Chapter 10 Vivienne
Vivienne
I felt my cheeks warm, felt confidence bloom in my chest like a flower opening to sunlight. This was the Julian I remembered, the man who saw me in ways I'd never seen myself.
"Julian," I said softly. "The dress is incredible. Everything is incredible. I don't know how to thank you."
"You don't need to thank me," he said, stepping closer. "You're wearing it exactly as I imagined. Better than I imagined."
Standing there on the sidewalk, photographers and gallery patrons flowing around us, I felt like we were in our own private bubble. The week of uncertainty faded away, replaced by the electric connection that had drawn us together from the very beginning.
"Shall we?" Julian asked, offering me his arm.
I slipped my hand through his elbow, feeling the solid warmth of him even through his jacket, and nodded. "Yes please."
The Meridian Gallery was unlike anything I had ever experienced.
The moment Julian and I stepped through the entrance, I was struck by the sophisticated energy of the space—all white walls and dramatic lighting, with contemporary pieces that seemed to pulse with life under the carefully placed spotlights.
"Vivienne," Julian said quietly, his hand warm at the small of my back, the soft leather of his ever-present gloves a quiet contrast to the exposed vulnerability of my dress. "Out of everyone here tonight, you deserve to be here the most."
I looked up at him, surprised by the comment. "Why would you say that?"
"Because I know this world, and I know how it can make people feel. But you're not just my guest tonight—you're someone who understands art, culture, history. Someone who can truly appreciate the pieces here. Don't let anyone make you forget that."
Before I could ask what he meant, a woman in her sixties approached us, her silver hair swept into an elegant chignon, her eyes bright with interest.
"Julian! Darling, I was hoping you'd make it tonight." She air-kissed both his cheeks before turning her attention to me. "And who is this lovely creature?"
"Margaret Hartwell, I'd like you to meet Vivienne Ellis. Vivienne, Margaret is the curator here at the Meridian."
I extended my hand with a warm smile. "It's wonderful to meet you. This space is incredible."
"Thank you, dear. And what do you think of tonight's featured artist?" Margaret gestured toward a series of paintings that dominated the closest wall—bold, abstract pieces that seemed to challenge traditional notions of form and color.
I studied the works for a moment, noting the way the artist had layered different mediums to create texture and depth.
"There's something fascinating about how they've deconstructed classical techniques," I said thoughtfully.
"It reminds me of the way Renaissance artists would build up layers of glazes, but they're doing it with modern materials to create something entirely new. "
Margaret's eyebrows rose with genuine interest. "You have a good eye. Most people see the abstract nature and miss the classical foundation entirely."
"I teach art history," I explained. "Well, cultural history really, but art is such a crucial part of understanding how societies express their values and challenges."
"How refreshing," Margaret said, glancing meaningfully at Julian. "Someone who actually understands what they're looking at." After a little small talk, Margaret left us to welcome other attendees.
As we moved through the gallery, I found myself introduced to others and drawn into increasingly complex conversations about the pieces on display.
I discussed the political implications of one installation with a collector from London, debated the influence of digital media on contemporary sculpture with a critic from Artforum, and found myself holding my own in every exchange.
Julian stayed close but didn't dominate the conversations, seeming content to watch me navigate his world with growing confidence. I could feel his pride in the way he looked at me, and it made me stand a little straighter, speak a little more boldly.
"You're really in your element," he murmured during a quiet moment between introductions.
"I love this," I admitted. "At school, I'm lucky if I can get my students to engage with art for five minutes. Here, people actually want to dive deep into the meaning and history."
"You're brilliant at it," Julian said simply. "I could listen to you talk about art all night."
We were standing before a piece that particularly captivated me, a mixed-media work that incorporated traditional textile techniques with modern sculptural elements, when Julian's phone buzzed.
"I'm sorry," he said, glancing at the screen. "I need to take this, it's my assistant about tomorrow's shoot. I'll just be a moment."
"Of course," I said, turning back to study the artwork more closely.
I was absorbed in examining the intricate layering of materials when a voice beside me said, "Quite something, isn't it?"
I turned to find a man who seemed to be in his thirties standing beside me, and I had to work to keep my expression neutral.
He was dressed in what could generously be called avant-garde fashion, leather pants and an open vest with no shirt underneath, his chiseled chest on full display.
He looked like he'd wandered off the set of a music video.
"Yes, it's fascinating," I said politely, taking a small step back. "The way they've combined traditional and contemporary techniques."
"Are you a friend of the artist?" he asked, moving closer than was strictly necessary.
"No, I'm just here for the evening. But I find the work really compelling." I tried to maintain my professional teacher voice, the one I used when dealing with overly familiar parents during conferences.
"I'm Rafael," he said, extending a hand adorned with several large rings. "I'm a performance artist myself. Body as canvas, you know?"
Before I could respond, a photographer appeared beside us, camera ready. "Perfect! Could I get a shot of you two together? The contrast is amazing."
"Oh no," I said quickly, raising my hands. "We're not together. I'm here with—"
But Rafael was already moving, pulling me against his side with an arm around my waist. "Come on, beautiful, just one shot."
Caught off guard by his sudden movement, I stumbled slightly, my hand flying out to steady myself. It landed squarely on Rafael's bare chest, and the photographer's flash went off at exactly that moment, capturing my wide-eyed, almost grimacing expression as I tried to regain my balance.
"Perfect!" the photographer said, already moving on to his next targets.
I pulled away from Rafael immediately, my face burning with embarrassment. "Excuse me," I managed, moving quickly away from him before he could say anything else.
I was still reeling from the unexpected encounter, trying to process what had just happened, when a melodic voice cut through my thoughts.
"Well, well. You must be Julian's date for the evening."
I turned to find myself face-to-face with one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen.
Tall, willowy, with platinum blonde hair and a bone structure that belonged on magazine covers.
She was wearing a stunning red dress that I immediately recognized as Julian's work—the signature construction, the way it moved with her.
"I'm Scarlett Voss," the woman said, extending a perfectly manicured hand. "I couldn't help but notice you with Julian earlier. And that little photo opportunity just now, how… memorable."
There was something in the way Scarlett said ‘memorable’ that made my stomach tighten with unease. "I'm Vivienne Ellis."
"Charmed," Scarlett said, her smile sharp as glass and her gaze calculating as a cat watching a canary. "Love the dress, by the way. Which collection is it from? I don't recognize it, it must be one of his older works, and I thought I knew all of Julian's work… intimately."
The innuendo wasn't lost on me, I felt heat rise in my cheeks, still flustered from the photo incident. "It's custom," I said quietly.
Scarlett's laugh was like crystal breaking. "Oh, honey, I don't think so. Julian doesn't do custom work for... well, for just anyone. You probably just don't know which line it's from. Some of the earlier collections are quite obscure to those outside the industry."
The condescension in her voice was unmistakable, and I felt something cold settle in my stomach. "I'm quite sure it's custom."
"Right." Scarlett's smile was patronizing. "Well, it's very… nice. Though I have to say, this is quite a departure for Julian. Usually his dates look like they stepped off a runway." Her gaze traveled over my curves with obvious distaste. "You're so refreshingly… ordinary."
My face burned. The implication was clear—I was unremarkable, certainly not the kind of woman someone like Julian would normally be seen with.
"I mean, good for him for doing some charity work," Scarlett continued, as if she were complimenting Julian on volunteering at a soup kitchen.
"Though after that little scene with the performance artist, you might want to be more careful about photo ops.
This crowd can be quite… judgmental about inappropriate behavior. "
The words hit me like physical blows. Charity work. Inappropriate behavior. As if Julian was doing someone a favor, and I was already embarrassing him.
"Vivienne?" Julian's voice came from behind me, and I turned to see him approaching, his phone call apparently finished. "Do you know Scarlett?"
"We were just—" I started.
"We just met!" Scarlett interrupted smoothly, her entire demeanor shifting as Julian approached.
"I was just telling Vivienne how lovely she looks tonight.
So refreshing to see you branching out, Julian.
" She swept forward and air-kissed his cheek.
"I simply must dash, I see the Weatherbys over there and they're dying to discuss commissioning something from Haversham’s new collection. Enjoy the evening, you two."
She glided away, leaving me standing there feeling like I'd been dissected and found wanting. The confidence I'd built throughout the evening felt fragile now, cracked by Scarlett's cutting observations and the embarrassing photo incident.
Charity work. Inappropriate behavior. Ordinary.
Julian was looking at me with concern in his eyes, but I couldn't meet them for more than a second.
He reached for my hand, the black leather of his gloves cool against my skin.
It grounded me more than bare skin might have—intentional, controlled, like everything about him.
But it couldn't completely ease my internal dread.
Had I really been fooling myself all evening, thinking I belonged here?
Was I just Julian's good deed for the month?
Inside, I felt small and out of place in a way I hadn't since walking through those gallery doors. Scarlett's words echoed in my mind, a reminder that no matter how well I could discuss art or history, I would always be an outsider in Julian's world.