28. Raif
Knicker flashes requirethe purchase of at least three full-priced artworks…
I study the bust of a woman—a piece of modern statuary—not an actual woman.
Women other than Lavender seem to hold little interest for me lately.
Given the promise I made on the terrace and the rewards I reaped beyond the flash of her underwear, I should buy every piece in tonight’s exhibition.
I’m not sure Lavender would appreciate it at this point. I’ll buy what’s left to make the night a financial success. But for now, I’ll just keep out of the way.
I dip to examine the figure better. It’s not bronze, though it has a similar patina. Something about it captures my attention.
Wa/orrier.reads the exhibit label. A play on Warrior/worrier. The woman looks like she could be both. I note the artist’s name as T. Marius Homeland.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Primrose appears next to me. Her hair pulled back into a chic chignon makes her look older. Her white shirt and dark-colored skirt give out corporate vibes.
“It’s still for sale?” I guess. There’s nothing noted on the neatly typed card.
“Yeah.” Primrose wrinkles her nose. “Most of the pieces are. People are saying all the right things, all that arty bollocks those kind of people speak, but in monetary terms, the night isn’t going as well as Lavender hoped.”
“Oh, really?”
“More like, oh shit. She’ll be so upset, and you know what that means. Or maybe you don’t,” she adds, eyeing me. “She’ll turn into a stroppy cow because that’s what she does when she’s upset. Me, I just cry and let it all out. Lavender prefers to bottle it. Make a vintage of it. At least, until it explodes.”
“The night isn’t over yet.”
“I think she’s feeling the pressure. Mum’s here. Brin and El. Heather and Archer are coming later, too. All we’re missing is Whit and his lot, but they’re still on holiday. And Daniel, who’s in Thailand and doesn’t seem to have any plans of coming home.”
“That’s good, though, right? Family support?”
“Double-edged sword,” she answers with a sigh. “They mean well, but sometimes Lavender takes innocuous stuff to heart. She pretends she doesn’t, that she’s super tough, but she’s a tender soul under that spiky hedgehog stuff.”
Tender isn’t a word most people would conjure up when they think of Lavender, but Primrose is on the money. Her attitude is a defense mechanism. You’ve just got to pay attention a little harder to spot those little chinks in her armor. For me, it’s the way she is with Daisy. It’s also apparent in smaller things, like the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not looking. The tactile touches that seem less and less like pretend every day.
“What do you think the issue is? Why things aren’t selling, I mean.” I turn back to the warrior-worrier. “This one is pretty good.”
“This one’s great. But some of the pieces are a bit…” She makes a weighing motion with her hand. “The assemblages are good—there’s been interest in one or two of those. But did you see the metal sculpture pride of place on the way in?”
“Can’t say I did.”
“I’m not sure how.” She slides me a brief glance. “I’d placed it somewhere else but when I popped home to get changed, it had mysteriously made its way to the front of the gallery. It’s certainly…” She taps her index finger against her chin. “Confronting.”
“I guess I should go take a look.”
“Prepare yourself. It looks like a giant metal vagina.”
I chuckle at Primrose’s deadpan delivery. “I think I would’ve noticed that.”
“What’s worse is what the piece is called.”
My mind goes several places, but it wouldn’t do to offer any of them up. “I can tell you’re just dying to tell me,” I answer instead.
“Episiotomy.” She pulls a face. “I didn’t know what it was, and I’m not glad I asked. Ignorance is sometimes bliss. And the opposite of that makes a girl wince.”
I try not to laugh, but her face is moving like rubber.
“Polly said it brought tears to her eyes, and I’m not sure she meant it as a compliment. Poor Lavender,” she adds with a sigh. “But don’t tell her I said that.”
“Show no weakness, right?”
She nods. “This business is just so tough, you know?”
I make a noise of understanding.
“I don’t know how she does it. First, she has to find an artist she thinks will be commercially viable, then she has to pick pieces and reject others without stepping on tender toes. Artists can be very temperamental. As in half temper and half mental.”
“I’m sure.”
“She paints walls on rotation and largely decides how to display the pieces. Prices them. Sells them. She does the hiring and firing, the day-to-day bookkeeping, manages the inventory, and arranges packing up the stuff when it sells—and when it doesn’t. She arranges couriers and insurance, and takes care of the website and advertising. She’ll even wash the bathroom! And for what? For nights like tonight when the tire kickers turn up in force to drink the wine and fill up on nibblies before they bugger off to the pub.”
“You love your sister very much.”
“Of course I do,” she says, turning to me sharply and eyeing me as though I’d asked a stupid question. “We all love each other. It’s just the sheer number of us makes things seem odd. There’s seven times the love. Also, seven times the trouble. Seven times the opinions, and seven times the shit throwing.” She turns back to the artwork, consternation still knitting her brows.
“Think you can ring this one up for me without letting Lavender know?”
“Aw, that’s so sweet! But you know it’s not just her pocket you’re lining because fifty percent—”
I wave away whatever she’s about to say next. “I’m not doing her a favor. I can see this in the reception of a new hotel.”
“What about the metal piece? Fancy buying that?”
“I’m not sure vaginas are the vibe we’re going for in our hotels.”
“You don’t own any of those Japanese love hotels then, I suppose.”
I laugh.
“You could tell people it’s a shark’s jaw,” she suggests pleasantly.
“Good try, but no.”
“Fine. Fine. Don’t help a poor student’s commission.” Her eyes widen as I produce my credit card from my wallet.
“Ohh, fancy.” Taking it from my hand, she pretends to be flushed, fanning her face with it. “Whit has one of these, but his belongs to the bank. The bank he owns.”
“But I hear he doesn’t have his own private jet.”
“I’ll remember you do next time I book a holiday.” She jauntily turns on the ball of her foot and bounces off.
“Hey, Primrose?”
She swings back with an inquisitive quirk to her head.
“You don’t happen to know the name of Lavender’s last boyfriend?”
Her expression reflects surprise. Then suspicion. “Why?”
“It was just something Lavender said. It made me wonder who he is.” I doubt she would appreciate my sharing the story.
“I don’t know.” Her expression bland, she taps my credit card against her thigh.
I decide I’m not sure I believe her.
“I do know it was a while ago and that he was a proper shit to her.”
“In what way?”
She shrugs. “I was still in school. Lavender was at uni. We didn’t get on, and the conversations between Mum and Whit were all very hush-hush.”
Tell-a-phone, tell-a-gram, tell-a-Primrose, echoes in my head.
But how old would that make Lavender? Maybe twenty. But she must’ve dated between now and then.
“I seem to remember she went off the rails a bit not long after.” She seems to zone out as though slipping back into the past. “She was angry all of the time, and Polly was really worried about her.” She seems to snap back to the present, her expression firming. “You ought to ask her.”
I nod, recognizing we’re through.
I will get to the bottom of this. I will find out who this bastard is and what he did to make Lavender flinch years after the fact.
Though I concede that’s not likely to happen tonight.
I take another stroll through the exhibition, pausing to note the names and prices of several pieces. I make a couple of calls. Pull in a couple of favors. Smile when Lavender passes by thirty minutes later and says they’ve received some online orders.
“People must’ve gone home and changed their mind!” she announces, all gleaming and girlie.
“I don’t doubt it. Congratulations, princess.”
I squeeze her ass when I’m sure no one is looking, then whisper in her ear that I’m hungry. That I can’t wait to eat later.
The evening winds on. People leave. Others arrive. I mingle. Drink a glass of cheap wine before switching to water. I watch my wife work the room, her dress turning pink to silver in turns. Take a walk around the gallery and notice there are still fewer pieces with sold stickers than the other way around. So I decide, fuck it. I call Primrose over and tell her to total the rest up and put it all on my card. Even the metal vagina and its heinous name.
Primrose argues that Lavender will “blow a flipping gasket!”
So I repeat myself in a firmer tone. Why do the women in this family enjoy busting my balls?
Then I agree. I say I don’t doubt she will moan vociferously.
Primrose frowns.
What I don’t add is it’ll be when I get my mouth on her.
It’s what I’m thinking about outside in the tiny brick backyard as I take a drag from my cigarette. Maybe I should take her to the Chelsea house before we go home. Lift her onto the desk and slide that slippery dress from her shoulder, just like last time.
My chest expands as I remember how her thighs tightened around my head, her slim fingers knotting in my hair as she gave herself over to me.
Lavender’s reactions, her desire, feed me more than sex with other women has. She makes me feel reckless when I’m drunk on her. Tender when we’re just spending time together. She’s slotted into my life almost seamlessly, and I’ve never felt this relaxed and at home in my own home.
The more time I spend with her, the more time I crave being naked with her. We haven’t even fucked yet, and it’s weird, but I don’t feel like I’m missing out. I’m enjoying discovering what makes her tick. Sigh. Cry aloud. And when she takes my cock in her hand, and her wedding ring catches the light, a wildness stirs in me. It’s like something primal fills every atom of my being.
I give my head a shake. Weirdest shit ever, I think, is the understatement of the year.
I resist the urge to palm my cock as it throbs. Tipping back my head, I allow the breeze to ruffle my hair as I stare at the stars, freckling London’s night sky.
Lavender Whittington-Deveraux. What the fuck am I going to do about her? Twelve months, twelve years, or twelve lifetimes. How will I ever get enough of her?
My arm drops. I slide it into my pocket, my fingers fastening around my knife.
“What do you want?” I demand of the asshole creeping up on me. I’m not getting jumped, that much I’m sure of. Not with footsteps so tentative.
A throat clears, and a familiar and unwelcome voice says my name.
“Raif? I mean, Mr. Deveraux?”
“What do you want,” I grate out, grinding out the amber end of my cancer stick against the brick wall. As I turn to face him, I flick the butt into a potted plant.
Tod hovers in the doorway, his lanky frame backlit. “I just wanted to say, well, two things. First, I’m sorry I upset you the other day. I shouldn’t have kissed Lavender.”
“You fucking kissed her?” The soles of my shoes scrape against the pavers, a burst of anger propelling me to action.
“N-o!” He jerks back toward the light and the safety of the building. “I wanted to, but I didn’t. She pushed me away before you…”
I curl my hands around the doorjamb and lean in menacingly. “Beat the fuck out of you?” You could do it now, whispers a little voice that seems to shout a little louder since Lavender became part of my life. A temporary part.
His brows become one waving line, like he doesn’t understand.
“You realize Lavender’s presence was the only thing preventing that?”
“Oh.” He steps backward again. “Right. Okay.” Another step. “I’m so sorry. Again. Please believe me, I have apologized so hard—I mean—so much to Ned.”
“Who the fuck is Ned?” I step over the threshold, and his eyes widen.
This is too fucking easy. I must be bored.
“Lavender, I mean. It’s just my… my nickname for her.”
Ned. Sounds like the name of one half of a pantomime donkey. Lavender would be the talking part. For sure, I’d be relegated to the ass.
“Lose the nickname, Tod. I’m thinking Mrs. Deveraux might be more appropriate.”
“Yes. Absolutely. Whatever you think.”
Lying turd.
“So what was the other thing?”
He hesitates, seeming to weigh up his options: run away or stand straight and explain it, man to man.
“I came to say thank you,” he says, his tone now resolute.
Maybe the third choice was insanity.
“I know you’ve done this for N-n Mrs. Deveraux, but I truly can’t tell you what it means to have your support. Your patronage, however I’ve come by it.”
“My what?”
“Primrose just told me you bought the remainder of the exhibition. That it’s a sell-out!” He looks as surprised as I feel. “The news will surely spread!”
“It’s your exhibition?”
But he doesn’t seem to hear my disbelief or disgust as he gushes—fucking gushes.
It’s such a privilege…
I can’t wait to see my work in the foyer of your next hotel…
Annoyance flares inside me. Somebody shoot me—shoot me right fucking now.
I’m bankrolling this asshole? Phoning around like an idiot to get people to buy his shit? Buying it myself!
That settles it. It’s all heading for the trash.
“Tod.”
“I’m so grateful. Some artists wait a lifetime for—”
“Tod!” I bark this time.
“Yes, Mr. Deveraux?” His pale lashes flutter rapidly, and whatever I was about to say dissolves. It would be like kicking a fucking dog.
“Don’t mention it,” I mutter gruffly. “Ever. Again.”
“I just…” His gaze dips, and I cast my eyes heavenward. I swear, if this dick starts to cry, I’ll give him something to cry for. Like a black eye. “I was set on hating you, but I just can’t.”
“I recommend it, Tod. In fact, be my guest,” I add with a flourish. Join the horde.
“No, I can’t. And not just because of your generosity.” He folds his arms across his chest, his fingers disappearing at his armpits. His shoulders lift, his posture hunching as he seems to fold in on himself. “I can’t hate you and have N… Lavender in my life.”
“I’m sure Lavender won’t hold it against you, either.” She’d probably encourage it. After all, sometimes she doesn’t like me herself.
“She married you,” he says sadly. “And I told myself that she did it for me—to save me. But I see now that it doesn’t matter why she did because I’ve missed my chance.”
“Your chance at what?” But I already know the answer. I see it as plain as the hawk nose on his face. He loves her. This man loves my wife, and I feel sorry for the bastard.
“It’s going to be fucking rotten, I know,” he says, carrying on like he doesn’t hear me. Like he doesn’t need me to witness this, his admission. “And it’ll be painful seeing you together, but I have to be okay with it because of her. For her.”
“Tod, listen—”
“Please let me finish,” he says, those sad eyes flicking up. “I think I was waiting, that I couldn’t tell her I love her, not when she’s so accomplished. I had nothing to offer her. But I was hoping tonight would change all that. And it has,” he adds with an unhappy-looking smile. “I’ve had my first taste of success, and it’s so bittersweet. Why couldn’t you have just stumbled across my work? Bought it and left me the girl?”
The next time I say his name, I don’t hold back. In fact, I grab him by his neck. Again. The back of it, this time.
“Listen to me, Tod. You never had a chance, not from the minute I set eyes on her. But let me tell you, if you think you’ll utter a word of this to my wife, if you think I’ll let you fucking upset her, you are fucking mistaken. Got it?”
“I’m not going to—”
“I’m still speaking,” I growl, giving him a shake to rattle the cotton out of his ears. “You tell her, and I will crush you, Tod. I will make your life a living hell.”
“I-I won’t,” he stutters, wide-eyed and kind of terrified.
“You have some flawed fucking logic, my friend.” Like I’d buy his art for anyone else but her. “The only time that’s perfect is that you take for yourself, and your time with Lavender has passed. If you wanna to keep working here, you want to be a part of her life, you keep your hands and your eyes to yourself. And you keep those words in your mouth. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“If she finds out I bought your shit here tonight, you and I are gonna have a very serious conversation.”
“She won’t hear it from me.”
“Good. The alternative is I buy you a new suitcase, but you won’t be going on vacation. You understand?”