Artistic License

by Elle Pierson

  Sean turned down the volume on the late-night game show and took a leisurely sip from a glass of whisky. He was eyeing Mick with malicious satisfaction. “You know, if you’re going to do the Walk of Shame properly, bro,” he said, grinning widely, “you should really have smudged lipstick, high heels in your hand, and lace panties in your purse.”

  Mick pulled off his watch and started emptying his pockets, dropping his keys, wallet, and electronics on the bedside table. “I was giving Sophy a ride home from work,” he said flatly. “She thought someone was following her through the streets. Dark car, unknown make and model, didn’t catch the license plate number.”

  Sean’s lascivious leer faded. “Jesus. Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. She was asleep when I left.” Mick flicked him a tired, pointed glance. “Don’t be a dick.”

  “I didn’t say a word,” his friend protested virtuously.

  “Experience.”

  Flopping into the other chair, he ran both hands over the closely shaved stubble of his hair, stifled a yawn. “Not to be unwelcoming,” he said, “but what the hell are you doing in here, and is there any way to speed up your departure?”

  Sean lifted a manila folder between his thumb and forefinger. “Ryland called and asked me to get your signatures on these. And yes, he does know what time it is, and no, he doesn’t care, and neither should we if we want to continue to receive a pay cheque with his signature.”

  “Fuck. Fine.” Mick shook off the tiredness, leaned forward and pulled the file toward him. Opening it, he scanned the papers within and made a slight noise of disgust. “None of this is urgent.”

  “So I tried to tell him. He seems to be having a pre-emptive panic because his Golden Boy is taking a few days off this week.”

  “Three days, and I’m not leaving until Friday.” Mick flipped through the pages, scrawling his name at each flagged line.

  “Speaking of which,” said Sean, “do you have everything you need for the wedding? Booze, pills, a concealed weapon?” He raised a meaningful eyebrow. “A date?”

  “I’m not taking Sophy to the wedding,” said Mick bluntly.

  “Why not? She’s going to be in Auckland for the Harper arraignment, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, and she’s nervous enough about that. I’m not going to inflict my family on her as well. Especially not when she starts hyperventilating at the mere mention of a party.”

  “Ask her. I bet she’d go.”

  “I bet she would too.” Mick reached for the remote and snapped off the TV. The announcer’s voice was driving him up the wall. “She’s a people-pleaser. She would probably shave her head if someone asked her nicely.” He shook his head. “She would hate it. And I want to get in and out with as little drama as possible.”

  Sean narrowed his eyes. “And you don’t want her to meet your family.”

  “No.” Mick stole the remaining whisky, knocked it back. “No, I don’t.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was amazing how quickly you forgot, Sophy thought on Friday morning. She had once lived in Paris for five months, and had daily had to cross the vehicular chaos around the Arc de Triomphe, so she had experienced her share of city traffic. Upon returning to the open peaks and plains of Central Otago, however, where congestion was really limited to intense bubbles in the town centres, she had got used to living a life largely free of traffic jams. It had taken over an hour to get from her hotel to the courthouse this morning. She could have walked faster.

  The fear of being late had added to her stress about the whole appointment. She was not an organised person, but leaving early for dreaded encounters was usually practical. Arriving with red cheeks and sweaty hair didn’t boost anyone’s confidence.

  She was now sitting in a supremely uncomfortable chair in a busy waiting room, trying not to swing her feet under the Trunchbull glare of the receptionist. The only spare seat when she’d arrived had obviously been intended for elderly limbs that couldn’t crouch far, because Sophy’s perfectly bendy but sadly short legs didn’t touch the floor. She felt about six years old. And every few minutes a person in a suit appeared and called someone else’s name, so she was starting to have flashbacks to school, and the selection of teams for everything from pop quizzes to ping pong tournaments. The vertically challenged and chronically wheezy had not been popular.

  She wasn’t sure what to expect of today, but had come armed with her sketchbook and her inhaler, as per Mick’s helpful and slightly bossy instructions. It appeared he had been right about the waiting aspect, and she just wanted to get it over with. She wasn’t flying back home until Sunday morning, so the sooner she gave her statement, or signed a paper, or waved a gavel around, or whatever this entailed, the sooner she could get on with some shopping and gallery-hopping.

  Not that she wasn’t thrilled to do her civic duty.

  Her clenched hands were trembling slightly against her closed sketchbook. It had been a sensible suggestion, but she was far too anxious to draw. She suspected that any attempt would bear an unintentional resemblance to a Jackson Pollock.

  She wondered if Mick’s plane had landed yet. They were planning to meet for coffee at the Observatory later, after she’d indulged her Star Wars obsession with the afternoon asteroid show, and before he had to be at his parents’ house for a pre-wedding dinner. She hadn’t seen him for several days, since she’d collapsed in a snoring heap on his lap, but they had talked on the phone twice. His mood had been significantly darker last night, presumably with the prospect of a family reunion looming in less than twenty-four hours.

  In the interests of fun diversion, her brain continued to throw up any and all distractions it could muster, next causing her to wonder if she’d left enough cooked food in the fridge for Jeeves. He’d developed a nervous stomach condition that preferred expensive cuts of meats to cheap dog biscuits. She was not entirely convinced that it wasn’t psychosomatic, but doubting the validity of his complaints didn’t save the carpets. The pricey meals it was. Goodbye, any new clothes for autumn.

  Hopefully he wouldn’t do anything to disgrace himself in front of Melissa. Her cousin tended to be a fair-weather animal lover. The moment that bodily fluids or frenetic barking were involved, her affection went out the window. They had both dropped her off at the airport late last night, and Melissa had stood at the darkened glass windows with her, waiting for the boarding call and watching the Christmassy twinkle of lights on the runway.

  Having mostly put Mick’s irritating hypothesis out of her head, she had still found herself venturing a tentative enquiry about Dale.

  Melissa had hooted at any suggestion they might get back together. “God, no,” she’d said dismissively. “Things are good. I can go entire days without wanting to throttle him. The delicate balance of our relationship depends upon our never, ever getting mutually naked again. Besides,” she’d added thoughtfully, “I get the feeling he’s interested in someone else.”

  “Why do you think that?” Sophy had asked uneasily.

  Damn Mick. He was determined to upheave her lovely, uncomplicated life at every turn.

  “I don’t know.” Melissa had wrinkled her nose. “He just has this expression sometimes. Like a lovesick sheep. Thank God he never looked at me like that. It’s revolting.”

  She’d laughed, apparently not bothered.

  Sophy had not.

  She still thought Mick was way off the mark about Dale, but she didn’t appreciate even the whispering suggestion of anything sexual. Now things were going to be awkward when she was around him. She was incapable of compartmentalising things like that.

  A door opened. She looked up quickly, her nerves jumping, but her immediate neighbour, a grey-haired man with a walking stick and a battered copy of To Kill A Mockingbird, was called instead.

  She sighed, and then almost fell off her seat when a hand touched hers.

  Mick lowered his tall frame into a chair that was far too low for him and eyed her askance. “Sorry,�
�� he said mildly. “But I did say your name three times.”

  She stared at him wide-eyed, her palm pressed to her sternum to prevent her heart from actually making a stressed, suicidal leap from her chest.

  Mick was leaning forward to look at her dangling feet, a smile breaking through the gravity of his appearance. “Would you like to swap seats?” he asked, his voice carefully even. “That one looks a little…hard.”

  Sophy entertained the offer for about three seconds, before deciding that the indignity would override any benefit of switching. And he was silently laughing at her, the prick, so she didn’t feel particularly sorry that he would have to sit with his knees up around his chin. “No, thank you,” she said primly. She was still watching him in surprise. “You came.”

  His shoulders moved fractionally under the crisp blue of his shirt. She could see a slow, steady pulse beating in his throat. He had probably shaved early that morning before his flight, but the stubble was already a blue-black shadow around his jaw. Unlike her, he looked completely at ease in the environment of the courthouse.

  He also looked like the popular Hollywood conception of a drug dealer, which was earning him the side-eye from the world’s most intimidating receptionist.

  She was embarrassingly pleased to see him.

  “I had the morning free,” he said laconically, “since I wasn’t planning to help decorate the church.”

  Despite the dismissive words, his dark eyes were keen and evaluating as he studied her. “How was your flight?” he asked.

  “Turbulence over the Strait, and the guy across the aisle looked like Hugh Jackman, so the flight attendant kept forgetting my coffee. Yours?”

  “Uneventful.”

  That was probably the most banal exchange they’d ever had. She suspected he was trying to distract her with trivialities.

  “Sophia James?” A man in a waistcoat and tie, actually wearing pince-nez like he was a solicitor in an Agatha Christie novel, had come into the waiting room and was looking up expectantly from an open file.

  Mick stood, and somehow managed to extract her from the depths of the chair in seconds while giving the impression of barely touching her. She admired the panache. “It shouldn’t take long,” he said calmly. “I’ll wait for you here.”

  “Okay.” She started forward, then stopped and handed him the sketchbook. “Can you look after this, please?”

  He took it from her, and she frowned warningly at him. “And don’t look at it this time.”

  He raised a brow and cast a pointed look at the hovering clerk.

  Fine. She steeled her shoulders and followed the other man without looking back.

  The whole thing turned out to be almost unbelievably dull.

  She had expected a scene from Law and Order, and instead she got a re-enactment of her last appointment to apply for a student loan. Forms, forms, and more forms, all to be filled out under the supervision of three grim officials who appeared to have lost their joy in life somewhere about 1982. The most traumatic part was recording her witness statement, the footage to be used if Maria Harper was committed for trial. Making any kind of television appearance was literally her second-worst nightmare, after accidentally leaving the house without clothing.

  She was so relieved that she shouldn’t have to appear in court (“At this stage,” intoned the Weird Sisters of the Auckland legal system in pessimistic accents), she almost kissed the clerk’s dour cheek on the way out.

  She kissed Mick’s instead, grabbing her belongings and hustling him out into the sunshine as quickly as possible. He was still speechless by the time they reached the car park.

  “It’s almost lunchtime,” she said, turning his wrist to check his watch. “Do you want to get something to eat somewhere?”

  He seemed to shake off his distraction, although he gave her an intent look before he nodded and pulled out his car keys. “There used to be a decent restaurant in Royal Oak near the Observatory.” He was the picture of masculine resignation. “If you’re still set on going there this afternoon.”

  “Why would you not want to look at stars?” she asked as he unlocked the doors of a black power car, the bumper of which claimed to be a BMW. She thought it looked exactly the same as the Lexus, but kept those sentiments to herself. She’d once replied, “What new car?” when her dad had replaced a red station wagon with another red station wagon, and he’d acted like she was several crayons short of a pack.

  “Fake stars.”

  “Excuse me,” said Sophy. “I saw professional wrestling results on your phone.” She gave him an exaggerated look of pity. “Oh, did you think that was real?”

  Mick was grinning again. “Do you want to walk to the restaurant?” he asked mock-threateningly, and added as they pulled out into the traffic, “And those were for Sean.”

  “Of course they were.”

  The restaurant he remembered had undergone a lifestyle change and become an office supplies store, but they found a cheerful café further down the block with gluten-free options. Sophy deliberately kept the conversation light and breezy over lunch, and Mick remained responsive, although the occasional shadow darkened his expression.

  He accompanied her willingly enough to the Observatory for the one-thirty show, and then annoyed her by falling asleep in the middle of it. Jesus. Men. And they could stay awake through entire sports tournaments.

  When they emerged back into the mid-afternoon sunshine, she blinking, he yawning, Sophy stood and shifted from one foot to the other, a little at a loss. They hadn’t planned to spend the whole day together, and she wasn’t sure what time he was expected to meet up with his family. And there was no way she was inviting him shopping. Nothing killed a promising retail buzz like a reluctant male audience.

  “Well…” she started lamely, and he flipped his watch around to check the time.

  “Do you have plans for the rest of the afternoon?” he asked, and she watched, astonished, as a tinge of colour flared along his cheeks. It took quite a lot to visibly discompose Mick.

  “No,” she said slowly. “Nothing in particular. Why?”

  “I have – I think there’s something you might be interested in.”

  Oh God, please tell me it’s not meeting his mother.

  “It has nothing to do with meeting my family,” he said, reading her faint blanch with eerie accuracy.

  “I wasn’t thinking that,” she lied. Her cheeks felt hot and uncomfortable. “Um, okay. Sure.”

  It wasn’t exactly the most gracious response, but she wasn’t at her best with spontaneity.

  Her uneasiness grew as they drove out of the suburbs and headed into the CBD. When Mick eventually pulled into the parking garage of a glass-tipped high-rise, she looked from him to the large gold sign emblazoned with a popular banking logo. She couldn’t imagine what he thought she would want to see in a financial conglomerate.

  Unless they had underground bank vaults like in Harry Potter’s Gringotts, and Mick was going to do a Scrooge McDuck dive into his savings account, in which case she was completely on board.

  “Er…”

  Mick halted at her obvious reluctance. “Trust me,” he said, which really made it all quite simple.

  She followed him into a ritzy glass elevator with only minor trepidation. They stopped at the eighteenth floor, and exited into yet another waiting area. This one was designed to exude plush wealth rather than intimidating bureaucracy, and the receptionist’s smiling face was a nice change after her predecessor’s evil eye. Mick went up and spoke to her in low tones, and she nodded, putting a phone receiver to her ear.

  Sophy watched him walk back to her through narrowed eyes. “Do I need to start guessing?” she asked dryly, and he shook his head with a small smile and gestured behind her.

  “No need.” He reached out and shook hands with a newcomer, a tall man of about sixty with patrician features and a slight paunch. He looked a little like the marble bust of Cicero that she’d seen in the Capitoline Museums o
n an excursion to Italy.

  And she’d just realised her habit of finding artistic doppelgangers for strangers.

  “Mick Hollister?” The man clasped Mick’s hand, and subjected him to a sharp, twinkle-eyed scrutiny. “Good to meet you. William Ryland called and said you would be coming in today.” He turned his attention to Sophy with easy charm. “And this must be Sophy James.”

  She shook his hand, feeling totally at a loss.

  “Sophy, this is Patrick Kirkland,” Mick murmured, and she froze.

  Kirkland smiled at her. “I understand you’d like to see my Alicia Kemp collection,” he said.

  She blinked, tried to sound out words, failed. In the middle of her best impression of a hooked trout, she turned and stared full at Mick. He was waiting patiently, his return look affectionate.

  Oh.

  God.

  She was completely in love with him.

  And she didn’t know what to do with that.

  Kirkland had fortunately chosen to be flattered rather than put off by her stunned silence. He kept up a running commentary of mostly interesting and occasionally inaccurate modernist anecdotes as he ushered them into a personal office suite that boasted, among several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of art, the largest single collection of Kemp paintings in the country. She kept a tight hold of Mick’s hand as they strolled, stopped, peered, and listened.

  The banker probably thought the visit was a nice treat for Mick’s poor mute girlfriend. She was so overwhelmed that she couldn’t even force herself to make the usual stilted efforts at conversation.

  The artworks were amazing.

  The sweetness of the gesture seemed beyond comprehension.

  Kirkland let her take some digital photos and make some notes for her essay, and she managed to thank him warmly as they made to depart. When they descended the elevator into the dark garage, she came to a stop, tugging on Mick’s fingers. He turned and looked at her questioningly.