‘Here’s to you, Cara,’ says Elliot, saluting her with his champagne flute. ‘A successful opening show if ever there was one.’
‘To Cara,’ says Kat, sipping her champagne, ‘and to Greg for introducing you to us.’
Cara smiles and glances around the now-empty gallery. Several red dots shout from beneath her canvases, not least the masterpiece dominating the rear wall.
‘That was a major coup, sealing such a prestigious contract,’ says Greg, noticing her line of sight.
Cara nods. The woman Greg and the Kaplans monopolised for most of the evening turned out to be the owner of several boutique hotels. Eager to acquire the gigantic painting of the turbulent sea at sunset, she also purchased several others, and, following robust negotiations with Greg, successfully commissioned Cara to paint more.
‘Hoteliers are always looking at ways for unique branding,’ says Elliot, smiling at Cara. ‘It’s a wonderful idea to add an extra dimension in having their hotels instantly recognisable by the art on their walls. Your work is perfect for that vision, seeing as all her hotels are coastal.’
Cara nods again. She has no idea where she will find the time to produce the number of paintings the woman has requested. Greg obviously thinks he can keep her locked away without any consideration for other responsibilities she may have in her life.
‘Well,’ says Kat, glancing at her diamond-encrusted Cartier watch, ‘I think that’s about it for this evening.’
Elliot drains his glass. ‘I guess we will all sleep well tonight.’
‘We’ll call by tomorrow after lunch, should anyone want to meet the artist,’ says Greg.
‘Well done, Cara,’ says Elliot, giving Cara a swift kiss on the cheek. ‘A victorious opening exhibition.’
*
‘What a wonderful evening,’ says Heather, passing Oliver a tumbler of whiskey. She kicks off her shoes and sits next to him on the couch. ‘I love my new painting. It will have pride of place there above the mantelpiece until I take it back to the States.’ She indicates the intricate marble fireplace in her rented London apartment. ‘Don’t some people just have it in spades? Not only does Cara have a marketable skill but she’s absolutely gorgeous as well!’
Oliver takes a long sip of whiskey.
‘Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed, Oliver darling,’ Heather teases, ‘and as for that young American, if only I were a few years younger…’ She lets the sentence hang.
Oliver snorts. ‘I noticed you’d gathered quite a crowd of young men earlier this evening. At one point I thought you were taking over the show!’
‘It does wonders for my vanity that I’m still able to hold the attention of men of a certain age,’ Heather says, smiling suggestively at Oliver. She takes a small sip of champagne. ‘How did you first discover Cara?’
An iron fist squeezes his heart. It’s painful to revisit and it’s not something he wants to share. ‘Deanna and I came across her gallery one walking holiday in Cornwall,’ he says in a matter-of-fact manner.
Heather considers him thoughtfully. ‘She has a remarkable talent.’
Oliver nods.
‘Greg tells me it’s rare she leaves her native Cornwall.’ Heather takes another sip. ‘He said he was very lucky to have winkled her out of the county!’ She laughs. ‘Now, he’s an interesting one, don’t you think?’
Oliver glances at her. ‘I guess so, but why do you say that?’
Heather places her champagne flute on a side table. Plumping up a couple of cushions, she leans back and stretches out on the couch, resting her dainty feet on Oliver’s lap.
‘What I said is true. I have followed Latimer-Jones’ column for years. He is still an attractive man, but when he was younger he was a dead ringer for Richard Gere. He was quite a man about town, you know. I always felt sorry for his, then, wife. She looked very much the long-suffering accessory, wheeled out only when it suited him and more often found lurking in the background, patiently waiting for him to finish whatever it was he was doing.’ Heather stretches languorously. ‘Be a darling and massage my feet, Ollie. I haven’t walked so much in years as I have tonight!’
Oliver knocks back his whiskey. Leaning forwards, he places the empty tumbler on a large, marble-topped coffee table and takes one of Heather’s petite feet in his hands. He starts to lightly massage, working his thumb along her instep.
Heather shivers. ‘You always did know how to light my fire, Oliver.’
He laughs softly. ‘Go on, tell me more about Greg.’
‘Only if you promise never to stop what you’re doing,’ she says seductively. ‘Well, now, let me see.’ Heather wriggles into a more comfortable position. ‘Greg was always very good at spotting emerging talent and he travelled quite extensively through Europe during his early career. All at once, his column was all about an undiscovered Polish talent. You could tell how excited he was – it literally jumped off the page at you!’ Heather wiggles her other foot at Oliver. ‘It’s getting lonely, darling.’
Oliver obliges.
Heather smiles. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t long before Marietta von Baranski arrived on the scene. Do you know her work?’
‘I can’t say I do.’
‘She’s remarkable! At least, she was. A figurative artist. Her paintings full of joie de vivre.’ Arching her back, Heather presses her foot into Oliver’s thumb. ‘Ooh, darling, don’t stop. That’s definitely hit the spot.’
‘You’re very demanding,’ Oliver says with a grin. ‘Does Ian have to do this?’
‘He’s allowed to do so on special occasions!’ Heather’s eyes twinkle at Oliver mischievously. ‘Anyway, back to Marietta. She swiftly became Greg’s protégée. I must say, he has a type. She, too, was blonde and beautiful.’
Oliver’s thumb comes to a halt. He stares at Heather, his heart thumping with panic.
‘Don’t stop, darling.’
Slowly, his thumb starts to move again.
‘Greg encouraged her to move to America to further her career,’ Heather says, picking up the story once more. ‘He was still married at the time, and I remember being curious as to what his wife thought of the arrangement. Anyway, he and Marietta soon became the darlings of New York society and, inevitably, his marriage fell by the wayside.’ She pauses, enjoying a particularly deep sensation coursing through her body.
‘What became of wife number one?’ Oliver asks.
‘I don’t know. I guess she quietly disappeared into the background from whence she came. But background is not a place Mr Latimer-Jones likes to inhabit. Soon after Marietta arrived in the States they were married; a large and stylish affair covered by all the mainstream papers and magazines. We all believed it happened in haste due to a pregnancy, but there were never any children. I suppose having a family would be a hindrance when you’ve set your sights on conquering the art world.’
‘That’s sad,’ says Oliver. ‘Being creative is wonderful but it never replaces the experience of nurturing a child.’
Heather regards the great-looking actor for a long moment. Removing her foot from his hand, she rises off the couch and stands in front of him. Then, placing a leg either side of his knees, she slips her arms around his neck and lowers herself onto his lap.
‘You know there are no strings attached, Oliver,’ she whispers in a deep, sexy voice, as she brings her mouth down on his. She kisses him deeply; her tongue teasingly flirting with his.
Feeling relaxed – as he always does in Heather’s company – Oliver knows it’s also partly due to the not inconsiderable amount of alcohol in his system. He puts his arms around her waist and, drawing her to him, closes his eyes. She feels pliant and lissom, just as he remembers. For once the ‘grey mist’ has not claimed him, despite Cara’s aloof treatment earlier in the evening that left him reeling. The end of a dream. It could so easily have pushed him over the edge into depression. He knows there are no repercussions with Heather – she and Ian enjoy an open marriage – and his own is as good as dead in the water. There’s nothing to stand in the way of their enjoyment of each other. And yet…
A much younger Oliver Foxley succumbed to Heather’s advances, but the man of today cannot muster the enthusiasm. Gently Oliver pushes her away.