A Very Distant Affair
Prologue
Guilty. There…she said it. Guilty for living, when he was dead and buried, and guilty because…because she couldn’t admit to anyone how she truly felt.
Cheryl stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Despite her long red hair, or maybe because of it, black suited her. The sombre tone of her dress contrasted with her blue eyes and almost-translucent pale skin. She raised her eyebrows as she opened her eyes wide. As a mature woman, she ought to have known better, but really, she felt exhausted after the last few months, and she quoted Rhett Butler’s well-known phrase to herself, ‘Quite frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’ But even that was a lie, because deep down, she did.
She grabbed the last of Daniel’s best shirts and stuffed them into a sturdy carrier bag. The local charity shop would do well out of her this week. Half of them had only been worn once or twice, and they were all designer labelled. He always bought far too many new garments at once. She felt something firmer than cloth beneath her hand and, poking her long fingers into the breast pocket of a dark-blue polo shirt, grasped something which turned out to be a photograph folded in half.
Cheryl stared at the much creased snapshot, recalling the day it had been taken. She saw a sky so blue it made her eyes ache; tall eucalyptus trees were etched into the background, and she and Daniel stood in front. Happy days, in some ways. Her first trip to Australia had been bittersweet. She remembered how she wanted everything to be so perfect, filled with hope, and that the holiday would help get their marriage back on track. God only knew how much it needed something back then.
Daniel Taylor, the man she married years ago and had now lost. After his death, she didn’t go to pieces or let everything slip through her fingers. She had others to consider. The burden had been immense as she overcame dark thoughts and fought to get everything back on an even keel. That was the key. Time healed, and she smiled and nodded at everyone who told her so.
They said she was traumatised by Daniel’s death and had been left bewildered and numb. Well, that was partly true, but as for her true feelings and what had happened, some things were best left unsaid.
She blinked, as tears pricked at her eyelashes. She loved him once.
She thought back to those dreadful weeks: him dying a little bit more each day. She hated watching his face grow so pale and thin on the pillow. His words—those alarming words, desperate and pleading—had shocked her to the core.
She had whispered her promise never to leave him…and she didn’t. She stayed to the end, watching him sleep until his chest no longer rose and fell with each sighing breath. When it finally happened, she thought the world had stopped. Everything was so still. So still that she imagined she could hear the house breathing.
Finally, she had kissed his cheek, tucked his hands under the cotton covers and stood up to move away. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her mind numb with pain and wracked with guilt. “Rest in peace.”
Chapter One: The Present
Inside the restaurant, there was a sudden portentous silence. The waiter paused before whisking Cheryl’s dessert plate away and glanced towards the tall window overlooking the London square. Other chic diners turned their heads and listened.
Outside, the night sky exploded. Everyone in the restaurant glanced at their fellow diners as they heard the rockets swish overhead, followed by spectators’ frantic shrieks, culminating in a frenzied peal of church bells.
Daniel looked across the festive table into his wife’s sapphire-blue eyes, double-fringed with thick black lashes. He gave a perfunctory smile while sliding a small box across the table towards her. “Happy New Year, darling.”
Surprised, Cheryl paused as she lifted her champagne glass for a toast and widened her eyes in question. Their dining companions, Ollie and Cordelia, seated between Cheryl and Daniel, stopped conversation mid-sentence as they watched her.
“Oh! For me?” Prettily startled, Cheryl smiled at her husband. Daniel had already been generous that Christmas, and Cheryl could only wonder what the pair of emerald earrings signified. “Daniel, they’re beautiful. I don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you is enough, my darling. I thought you could wear them when we visit the Thorns next month. You know how well-turned-out Felicity always is. She’ll be green with envy.”
Cordelia laughed, her green eyes dancing with more than a little malice. “I can’t wait to see her face. Daniel, you’re so lavish with your presents. Cheryl’s in danger of becoming as spoilt as Felicity.”
Cheryl blinked at her words. If she could have named one woman who was over-indulged, it was Cordelia. Unlike the other three seated at the table, she came from old money and had spent a lifetime of idleness apart from sitting on the boards of a handful of charities. She had spent the evening flirting with Daniel while Cheryl watched surreptitiously as she shook her flaxen curls over Daniel’s shoulder, twirling her empty wine glass between her well-manicured hands. Daniel responded with old-fashioned charm as benefitted the wife of a good and wealthy client. Cheryl couldn’t really complain. She was used to women flirting with her handsome husband. All too often they were fascinated by his grey eyes, set in a lean, sharply featured face. Daniel carried himself as taut as a greyhound, and they were attracted by his good looks and a sensitivity that nestled at the core of his don’t-mess-with-me macho charm.
Cheryl was a landscape painter, Daniel her agent. He discovered her when she was bouncing along the bottom of the art world, barely keeping her head above water. Once he recognised Cheryl’s full potential in what had become a buoyant art market, he declared he would make her a household name—but only if she let him have complete control. Cheryl, already suffering rejection in the art world, where the parameters were firmly set, and struggling to make ends meet, had no choice but to go along with his plans. And to be fair, true to his word, Daniel soon succeeded in establishing Cheryl as an up-and coming artist, whose pieces were now highly desirable and fetched good prices. As an agent, Daniel was wealthy, knew the risks to take, which paintings to put up as collateral and which would sell well. He knew his market and his clients.
Ollie was one of those clients. Well-heeled, he specialised in designing and building shopping malls and had met Daniel at a party in London. Ollie invested in other property, race horses and art. He knew the property market and horse flesh but little of art and entrusted Daniel to find him those canvases which would turn into blue-chip art. The arrangement worked well. Daniel sought pieces he knew Ollie liked, thereby placing Ollie in the European art world and earning Daniel a handsome commission.
Cheryl laughed good-naturedly and switched her gaze to the dark good looks of the wide-shouldered ex-rugby player. Ollie cossetted his wife far too much and openly admitted it. Cheryl knew he had been watching Cordelia like a hawk throughout the evening; he was no fool. Although beaming at Cordelia’s flirtation benevolently, Ollie was competitive and known to flatten anyone who got in his way. Cheryl was sure Daniel was aware of this and, treasuring Ollie’s patronage, would have done nothing to seriously jeopardise their business relationship.
Daniel had explained to Cheryl more than once how he saw Cordelia and Ollie as the über-successful couple. “There’s no point in standing still in life. You go up or you slide down. And you and I, my darling, are going up. With your talent and my knowledge of the art world, the world’s our oyster. Your paintings sell before the canvas is even dry. What can go wrong if you follow my advice?”
At times like these, Cheryl wanted to voice her own opinions and reservations, but when she saw Daniel’s face, she knew he would brush aside her unease. Daniel excelled at control, and whenever she questioned any of his decisions, he reminded her of the promise she had made him all those years ago. All the same, Cheryl always maintained happiness had a price, and on most occasions, it was always high. Things were going fairly well in the Taylor household at this stage, but ever the pessimist, Cheryl wondered what might be around the corner.
Chapter Two Twenty-Two Years Earlier
After art college, Cheryl had to take a part-time job to feed herself. Despite her parents’ offers of help, she wanted to be an artist first and stand on her own two feet. After a year of scratching out a living, selling the odd painting, Daniel entered her life. It happened quickly and from an unexpected corner.
Cheryl and a couple of arty friends, Sally and Bernice, were exhibiting in a small, tucked-away gallery off St Martin’s Place. Bernice came from a stable background, and Sally was the product of an unhappy childhood. With a mother and father who argued constantly, her father usually ended the spat by shouting at her mother and then storming out of the house. Sally’s mother was similar to so many other women of her generation. She pretended there was nothing wrong with the marriage and persuaded her daughter that everything was normal. Sally soon learnt it was better to hide her shame…and fear. She spent the rest of her life living a lie.
Over the years, Cheryl and Bernice watched their friend as she went from one miserable relationship to another. No man lasted more than a few dates.
“What’s wrong with her?” Cheryl mused when Sally had rung yet again to say that she had been dumped and that although she would still join them later, she would be sans man.
Bernice, who had an old head on young shoulders, put it in a nutshell. “It’s all her father’s fault. He drank far too much. Sally witnessed too many domestic rows, and she ended up feeling frightened and vulnerable. Not only that, his behaviour guaranteed she finds all men unpredictable and unreliable. I think she’s made a vow never to feel that way again and subsequently won’t let a man get close enough, but paradoxically longing for just that. It’s sad, but Sal’s never learnt to trust anyone. I suspect sex plays a huge role. She won’t trust her sexual partner and, fearing her vulnerability, won’t let herself go sexually.”
Cheryl blinked and registered surprise at Bernice’s candid explanation. “Quite the philosopher, aren’t you? I suppose you’re saying she’s never had an orgasm?”
“Oh, definitely not. She’s insecure and would be scared witless to depend on a man and then lose him. He’d feel trapped and make his escape. So the whole darn thing turns full circle.”
“Poor Sally. I hope she’s not too upset when she gets here. I need to stay focused tonight.”
The girls turned their attention back to the exhibition on hand. The Hopper Gallery was slightly damp and smelt of wet dog and dubious-quality white wine. The walls and ceiling were painted a deep violet, and the floor tiles were pale mauve and white. Spotlights were directed onto the paintings. Bernice scanned through the guest list. “I don’t recognise many names,” she complained. “Oh well, you never know. One of us might be discovered.” She tucked the list into her bag and glanced round the room; the place was filling up. Sally finally joined them, and the three women studied each visitor as a potential buyer. Sally gasped and grabbed Cheryl’s arm. “Oh my god! Look. By your favourite picture…the blond eye candy.”
“Hmm. Nice,” Cheryl agreed. “Who is he? Painter or buyer?”
Bernice widened her eyes. “You’re kidding me? You really don’t know? That is Daniel Taylor. You’ve heard of the Taylor Gallery, haven’t you? Wow! I added him at the last minute. See! I told you something might happen. Oh lord, he’s seen us. Scatter, girls—it won’t do to let him think we’re falling over ourselves to get noticed.”
The tall slim blond appeared to be on his own, and as Sally and Bernice slunk reluctantly away towards the drinks table, Cheryl saw that Daniel Taylor was smiling at her and blocking her escape. More used to students and other meagrely paid artists, Cheryl thought she had never seen a more well-groomed or smarter-dressed man. He oozed money. She stared into his confident eyes—slate grey under this light—and at his wide mouth and high cheekbones. Anglo-Saxon? Hmm. Maybe…possibly Slavic somewhere in those genes. He leant forward, and she caught a whiff of expensive cologne: citrus, sandalwood. Her mind became confused, she couldn’t believe he had singled her out. Not only that, to her utter amazement, she realised he was talking business to her. Goodness, was he truly interested in her work?
“This is good—remarkable, really,” he said, pointing at one of her favourite canvases. “Your work is strong and has impact. Not too abstract nor wholly realist. On the whole, I believe it will be extremely marketable. But what are you doing exhibiting here in this miserable little gallery? These should be hung in the right places, seen on the right walls. Why don’t I know your name?” The last question was directed solely at Cheryl, and she felt the full impact of his intense gaze.
“I finished art school and needed to support myself. I haven’t had time to do a lot else except paint so that I don’t starve,” Cheryl heard herself murmuring shyly.
Daniel Taylor looked surprised. “Even so, I’d have expected to have heard something about you. Word of mouth is the key thing here. Everyone from artists, dealers and critics, passes on information. So, Cheryl, where can I find you? Do your skimpy funds run to a phone?”
Bowled over and almost fainting with shyness and joy, Cheryl scribbled her name and number on his catalogue.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said with a lingering smile and warm handshake.
By the time her friends returned, she was so thrilled she could hardly speak; Sally and Bernice were excited by the amount of public attention Dan Taylor’s interest in her displayed work was causing. Six weeks later, she had sold all her paintings and discovered she had enough money to put down a deposit for a small house.
But there was one small disappointment. Daniel Taylor hadn’t been in touch.
Chapter Three
Three months passed, and Cheryl held her first one-man exhibition in the Hopper Gallery. She managed to persuade the owner, Bailey, to get rid of the purple-and-mauve overtones and paint the gallery a stark white. The floorboards were sanded and left in their natural state, and after much hectoring, Bailey agreed to invest in twice as many spotlights.
Cheryl had her hair trimmed and styled for the occasion. She splashed out on a new dress from a small boutique tucked away off The Strand and, early that evening, stood in the freezing gallery, shivering nervously and feeling more than slightly sick.
Bailey approached her with two glasses of red wine in his hands and pressed one into hers. “You look ravishing, darling. I didn’t tell you earlier, as I wanted it to be a surprise, but we’ve already sold four pictures. Imagine…four pre-sold!” He struck a pose and waved a hand languidly in the direction of the main door. Cheryl thought she could just make out the ‘red star’ sold stickers on the paintings.
She gasped. “How wonderful! But who?”
“Ah. Wouldn’t you like to know? I’m afraid I’m sworn to secrecy, but, my lovely, all will be revealed when you go to dine with him later tonight.”
“Him? Bailey, what are you on about?” She smiled, her stomach doing a tiny flutter in anticipation.
“The purchaser who would like to buy you dinner after the show. Don’t look so worried. It’s all above board. You’ll be quite safe, my sweet.”
She laughed. “And what if I don’t want to be wined and dined?”
Bailey studied Cheryl with a serious expression. “If you don’t go, you’ll never know what might have been. But look at it this way, my girl, you’ll be a fool if you don’t. Understand this, Cheryl…it isn’t entirely in my interests, but, well, you’ll see when you get there. Go and enjoy.”
***
As soon as Cheryl gave her name to the head waiter at The Wolseley, she was escorted to a table set discreetly to one side of the restaurant. As she followed, her heart began to race in expectation and then thumped painfully against her chest as she recognised her lean blond patron. Daniel Taylor moved with fluid grace, rising from his chair and seating her immediately.
“Delighted you could come. Waiter, please open the champagne now. It’s time for celebration.” He turned to face Cheryl with a broad smile. “I took the liberty of ordering earlier, as I’m familiar with the menu here. I’m certain you’ll enjoy my choice.”
***
After their meal, Daniel drove Cheryl home. The sleek soft-top Aston Martin purred to a stop outside the door to her tiny house. Daniel glanced around; a row of modernised terraced houses with minuscule front gardens inside black-painted railings. “Nice. Small but attractive. May I come in? I’d like to see what you’ve been working on since we last met. We also need to discuss what you’re going to do next.”
Cheryl’s heart tap-danced as she led him inside. “It’s small but perfect for me. My studio’s in here.” She flicked on the overhead light, and Daniel stepped past her to prowl round the room. Canvases were stacked against two walls, sketches pinned to the wall on cork boards. He peered at each sketch and canvas, then stood back and scrutinised each one without uttering a word. After he had gone through her collection, he turned and looked at Cheryl.
She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, blushing furiously at his examination. “Well?” She asked with a nervous tremor in her voice. “Is it my paintings or me you’re interested in?”
“Both,” he replied. “I know you have the ability, but are you material worth fostering? How resolute are you? Do you give in easily to stress and publicity?”
“Who said I was looking to be promoted? What if I don’t want you to handle me?” She bristled at his presumptions.
Daniel’s eyes seemed to caress her face, resting on her mouth. “Ah, but we both know you do.”
He moved towards her and took Cheryl in his arms. His breath was soft and warm against her neck and ear. “Are you as fragile as you look?”
As she felt his hand move against the silk covering her body, she began to shake. His long fingers gently explored her breasts with infinite patience. Trembling, Cheryl yearned to feel his body against hers. She unbuttoned his jacket and slid her hands across his chest and around his back. The linen felt fine beneath her hands as she tugged at the shirt, pulling it away from his warm muscular flesh.
Daniel bent his head, forcing her lips apart, and pressed his body hard against hers. He took her hand gently and guided it down between them; there was no doubting his excitement. He caught hold of her dress and pulled it upwards. He grasped her buttocks and pulled her closer to him, breathing heavily.
He lifted her with ease, taking a few steps forward and pressing Cheryl against the wall. He tugged at her dress, pulling it over her head; her naked breasts tingled with his caress. Cheryl closed her eyes and felt him move away. She could barely breathe as she heard him ripping off his clothes.
Then, she felt his body align with hers, his lips dry and firm. His hands explored her body, and she thought she would pass out with excitement. His hand found its way between her legs, and she groaned as he rubbed her gently. Her body responded with a passion more intense and rapid than she had ever known. Before she climaxed, he eased her thighs apart gently and entered. Cheryl was pressed against the cold brick wall, but she felt as if she were on fire.
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Prologue
Guilty. There…she said it. Guilty for living, when he was dead and buried, and guilty because…because she couldn’t admit to anyone how she truly felt.
Cheryl stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Despite her long red hair, or maybe because of it, black suited her. The sombre tone of her dress contrasted with her blue eyes and almost-translucent pale skin. She raised her eyebrows as she opened her eyes wide. As a mature woman, she ought to have known better, but really, she felt exhausted after the last few months, and she quoted Rhett Butler’s well-known phrase to herself, ‘Quite frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’ But even that was a lie, because deep down, she did.
She grabbed the last of Daniel’s best shirts and stuffed them into a sturdy carrier bag. The local charity shop would do well out of her this week. Half of them had only been worn once or twice, and they were all designer labelled. He always bought far too many new garments at once. She felt something firmer than cloth beneath her hand and, poking her long fingers into the breast pocket of a dark-blue polo shirt, grasped something which turned out to be a photograph folded in half.
Cheryl stared at the much creased snapshot, recalling the day it had been taken. She saw a sky so blue it made her eyes ache; tall eucalyptus trees were etched into the background, and she and Daniel stood in front. Happy days, in some ways. Her first trip to Australia had been bittersweet. She remembered how she wanted everything to be so perfect, filled with hope, and that the holiday would help get their marriage back on track. God only knew how much it needed something back then.
Daniel Taylor, the man she married years ago and had now lost. After his death, she didn’t go to pieces or let everything slip through her fingers. She had others to consider. The burden had been immense as she overcame dark thoughts and fought to get everything back on an even keel. That was the key. Time healed, and she smiled and nodded at everyone who told her so.
They said she was traumatised by Daniel’s death and had been left bewildered and numb. Well, that was partly true, but as for her true feelings and what had happened, some things were best left unsaid.
She blinked, as tears pricked at her eyelashes. She loved him once.
She thought back to those dreadful weeks: him dying a little bit more each day. She hated watching his face grow so pale and thin on the pillow. His words—those alarming words, desperate and pleading—had shocked her to the core.
She had whispered her promise never to leave him…and she didn’t. She stayed to the end, watching him sleep until his chest no longer rose and fell with each sighing breath. When it finally happened, she thought the world had stopped. Everything was so still. So still that she imagined she could hear the house breathing.
Finally, she had kissed his cheek, tucked his hands under the cotton covers and stood up to move away. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her mind numb with pain and wracked with guilt. “Rest in peace.”
Chapter One: The Present
Inside the restaurant, there was a sudden portentous silence. The waiter paused before whisking Cheryl’s dessert plate away and glanced towards the tall window overlooking the London square. Other chic diners turned their heads and listened.
Outside, the night sky exploded. Everyone in the restaurant glanced at their fellow diners as they heard the rockets swish overhead, followed by spectators’ frantic shrieks, culminating in a frenzied peal of church bells.
Daniel looked across the festive table into his wife’s sapphire-blue eyes, double-fringed with thick black lashes. He gave a perfunctory smile while sliding a small box across the table towards her. “Happy New Year, darling.”
Surprised, Cheryl paused as she lifted her champagne glass for a toast and widened her eyes in question. Their dining companions, Ollie and Cordelia, seated between Cheryl and Daniel, stopped conversation mid-sentence as they watched her.
“Oh! For me?” Prettily startled, Cheryl smiled at her husband. Daniel had already been generous that Christmas, and Cheryl could only wonder what the pair of emerald earrings signified. “Daniel, they’re beautiful. I don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you is enough, my darling. I thought you could wear them when we visit the Thorns next month. You know how well-turned-out Felicity always is. She’ll be green with envy.”
Cordelia laughed, her green eyes dancing with more than a little malice. “I can’t wait to see her face. Daniel, you’re so lavish with your presents. Cheryl’s in danger of becoming as spoilt as Felicity.”
Cheryl blinked at her words. If she could have named one woman who was over-indulged, it was Cordelia. Unlike the other three seated at the table, she came from old money and had spent a lifetime of idleness apart from sitting on the boards of a handful of charities. She had spent the evening flirting with Daniel while Cheryl watched surreptitiously as she shook her flaxen curls over Daniel’s shoulder, twirling her empty wine glass between her well-manicured hands. Daniel responded with old-fashioned charm as benefitted the wife of a good and wealthy client. Cheryl couldn’t really complain. She was used to women flirting with her handsome husband. All too often they were fascinated by his grey eyes, set in a lean, sharply featured face. Daniel carried himself as taut as a greyhound, and they were attracted by his good looks and a sensitivity that nestled at the core of his don’t-mess-with-me macho charm.
Cheryl was a landscape painter, Daniel her agent. He discovered her when she was bouncing along the bottom of the art world, barely keeping her head above water. Once he recognised Cheryl’s full potential in what had become a buoyant art market, he declared he would make her a household name—but only if she let him have complete control. Cheryl, already suffering rejection in the art world, where the parameters were firmly set, and struggling to make ends meet, had no choice but to go along with his plans. And to be fair, true to his word, Daniel soon succeeded in establishing Cheryl as an up-and coming artist, whose pieces were now highly desirable and fetched good prices. As an agent, Daniel was wealthy, knew the risks to take, which paintings to put up as collateral and which would sell well. He knew his market and his clients.
Ollie was one of those clients. Well-heeled, he specialised in designing and building shopping malls and had met Daniel at a party in London. Ollie invested in other property, race horses and art. He knew the property market and horse flesh but little of art and entrusted Daniel to find him those canvases which would turn into blue-chip art. The arrangement worked well. Daniel sought pieces he knew Ollie liked, thereby placing Ollie in the European art world and earning Daniel a handsome commission.
Cheryl laughed good-naturedly and switched her gaze to the dark good looks of the wide-shouldered ex-rugby player. Ollie cossetted his wife far too much and openly admitted it. Cheryl knew he had been watching Cordelia like a hawk throughout the evening; he was no fool. Although beaming at Cordelia’s flirtation benevolently, Ollie was competitive and known to flatten anyone who got in his way. Cheryl was sure Daniel was aware of this and, treasuring Ollie’s patronage, would have done nothing to seriously jeopardise their business relationship.
Daniel had explained to Cheryl more than once how he saw Cordelia and Ollie as the über-successful couple. “There’s no point in standing still in life. You go up or you slide down. And you and I, my darling, are going up. With your talent and my knowledge of the art world, the world’s our oyster. Your paintings sell before the canvas is even dry. What can go wrong if you follow my advice?”
At times like these, Cheryl wanted to voice her own opinions and reservations, but when she saw Daniel’s face, she knew he would brush aside her unease. Daniel excelled at control, and whenever she questioned any of his decisions, he reminded her of the promise she had made him all those years ago. All the same, Cheryl always maintained happiness had a price, and on most occasions, it was always high. Things were going fairly well in the Taylor household at this stage, but ever the pessimist, Cheryl wondered what might be around the corner.
Chapter Two Twenty-Two Years Earlier
After art college, Cheryl had to take a part-time job to feed herself. Despite her parents’ offers of help, she wanted to be an artist first and stand on her own two feet. After a year of scratching out a living, selling the odd painting, Daniel entered her life. It happened quickly and from an unexpected corner.
Cheryl and a couple of arty friends, Sally and Bernice, were exhibiting in a small, tucked-away gallery off St Martin’s Place. Bernice came from a stable background, and Sally was the product of an unhappy childhood. With a mother and father who argued constantly, her father usually ended the spat by shouting at her mother and then storming out of the house. Sally’s mother was similar to so many other women of her generation. She pretended there was nothing wrong with the marriage and persuaded her daughter that everything was normal. Sally soon learnt it was better to hide her shame…and fear. She spent the rest of her life living a lie.
Over the years, Cheryl and Bernice watched their friend as she went from one miserable relationship to another. No man lasted more than a few dates.
“What’s wrong with her?” Cheryl mused when Sally had rung yet again to say that she had been dumped and that although she would still join them later, she would be sans man.
Bernice, who had an old head on young shoulders, put it in a nutshell. “It’s all her father’s fault. He drank far too much. Sally witnessed too many domestic rows, and she ended up feeling frightened and vulnerable. Not only that, his behaviour guaranteed she finds all men unpredictable and unreliable. I think she’s made a vow never to feel that way again and subsequently won’t let a man get close enough, but paradoxically longing for just that. It’s sad, but Sal’s never learnt to trust anyone. I suspect sex plays a huge role. She won’t trust her sexual partner and, fearing her vulnerability, won’t let herself go sexually.”
Cheryl blinked and registered surprise at Bernice’s candid explanation. “Quite the philosopher, aren’t you? I suppose you’re saying she’s never had an orgasm?”
“Oh, definitely not. She’s insecure and would be scared witless to depend on a man and then lose him. He’d feel trapped and make his escape. So the whole darn thing turns full circle.”
“Poor Sally. I hope she’s not too upset when she gets here. I need to stay focused tonight.”
The girls turned their attention back to the exhibition on hand. The Hopper Gallery was slightly damp and smelt of wet dog and dubious-quality white wine. The walls and ceiling were painted a deep violet, and the floor tiles were pale mauve and white. Spotlights were directed onto the paintings. Bernice scanned through the guest list. “I don’t recognise many names,” she complained. “Oh well, you never know. One of us might be discovered.” She tucked the list into her bag and glanced round the room; the place was filling up. Sally finally joined them, and the three women studied each visitor as a potential buyer. Sally gasped and grabbed Cheryl’s arm. “Oh my god! Look. By your favourite picture…the blond eye candy.”
“Hmm. Nice,” Cheryl agreed. “Who is he? Painter or buyer?”
Bernice widened her eyes. “You’re kidding me? You really don’t know? That is Daniel Taylor. You’ve heard of the Taylor Gallery, haven’t you? Wow! I added him at the last minute. See! I told you something might happen. Oh lord, he’s seen us. Scatter, girls—it won’t do to let him think we’re falling over ourselves to get noticed.”
The tall slim blond appeared to be on his own, and as Sally and Bernice slunk reluctantly away towards the drinks table, Cheryl saw that Daniel Taylor was smiling at her and blocking her escape. More used to students and other meagrely paid artists, Cheryl thought she had never seen a more well-groomed or smarter-dressed man. He oozed money. She stared into his confident eyes—slate grey under this light—and at his wide mouth and high cheekbones. Anglo-Saxon? Hmm. Maybe…possibly Slavic somewhere in those genes. He leant forward, and she caught a whiff of expensive cologne: citrus, sandalwood. Her mind became confused, she couldn’t believe he had singled her out. Not only that, to her utter amazement, she realised he was talking business to her. Goodness, was he truly interested in her work?
“This is good—remarkable, really,” he said, pointing at one of her favourite canvases. “Your work is strong and has impact. Not too abstract nor wholly realist. On the whole, I believe it will be extremely marketable. But what are you doing exhibiting here in this miserable little gallery? These should be hung in the right places, seen on the right walls. Why don’t I know your name?” The last question was directed solely at Cheryl, and she felt the full impact of his intense gaze.
“I finished art school and needed to support myself. I haven’t had time to do a lot else except paint so that I don’t starve,” Cheryl heard herself murmuring shyly.
Daniel Taylor looked surprised. “Even so, I’d have expected to have heard something about you. Word of mouth is the key thing here. Everyone from artists, dealers and critics, passes on information. So, Cheryl, where can I find you? Do your skimpy funds run to a phone?”
Bowled over and almost fainting with shyness and joy, Cheryl scribbled her name and number on his catalogue.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said with a lingering smile and warm handshake.
By the time her friends returned, she was so thrilled she could hardly speak; Sally and Bernice were excited by the amount of public attention Dan Taylor’s interest in her displayed work was causing. Six weeks later, she had sold all her paintings and discovered she had enough money to put down a deposit for a small house.
But there was one small disappointment. Daniel Taylor hadn’t been in touch.
Chapter Three
Three months passed, and Cheryl held her first one-man exhibition in the Hopper Gallery. She managed to persuade the owner, Bailey, to get rid of the purple-and-mauve overtones and paint the gallery a stark white. The floorboards were sanded and left in their natural state, and after much hectoring, Bailey agreed to invest in twice as many spotlights.
Cheryl had her hair trimmed and styled for the occasion. She splashed out on a new dress from a small boutique tucked away off The Strand and, early that evening, stood in the freezing gallery, shivering nervously and feeling more than slightly sick.
Bailey approached her with two glasses of red wine in his hands and pressed one into hers. “You look ravishing, darling. I didn’t tell you earlier, as I wanted it to be a surprise, but we’ve already sold four pictures. Imagine…four pre-sold!” He struck a pose and waved a hand languidly in the direction of the main door. Cheryl thought she could just make out the ‘red star’ sold stickers on the paintings.
She gasped. “How wonderful! But who?”
“Ah. Wouldn’t you like to know? I’m afraid I’m sworn to secrecy, but, my lovely, all will be revealed when you go to dine with him later tonight.”
“Him? Bailey, what are you on about?” She smiled, her stomach doing a tiny flutter in anticipation.
“The purchaser who would like to buy you dinner after the show. Don’t look so worried. It’s all above board. You’ll be quite safe, my sweet.”
She laughed. “And what if I don’t want to be wined and dined?”
Bailey studied Cheryl with a serious expression. “If you don’t go, you’ll never know what might have been. But look at it this way, my girl, you’ll be a fool if you don’t. Understand this, Cheryl…it isn’t entirely in my interests, but, well, you’ll see when you get there. Go and enjoy.”
***
As soon as Cheryl gave her name to the head waiter at The Wolseley, she was escorted to a table set discreetly to one side of the restaurant. As she followed, her heart began to race in expectation and then thumped painfully against her chest as she recognised her lean blond patron. Daniel Taylor moved with fluid grace, rising from his chair and seating her immediately.
“Delighted you could come. Waiter, please open the champagne now. It’s time for celebration.” He turned to face Cheryl with a broad smile. “I took the liberty of ordering earlier, as I’m familiar with the menu here. I’m certain you’ll enjoy my choice.”
***
After their meal, Daniel drove Cheryl home. The sleek soft-top Aston Martin purred to a stop outside the door to her tiny house. Daniel glanced around; a row of modernised terraced houses with minuscule front gardens inside black-painted railings. “Nice. Small but attractive. May I come in? I’d like to see what you’ve been working on since we last met. We also need to discuss what you’re going to do next.”
Cheryl’s heart tap-danced as she led him inside. “It’s small but perfect for me. My studio’s in here.” She flicked on the overhead light, and Daniel stepped past her to prowl round the room. Canvases were stacked against two walls, sketches pinned to the wall on cork boards. He peered at each sketch and canvas, then stood back and scrutinised each one without uttering a word. After he had gone through her collection, he turned and looked at Cheryl.
She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, blushing furiously at his examination. “Well?” She asked with a nervous tremor in her voice. “Is it my paintings or me you’re interested in?”
“Both,” he replied. “I know you have the ability, but are you material worth fostering? How resolute are you? Do you give in easily to stress and publicity?”
“Who said I was looking to be promoted? What if I don’t want you to handle me?” She bristled at his presumptions.
Daniel’s eyes seemed to caress her face, resting on her mouth. “Ah, but we both know you do.”
He moved towards her and took Cheryl in his arms. His breath was soft and warm against her neck and ear. “Are you as fragile as you look?”
As she felt his hand move against the silk covering her body, she began to shake. His long fingers gently explored her breasts with infinite patience. Trembling, Cheryl yearned to feel his body against hers. She unbuttoned his jacket and slid her hands across his chest and around his back. The linen felt fine beneath her hands as she tugged at the shirt, pulling it away from his warm muscular flesh.
Daniel bent his head, forcing her lips apart, and pressed his body hard against hers. He took her hand gently and guided it down between them; there was no doubting his excitement. He caught hold of her dress and pulled it upwards. He grasped her buttocks and pulled her closer to him, breathing heavily.
He lifted her with ease, taking a few steps forward and pressing Cheryl against the wall. He tugged at her dress, pulling it over her head; her naked breasts tingled with his caress. Cheryl closed her eyes and felt him move away. She could barely breathe as she heard him ripping off his clothes.
Then, she felt his body align with hers, his lips dry and firm. His hands explored her body, and she thought she would pass out with excitement. His hand found its way between her legs, and she groaned as he rubbed her gently. Her body responded with a passion more intense and rapid than she had ever known. Before she climaxed, he eased her thighs apart gently and entered. Cheryl was pressed against the cold brick wall, but she felt as if she were on fire.
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