Chapter 1

Katrina gave the gallery one last glance, taking in the sparse, high walls
covered in artwork, all artistically framed and arranged for maximum impact.
Jose Guilliame, a Cuban artist, had hung most of his paintings the week before,
but there were still some missing. Even so, it looks fantastic she thought, before
switching off the lights and setting the security code.
She would have to call Jose again tomorrow, chase him up about those missing
few, or Robert would be on her case. Her heels clicked on the uneven pavement
as she made her way towards the tube. No matter how much she gave, Robert
always wanted more. Still, she mused, after all his years of making veiled
advances he had never once directly hit on her. She was thankful for that. He
knew what the answer would be, she guessed. But did she?
Despite her lack of attraction to Robert, lately she’d been wondering whether
she might change her stance if he were to actually ask her out. He was kind and
dependable, if not a little rough around the edges, which came from his cockney
upbringing. She’d known for many years that he was in love with her. But she
had worked hard for the chance to have her own gallery—all those shifts as a
night attendant at the National Photographic Gallery just to save a bit of capital
for her own. And she’d given up so much along the way: lovers, houses, a family
of her own (or so it seemed at thirty-two) just to get here and make the gallery a
success. Still, she would never have been able to do it without him, even if lately,
just when the reviews were fantastic and raved-about artists were starting to
take notice, she’d felt herself suddenly begin to lose interest.
Lately it all just seemed so … empty. Whitewashed corridors hung with
someone else’s interpretation of the world, which sold for ridiculously high
prices to pretentious, cashed-up prats who couldn’t care a jot for anyone else.
Just last week an American oil barren had paid the price of a small African
country for one of the gallery’s paintings of a forest entitled “Breathe”. The irony
of it all.
Raoul would have once had something to say about that, she thought, and then
stopped herself. If nothing else, the gallery had given her a way to tap in to her
creativity again after Raoul—after that whole palaver—even if her creative
efforts were now only in display. Robert kept badgering her to paint and hang
some of her own work, but the inspiration just wasn’t there.
That was the thing about Robert, he loved art, he just didn’t understand it.
We’re not so different she thought, I loved Raoul but I sure as hell never understood
him. She frowned at herself again. What was with her today? Thinking about
Raoul twice in ten minutes. She scowled and pulled her long auburn hair out of its
bun, shaking it loose and ignoring the whistle of a watching itinerant outside the
tube station, and that’s when the magazine caught her eye. Who’s 50 Most
Intriguing People special edition.
There, gracing the cover was the man she had been thinking about. The man
who appeared like a phantom every time she so much as thought of painting.
Something inside her made her want to spit at his smug face, smiling up from the
newsstand, but she hadn’t. She had picked it up and hurried to the counter.
Raoul Domingez, she scoffed to herself as she paid the newsagent and stashed
the magazine into her Gucci handbag. All of his posturing about possession being
theft and money being the root of all evil, all of his lectures on how habitat and
environment must be considered more precious than gold, all of his ideals—all
came to nothing. All culminated in him being one of the wealthiest artists on the
planet.
But then again, she had learnt that over ten years ago, hadn’t she? Learnt what
a pretender he was. His daddy would finally be proud of him. She scowled, angry
at herself for forking out for the magazine. Why do I even think about him still?
Just because it was his fault I can no longer paint? And hers, she knew. Something
had died in her that day, something more than even she had understood at the
time. Raoul Domingez, she sighed, why didn’t you ever dignify me with an answer
so I could forget you? How could you have done that to me? She slipped her tube
pass into the ticket barrier of Holborn Station and headed home for the day.

“It what?” Katrina shook her head and tried to comprehend the fireman’s
words. She had lain awake earlier, tossing and turning, and had only just fallen
into a deep, unconscious slumber when the shrilling of the phone had shocked
her out of it.
“Caught fire, I’m afraid. It has sustained some damage, mainly to the internal
structure. We’ve put it out and the building itself has been checked and judged
structurally sound, but I am sorry to have to tell you that a lot of the internal
walls and partitions have been damaged and will need reconstruction. Nearly all
of the artwork has been destroyed, and the sprinkler system has ruined the
carpets and couches. You’d best contact your insurance agent first thing in the
morning, love.” The fireman’s brisk, professional voice, with just the right
amount of sympathy, made her realize this certainly wasn’t a bad dream. No
sooner had she replaced the phone handset then it rang again.
“Katrina, can you effing believe it? It’ll be those tossers downstairs again,
leaving the bloody gas on. How was it when you locked up? You didn’t smell
anything?”
Katrina took a deep breath. Robert was no stranger to profanity and especially
not at four in the morning.
“Of course not. It was fine. I was thinking how good it looked.” She sighed and
ran a hand through her hair. It was a tyranny of knots, testament to her restless
night’s sleep.
“Well, we’ve got a new problem on our hands.” Robert’s voice took on a more
professional, authoritative tone. “With most of Guilliame’s best work destroyed,
you’re going to have to find us another A-list artist who can organise a showing
for us by next Thursday. I’ll take care of the reconstruction and refurbishing, you
work on the artist. We can’t afford any effing empty space right now Katrina, you
know that.”
“Right. So I’ll take the hard job then shall I?” Katrina rolled her eyes and
yawned. Just what she needed—a blackened gallery and the last-minute stress of
finding a new artist at a week’s notice. Great.
Robert’s reply was typically curt. “You’re the artist Kat. I’m just the effing
financier. Find me an artist, a good one, or we’re in real trouble.”
“Ok, boss.”
At four in the morning, she thought Robert probably wouldn’t detect the
sarcasm in that comment, but she was wrong.
“Oh, and Kat…”
 “Yes?”
“…pull your head in, will you? We’ve both got a lot riding on our next showing
being a success and you know it. This is bad luck, but I’m counting on you. Work
your contacts. You’re an artist after all.”
“Was an artist, Robert. It’s a big ask.”
“Then thank your lucky stars I’m not bloody well asking you to paint ‘em
yourself,” Robert condescended, then paused, as if mulling things over, before
continuing, “Word on the street is that you know folk who owe you favours. Call
‘em in. I had a call this week from Cecelia Traminer. Says she had a proposition
for you. According to her, she’s now Raoul Domingez’s agent. Sort it. Without
Guilliame we need names—big ones like Domingez—and we need them now.”
Katrina’s heart leapt in her throat.
“I’m onto it,” she said, and quickly hung up the receiver. She sighed. Robert
Cooper had been a good friend for a long time, but she sometimes still resented
the extra capital he had poured into the gallery. It made her feel that when he
said jump she had to ask “how high?” Still, she understood his curt manner. All of
that work, all of Jose Guilliame’s work, all of her and Robert’s work—destroyed a
week before one of the biggest showings in their small gallery’s history. It was a
nightmare; a very real nightmare.
Yet something else he’d said was troubling her almost as much. Cecelia,
Raoul’s agent? It had to be a mistake. Celia had been the light in Katrina’s
darkness in the difficult months following that terrible day. Celia had hated
Raoul for what he’d done. That she was now his agent was inconceivable. And if
it had been Celia who’d called, why hadn’t she asked to speak to Kat directly?
Katrina bundled her tangled mane up into a knot and constrained it with a
hairband. And, what a coincidence, a painful coincidence, to hear Robert utter
that man’s name tonight.
She walked to the glass-topped coffee table and picked up the magazine that
had been the cause of her earlier insomnia. She thumbed to the spread on page
three. Raoul Domingez’s eyes smouldered out at her. Those eyes that she knew
so well, and yet hardly at all. He was still the most handsome man she had ever
seen.

* ****

The first day her emerald eyes had met his onyx ones across the art table at
university she’d gotten shivers down her spine. He had smiled lazily at her across
the desk, a line of straight white teeth revealing themselves behind sensuous red
lips.
“Hi, I’m Raoul.” His voice had been hypnotically mellifluous, rich with a sexy
undercurrent of Spanish. “Your work it is very good. Very … ah … how you say?
Dynamic …”
He had stressed the wrong syllable, which she’d thought was cute.
“Me,” he had continued, “I am perhaps not so good with realism. Shall you say,
I am more … crazy … more, abstract. But you paint what you see, no? Me, I paint
what only I see.” He had laughed, indicating the sketch he had been working on.
Katrina had dropped her eyes from his handsome face, a flush burning on her
cheeks. “Thank you.” She had stolen a glance at him again. “Your work is
excellent. I mean, really original. Avant-garde.”
 Raoul had frowned then. “Ah, you know then what it is that I draw?” he
enquired, with an air of surprise.
“Um, well…” Katrina had turned her head to the side, examining the page
covered in highly detailed pencil sketches. “Well…”
Raoul’s laugh had rung out then, smooth and deep. “No. We do not know each
other well enough yet, eh? This one…” he had paused, “ …it is called ‘Father’s
son’, but you don’t yet tell me what it is that you are called?”
“Oh, mine doesn’t really have a name yet. I mean it’s the Thames, you know,
but I can never think of names for my work until I finish.”
Raoul had laughed again and paused, suddenly embarrassed.

Kat’s eyes were closed now, remembering how Raoul had run his large, brown
hands through his shoulder-length mane of hair. She shivered even in her
reverie. Such unconscious sexual power he had over her then. She remembered
him correcting her: “Now you mistake my English. I ask your name, not for your
painting name. I am Raoul. You are … ? You see?”
“Oh, how rude of me. God, what an idiot.”
Raoul had shrugged, his smile evaporating. “I am idiot to ask pretty girl her
name? Or God is idiot? You English girls, I not understand.” His dark eyes had
blazed—confusion, anger. Even then she had found him hard to decipher.
What a young fool I was, she thought, remembering how she had slapped her
hand over her mouth and stammered, “No, no, not you. Me. Oh God, I
blasphemed. Oh shit. Oh, I mean, me. It’s me who’s an idiot. Sorry Raoul. I’m
Katrina. Katrina Mercer.”
Raoul had taken her hand and kissed it, his soft lips lingering just a moment
too long.
“Miss Katrina Mercer” he had said, and his black eyes had studied her bowed
lips before returning to her eyes.
“I’m sure God would forgive such a very beautiful idiot for blasphemy.”

Katrina sighed and closed the magazine. A beautiful idiot, that’s what he’d
always thought of her, she realized now. That was what she had been.
Where did you find the inspiration to paint what you saw in life when you
spent years seeing nothing much?
 Chapter 2

“Cecelia Traminer?” Kat tried to sound as professional as possible as someone

picked up the telephone.
“Yes.”
Even from that one word Kat could tell that Cecelia’s accent was as polished as
ever.
“It’s Katrina Mercer here. It has been a long time, but you might remember
me. We modelled together and then shared a house when we were in college.
Ruskin Mews, do you remember?”
“Katrina, darling, how delightful to hear from you. Of course I remember, how
could I forget?” Cecelia paused, enjoying the uncomfortable intimacy. “Darling,
how are you? You wouldn’t believe it but not so long ago I rang your colleague
Robert Cooper seeking some wall space for one of my artists whom you know
very well: Raoul Domingez. Unfortunately, your financier never got back to me,
such a shame, Raoul was very keen to discuss an exhibition with you. He said he
thought it would really lend some credibility to your gallery.”
“I do apologise for Robert not getting back to you,” Katrina tried to keep her
tone friendly. It was clear Cecelia had not grown out of her habit of giving back-
handed compliments. “We’ve been very busy, of course, but I did want to speak
to you about your client listing. You see, we’ve had a slight setback and we
require an artist prepared to organise a showing at the very last minute. I was
thinking someone new and fresh who is just hitting the A-list market, rather than
say…” Katrina couldn’t trust herself to say the name, “…someone already well-
established. Any suggestions?”
“Oh darling. I must admit that I heard about your little bit of ‘misfortune’ this
morning. News travels fast in the art world, you know. This all seems rather too
little to late, I’m afraid. Most of my artists are well and truly booked up over the
next few weeks—as you’d imagine, since I am their agent. I like to keep them in
showings. It’s only really Raoul who is free and we had planned to travel to
Belize next week.”
“Oh. Is he showing in Belize?”
Cecelia laughed, a high-pitched, slightly nervous tinkle. “Oh no, cherub. We are
a couple now you know. He’s just been so busy, we’d planned to get away for a
while, just the two of us. But I could ask him to do it, as a favour … for an old
friend.”
Cecelia’s smugness seeped through every clipped upper-class vowel, grating
on Kat’s nerves. They were seeing each other! Katrina’s throat suddenly became
very dry. “In which case I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that. But thank you very
much all the same, Cecelia.”
“It’s not a problem, sugar. Anytime you need an artist, please give me a call.”
Kat had to refrain from slamming down the phone. What in the hell was going
on? Granted, it was over ten years ago, water under the bridge and all, but it still
seemed ridiculous.

“How did you go? Did you get Domingez?” Robert didn’t even wait for an
answer before becoming side-tracked. “Kat you just have to see the new couches
I got. Very twenty-second century. They look magnificent. You’ll love them. The
interiors are going up Thursday. That gives us four days to get the paintings in.
What is his vision for the showing? Did you pin him down on a name? We’ve got
to get some marketing out pronto.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Kat…?”
Kat paused, how could she tell him? “He… he doesn’t have a name for the
showing yet, no. I didn’t speak to him I only spoke to his agent.”
“Oh yes, Cecily isn’t it? Sounds like a nice woman; a bit up her own arse,”
Robert commented with a laugh.
Kat stifled a smile. “Yes. Well, I spoke to her, but…”
“You’re effing kidding me ‘but’. But what Kat?”
“But he’s thinking of going on holiday later in the week.”
“Ferchrissakes Kat, he only needs to be here for the opening, we’ll do the rest.
You did tell him that didn’t you? What did you offer Cecily? I mean give the man
what he wants. Do you have any other names?”
“Erm, Cabrillia Moliere showed some interest.” Kat knew it was a long shot.
The Parisian socialite was charming and articulate and imbued with a sense of
style that saw her regularly grace French magazine features, but it was accepted
in the industry that even her charm couldn’t save work that had become a bit
tired.
“Forget it, Kat. The world’s seen enough of her hairy French nudes. Besides,
did you see her Galleria reviews, same ol’ same-o apparently. You’ve got to get
Domingez.”
“But Robert. I just told you.”
“Do you have any idea how much this goddamn refurb has set us back? The
insurance won’t come through for months. You want to come with me to the
accountant’s to discuss this? Get Domingez! Offer him anything. Offer him your
pretty little tush on a platter if it’ll get him here. We’re a cut above now, my love,
remember. This could be our big break here. The place is totally effing cutting-
edge, new age. We need a cutting-edge artist. Now I want you to get straight back
on the phone to Cecily. You get him and I’ll shout you a three-course at Nobu,
promise.”
Click. Robert really knew how to get on her nerves sometimes, friend or no
friend. Offer your pretty little tush to him on a platter! she fumed, screwing up her
nose as she repeated it to herself. You just might regret saying that Robert Cooper,
she thought.

Barley ten minutes after Kat had left her second message on Cecelia
Traminer’s answering machine, the phone trilled from the kitchen bench.
“Inconvenient timing, Robert, as ever!’ Kat muttered to herself as she gave up
the search for her right red Jimmy Choo and loped, unevenly, to the kitchen.
“Hello,” she murmured, distractedly trying to kick off the left heel.
“Kat?” The voice was dark and chillingly familiar. Electrical currents shot
down the length of her body. It was a voice she had heard say that one word, Kat,
so many times with a variety of inflections. Her small nipples suddenly stood to
attention beneath her red silk shift dress. This time, the voice’s tone was
satisfaction.
“Y… Yes,” she stammered, realising they had both paused in the awkwardness
of the moment.
 “It is Raoul Domingez here. The artist. You might remember me?” his last
sentence stung, deliberately so. It was so laced with so much sarcasm it sounded
like an accusation. Bastard, he could have started with an apology she thought.
Kat composed herself and fought back. “Yes, how could I forget? I saw you in
Who magazine.” Ouch!
Raoul laughed, a low growl with just a hint of hurt. “Well, you have been
calling asking for me, I hear now, Kat. After all these years? What could Kat
Mercer want with me? I think to myself, and then Cecelia tells me you have a
gallery. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Kat was lost for words. What game was he playing?
“And you need an artist,” he said, matter-of-factly rather than as an enquiry.
“And you are an artist, are you not?” Kat responded tersely.
“That I am, Kat, but am I the artist you need?” his tone had become hard again,
accusatory. “This is Kat Mercer after all, isn’t it? If I recall she never needed
anyone. But then I have not known Kat Mercer for a long time, have I now?”
“No, you haven’t,” she was brusque, thinking Where were you when I needed
you then, you piece of shit.
“Look, let’s cut to the chase, Domingez,” she couldn’t bring herself to say
Raoul. His name had rolled off her lips like a kiss in the old days, but she hadn’t
uttered it aloud for more than a decade. “I’ve got wall space, feel free to hang if
you want to.”
There was silence for a moment before his low purring laugh. “Well that is
charming indeed, Kat. I think I should like very much to put my paintings on your
wall again.”
Kat was frustrated. He just had to put that “again” in there, didn’t he—really
twist the knife. Damn Robert! Why did she even have to do this? No amount of
success was worth the humiliation.
“Fine. We need all of your artwork in by Thursday next week. Natalia, our
assistant, will help you with placement. You can contact Robert Cooper if you
have any queries in the meantime and I’ll forward you copies of the contract and
marketing material by tomorrow midday. All I need from you now is a title for
the exhibition?”
Raoul paused. She remembered his look when he was thinking: how he would
be running his tongue over his slightly pouty lips, his brows knitted above dark,
pooling eyes.
“You need something from me then, Kat, after all. I think, this exhibition, it will
be called “From Memory”. But there is one small problem, Katrina. I have one
painting I wish very much to display, but it is not yet finished. I cannot hang it by
Thursday, but by Friday evening, before the opening, I can have it done, no?”
Despite years of living in London he still had that European habit of ending a
question with “no?” she thought. How irritating.
“If you can guarantee that it will be finished and ready to hang before the
opening,” she replied sternly.
“I can guarantee it will.” His voice grew colder still, “You will be there?”
“It is my gallery,” she retorted.
“Very well, then you shall see my best work.”
God he was so smug, how could she have ever have thought that self-
confidence endearing? Kat rolled her eyes.
 “Very well. Thank you,” she hated having to say it. How she wished she could
follow it up with … for ruining my life, you conceited unfeeling jerk … but instead
she just hung up.
Chapter 3

“Wow! It looks incredible.”

Robert grinned widely. “Told you so, Kat. Pretty awesome isn’t it. Check out
the little footlights down in room four.”
“You’ve excelled yourself, Rob.”
“Nay, Madam, you have excelled yourself,” Robert countered, taking both of
Kat’s hands in his. “Good job on getting Domingez. Have you seen any of his work
yet? Natalia hung some yesterday afternoon. The poor girl was having heart
palpitations when he came in. Personally, I think he’s all swagger—cocky
European charmer—but Natalia was impressed.”
As they walked down the corridor Kat was acutely aware of Robert’s hand on
her back. She wished he wouldn’t treat her like his escort whenever they were in
the gallery.
“What’s his work like?” she asked, more out of nervousness than anything.
Robert led her through into room five. “Voila!” he gestured towards the walls
where four pieces of breathtaking artwork were hung. There was no denying
Raoul hadn’t lost any of his artistic touch. Whorls of intersecting colour cascaded
around starker, sparse scenes which drew the eye, confusing and delighting it,
drawing the mind away from chaos to the order of a meticulously drawn
machine gun. His work was still highly abstract, a contorted face here, a wilting
flower in melting colour there, stripes, squares, dotted patterns, but there was, in
all of his pieces, some kind of inner life.
“Good huh?” Robert was clearly impressed.
“Yes, but what about the other rooms? He has three rooms still to fill and it’s
Wednesday evening.”
Robert shrugged. “She’ll be right. He’s a best-selling internationally renowned
artist, Kat, he’s not going to let us down. Besides, if you’re worried, give him a
call. By all accounts he loves a chat with the ladies, slippery bastard.”
“Do we have a list of the pieces he wishes to exhibit yet? I have to finalise the
marketing material by midday. Might be nice to get some photos of this room to
use.”
“Right you are. I’ll get Natalia to call in Cam Browning right away to get us
some digitals.”
“Perfect.”
“It’s going to be big Kat, I can effing feel it!” Robert’s excitement was infectious
and Kat smiled.
“Yeah, can’t wait,” she said, with just a tinge of sarcasm.

** **

Kat woke early and yawned, pushing back the duvet and stretching. Robert
had been in a particularly congratulatory mood the night before at dinner, but all
she could think about was that voice, purring down the phone line. Her dreams
had been tortured by memories of the past, her anger in those months following.
As soon as she heard him it all came flooding back. Kat felt a certain
apprehension about the exhibition opening on Friday night when she would
have to be in the same room as him and Celia for the first time in a decade. He
and Celia, an item? She really didn’t think either of them were the other’s type.
Then again, she and Celia had lost touch. It had become increasingly difficult for
them to remain friends afterwards. Celia’s suggestion that it was for the best had
seemed callous and heartless at the time. Katrina sighed, conceding that Celia
had probably been right—a thought that brought its own nostalgic melancholy. It
still hurt to think about that loss. She yawned again and finally got up, walking to
the wardrobe to lay out her skirt suit. It was a soft cream and went perfectly with
her russet silk blouse. Kat shook out her hair and frowned, was it just her, or was
she going to a particular amount of effort today when she had no intention of
being in the gallery at the same time as Raoul Domingez anyway?
Moments later, as she let the hot water stream over her in the shower, she
wondered how she would cope if she did run into him. Even the thought of it sent
a zapping current through her entire body. She washed the soap off, slowly
caressing her own body under the running water. She still looked pretty good for
her age. Her breasts were on the smallish side, but were still firm and perky and
five sessions a week at the gym had kept her legs and bum taut. She wondered
what Raoul would think were he to see her now. No doubt Cecelia would be slim
and as immaculately well presented as ever. With just a touch of botox, she
thought, and then stopped herself from being catty. Anyway, she would find out
soon enough how kind the years had been to both of them. She shivered with a
strange mix of anticipation and dread.

When Kat reached the office, Natalia was waiting for her, flipping through the
visitor book from the day before and idly tugging her dark curly hair.
“Alright?” Natalia enquired. She had that kind of funky, sexy look so common
to girls in their twenties today, and a habit of speaking in slang. But despite her
somewhat unorthodox look, she did have an eye for art and an uncanny ability to
talk visitors into buying it.
“Morning, Natalia. What do you think of the refurb?”
“It’s wicked. Rob did a great job. Good job on getting Domingez too, Kat. The
man is a total stunner.”
Katrina cleared her throat. “Hmmm.”
“No, really,” Natalia went on, “talk about charisma. His voice. Whoa!”
“Yes, well.”
“Oh sorry Kat, you haven’t met him yet. He might be in this afternoon, but he
dropped off another batch of paintings earlier this morning already. I’m going to
get on to them in a min, unless you want to?”
“No thanks. I’ll have a look after you. I’ve got to focus on some marketing and
ordering for the moment.”
“No probs. He’s got more to come tomorrow if you happen to be around.”
“We’ll see.”

By the late afternoon, when Kat slipped out for a bite of lunch, her mind was
reeling. She still had a big task ahead of her, trying to get some free editorial for
the showing at this late stage. Her task was, of course, made easier by the fact
that Raoul Domingez was obviously exceedingly popular. Everyone that she
spoke to also seemed to know Cecelia Traminer personally, which was becoming
very annoying. How had Cecelia managed to get herself so ensconced in the art
world? By five o’clock, Kat had managed to convince a number of important art
critics to attend the opening, even at such late notice, and had ordered tapas, in
keeping with Raoul’s cultural background. She’d also ordered more than one
hundred bottles of a wine from the Valencia region. By half-six, just as she was
about to pack up, the printed brochures arrived. They looked great, with Cam’s
digital shots of the gallery internals and Raoul’s name emblazoned across the
front. She’d managed to get the printers to send a whole load of them directly to
the art college and to all of London’s most popular and pricey clubs and venues.
It was going to be tough, that was for sure, but with some newspaper space
booked for tomorrow morning, it might be all right.
One thing was certain, she was knackered and it wasn’t even showtime yet.
She pulled her hair from its tight plait, running her fingers through its waviness.
Her hair had always been her crowing glory. So pre-Raphaelite, he used to say.
Kat rubbed her temples. Was this dredging up of the past ever going to end? She
couldn’t wait for the show to be over just so she could get on with repressing her
memories of that time again, as she had successfully done for so long.

Natalia had been carefully arranging and labeling that remaining artworks all
afternoon, but Kat had been so busy with event management she hadn’t even had
a chance to pop in and see them. Best do that now, she thought to herself. Natalia
had an eye for detail, but sometimes her colour coordination skills could be a
little off.
She made her way down to the gallery, pausing at room five first and going
over the paintings she had viewed the other day. Kat always found there was
something soothing about being in the gallery after dark. As if this were her
space even more than her own flat were. You could always tell so much more
about a work of art when you viewed it alone.
These paintings are truly magnificent she thought. Living colour, so edgy and
unique—such a shame that all that talent had to go together with such a package
of arrogance. She turned, her heels clacking on the polished wooden floors as she
moved into room one. The paintings here were smaller and part of a more
sombre collection. Highly textured, grainy representations of waves splashing
among faces and clouds, blotched and muted with shadow and then illuminated
by strips of brilliant luminescence. They were all slightly disturbing. Kat lingered
a moment, reflecting on how they suited her melancholy mood today. They
reminded her of something. That grey graininess, like the blurring shadows of an
X-ray she thought. This room was less than joyous, or was it just her.
She shivered and moved through to room two, which was again filled with
colour, angry reds and screaming purples dripping from huge stylized butterfly
mobiles which dangled on slender strings from a blue background. She moved
closer to read the label—“The change”—and spun around to see the opposite
wall again plunged into despair, battered wings yellowed and curled seeming to
fall like autumn leaves from the sky.
What a departure from the work she remembered of Raoul’s. They were
always less about introspection more about the world around him. Something
told her that as he got older he turned his art inward, or turned himself outward,
she was unsure. Boy, is this ever unhealthy, this obsession with his art and his
feelings, she thought, frowning at herself.
 Natalia had done a good job of room three, it was a juxtaposition of emotions
and thought-provoking statements about industrialization and poverty. More
like the subject matter she would have expected from him. She moved around
the room slowly, taking in each piece. When she came to the last one she
stopped. Oil on canvas. “Unlikely Parent”, it was called—a dark silhouette of a
woman carrying a child about to be devoured by a gleaming tidal wave upon
which rode hundreds of tiny clutching hands and sad-faced nymphs. The
woman’s long hair was sucking back into the wave, curling up into the hands,
giving the impression she could not escape. Kat wondered how old this piece
was. Noticing that it was hung slightly askew, she reached out to straighten it.
“Don’t touch it.” The voice in her ear startled and shocked her. It was him, she
didn’t have to turn around to know it. He had reached out immediately, grabbing
her wrist as she went to touch the painting. Where his fingers held her she felt
her blood, warm and rushing to meet his fingertips. His eyes transfixed her. For a
second she was caught in his magnetism, unable to speak or breathe.
“I … I … it is crooked.” Her senses returned to her in a rush of anger and
embarrassment at her obvious physical reaction to his touch after all these years.
“Perhaps it should be crooked. It is not a picture that must be ‘just so’, you
think? It is not a happy picture.” He still held her wrist, clutching it a little tighter
than was comfortable. She could feel her pulse, beating through the dark veins in
her pale skin.
It had taken him only a second of watching her gaze at his artwork for him to
know she was as beautiful as ever. Her shapely legs, enhanced by stilettos as she
wandered around the gallery. Her body slender under her well-cut skirt suit.
Raoul found himself embarrassed by a sharp burst of longing for her.
Kat’s emotions welled up in a blaze of anger. How dare he have this reaction to
her. How dare he catch her unawares.
“You shouldn’t be here. It is after hours. Now if you would very kindly let go of
my wrist.”
Raoul ignored her, still holding her wrist, his unblinking eyes fixed on her
large emerald ones.
“What do you think then?” There was a shyness to his voice. She remembered
that he always had that uncertainty when seeking approval.
“You always were a brilliant artist. Perhaps you have become slightly more
conservative.”
“Conservative,” Raoul spoke the word like an insult. “So that is what you think
of me?”
“I didn’t say that was what I thought of you.” Kat’s eyes narrowed and her
voice shook. “You don’t want to hear what I think of you.”
Raoul took a deep breath and his lips set into an angular line before he paused
and continued. “Coward. Hypocrite. All these words you could use, I am sure, no?
But I never knew Kat that you could be so … so…” he paused again, “…so dead. So
cold. So brutal.” His nose wrinkled in displeasure. “So sterile.” The word slid out
smoothly, calculated for maximum effect. It seemed he did not even realize his
own misjudgment as Kat’s left hand swung automatically into a crashing slap on
his perfectly sculpted cheekbone. Her eyes flashed angrily and colour flooded
into her face, illuminating her ivory skin with a deep blush of rose.
“You heartless bastard!”
There, she had said it.
 Raoul’s first reaction was shock, enough to cause him to immediately grab her
left hand as well and push her away from him. Her lips quivered and he saw her
angry eyes fill with the silvery gleam that precedes tears.
“How could you come here and treat me like this? After everything you did.
After YOU left. Get out of my gallery. Get out now!” Kat’s voice trembled.
She had never looked more beautiful he thought—perhaps only then, in those
moments so long ago that were imprinted on his memory. So beautiful and yet so
harsh, so taut as if she might snap at any moment. He realized he was still holding
her, against her will, and that she was now shaking not because she was livid, but
because she was afraid of him. Her lips quivered with an almost imperceptible
fright. She was afraid of him—him, Raoul. That she was afraid filled him with an
unbearable aching sadness. It was unthinkable and her unfairness angered him.
All these years he had thought of her, dreamed of seeing her again, and there
was her reaction: fear. Well perhaps she was right to be afraid after everything
she had done. He shook her, just a little roughly. His eyes left her face, ashamed
that he was at once wanting her and enjoying taking his revenge on her. He
glanced down at the space between their rigid bodies, watching her chest rise
and fall from her ragged breathing. She had stepped backwards, putting distance
between them, hugging close to the wall on which his painting was hung. He
pushed her back further, hating to see her recoil from him, but feeling the need
to make her witness his hurt, his anger and confusion.
“You have no shame,” she whispered, disgusted with him, and then the
floodgates of his anger opened. She was against the wall, and he was against her.
Feeling the soft swell of her breasts cushioned against his chest, his hands
catching her silky hair as they pinned her to the painting, which clattered from
the wall, falling behind her feet. She could feel him, hard and demanding, his
mouth asking for answers that only her body could give him. His lips brushed her
cheekbone, a sensation that burned her like a brand. She whimpered uselessly.
“Kat, you should not have done that. Why did you do that?” he whispered, his
voice strained. Soon his words were lost as his lips found the hot salt of a single
tear running down her cheekbone. His lips moved downwards, seeking the
warmth of her mouth.
She resisted at first, and then he felt her fear turn to frustration. Her mouth
grew suddenly soft beneath his, her tongue searched hungrily for his own, thick
and probing. Raoul’s hands grew gentle and dropped to her side and then back
up. He stroked the curve of her neck, the smooth line of her shoulder. He felt her
hands in his hair, pulling him close, devouring him with her passionate kisses
before she shoved his head away sharply and cried out his name. It was a cry
made poignant by a decade of longing and misery and it echoed eerily in the
gallery, like her footfalls as she ran, racked by sobs, to the safety of the foyer.
By the time he had forgiven himself and returned to the foyer she had
regained composure and her eyes were steely.
“Kat … I …. I am so—”
“Get out!” she interrupted, her shaking hands pointing to the door. He hung
his head and obeyed sheepishly. Kat cried for a full half hour before she switched
off the lights and left the gallery, thankful that he had not bothered to wait for
her.