He’s gone home.’
‘But he’s staying here.’
I point at the floor.
‘You don’t really think he needs to rent out a room in this place? He’s got an apartment on the West Side.’
‘But I thought …’
‘He was coming on to you?’ He laughs, his eyes glimmering in the lamplight. ‘No chance of that. Gordon’s one hundred percent gay.’
My thoughts slam into a wall of confusion. Surely not. No, no, no. Gordon Finn can’t be gay. I would have picked up on the signs.
‘You’re kidding me.’
I’m gawping now, a bit like a landed fish.
‘I’m not. He’s more likely to try it on with me than you.’ A frown appears. ‘You weren’t attracted to him, were you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Because I wouldn’t be too happy about that.’
‘I didn’t fancy him.’
I’ve no idea why I’m defending myself. I’m about to tell him as much when the glimmer returns, dancing mischievously through his blue irises and setting off a delicious quivering sensation between my thighs.
‘But you came up here to see him.’
‘He said he wanted to talk.’ I’ve had enough. It’s time to turn the tables. ‘And anyway, why am I the one getting an interrogation? You’ve got a few things to explain yourself, mister.’