Shifters of Grrr 2 (31 page)

The dark oak front doors swung open, revealing a willowy man with piercing eyes and a few wisps of grey hair, wearing an old-fashioned black tailored suit. He signalled me to park off to the left, and follow him inside.

"I'm Alexandra Kline," I said, extending my hand to him. He merely stared at my outstretched digits, nodded, then walked silently through the lofty foyer. My cheap M&S pumps
clack-clacked
against the polished marble floor, and I couldn't help but glance around at the expensive, but dusty furnishings and bland portraits in gilded frames that dominated the space.

The man led me down a wide hall, the vaulted ceiling painted with hunting scenes and framed by geometric designs. On the walls hung traditional portraits and hunting trophies – not the decor I'd expect from one of the foremost modern artists in Britain, whose paintings burst with light and colour. I peered into the open rooms as we passed them – seeing some furnished with dark wood and thick velvet, others packed with boxes and furniture covered in white dust sheets – like silent ghosts of the manor's past.

At the end of the hall, we stepped into a cold drawing room, furnished with the same dark wood and heavy velvet drapery as the rest of the manor. It looked as if no one had used it for a long time, judging by the layer of dust covering every surface, and the spiderwebs clinging to the stag antlers hanging over the fireplace. The casement window was broken, and a chilly breeze blew from the overgrown garden behind the house and swirled around the room. I covered my bare arms with my hands, trying to keep them warm.

I turned to Raynard's lurch, not certain what I was meant to do. "Where's Ryan?" I asked.

"I'll get you some tea," he croaked in reply, then shuffled away.

Well, isn't this a walking bloody cliché?
I perched gingerly on one of the grimy chairs, half expecting a bat to fly down from one of the darkened corners and materialise into Ryan Raynard before me. I pulled at a loose thread on my vintage wool skirt, wishing I'd thought to go home and change into something smarter. My stomach twisted into a knot. I was about to meet the man whose art career I'd followed religiously since college, a man whose work made me see the world in new and exciting ways, who made me feel that wanting to make art was a perfectly legitimate and wonderful thing to do...

I heard footsteps down the hall, and a deep voice calling out to the butler, who croaked out "James Kline awaits your audience," from somewhere deeper in the house. The footsteps slowed as they approached the door, and the voice said, "Sorry about the wait, Mr. Kline. I've been busy in the studio. You know artists, always forgetting the time–"

Ryan Raynard stalked into the room, and I got my first glimpse of my artistic hero. He appeared younger than I expected, his unkempt red hair and stubbled chin at odds with the stiffness of the home around him. Deep, intelligent brown eyes flicked from object to object, unfocused, still lost in the world of his art. He wore black jeans, a black tank top pulled tight across his toned, sculpted chest, and heavy black motorcycle boots that clomped against the marble floor, all three items splattered with paint. He was, in short, quite simply the most attractive man I'd ever laid eyes on.

When he finally looked up, his eyes met mine, and his whole body froze. The stiffness ran from his feet, right the way to the top of his head, as if someone had suddenly shoved a giant popsicle stick up his arse, forcing him upright. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but nothing came out.

I stood, my heart pounding, "Alex Kline," I said, outstretching my hand. "I'm from the Halt Institute. It's is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Raynard. I'm a huge fan of your work–"

He stared at my hand hanging there in the space between us, with a look of such utter horror I had to turn it over to ensure it wasn't covered in grease or something.
 

"You... you're a woman?" he whispered, his eyes boring into mine. The muscles in his face twitched, and I could see the veins in his neck standing out. Something was really wrong here.

"Last time I checked." My hand still hung awkwardly in the air. Ryan tore his gaze from mine, physically wrenching his body away from me. He backed away toward the door, his handsome face shot now with panic.

"Simon!" he yelled into the hall. "Come here,
now
!"

The butler rushed into the room, a tea tray clattering in his shaking arms. "Sir?"

Raynard was inching toward the door, his hard eyes glaring at me like I was a bug he wished to be squashed immediately. "Why did you let this... this...
woman
into my home? You know I'm not to be disturbed in the studio."

"You told me I could let her in, not five minutes ago, Mr. Raynard. She needs your paintings for the exhibition. I did not know you thought she was male–"

Ryan Raynard whirled around and faced me, his eyes burning. "You said your name was James."

I bristled, a sure-fire sign I was about to say something inappropriate. But he was acting like a jerk, so I allowed my voice to drip with scorn. "Forgive me; I didn't know my birth name had to be approved by the great Ryan Raynard. I was named after an ancestor on my mother's side, James Fauntelroy. Apparently, he used to help women accused of witchcraft in the village escape before they were trialled–"

"While I'm really enjoying this little history lesson," Ryan said, facing into the hall so he didn't have to look at me. "You need to leave."

I shook my head. "I can't leave until we've cleared up a few details for your exhibition. Where are the paintings? I know you've never done an exhibition before, but if you want this one to go well, you need to co-operate with me. If I don't get those paintings to Halt tomorrow, the exhibition can't go ahead."

His shoulders sagged. I observed the movement with interest. It seemed the exhibition meant more to him than his attitude had led me to believe. "Simon, show Mrs. Kline–"

"Ms.
Kline," I corrected him, cursing myself inwardly as I felt a blush appear on my cheeks. Luckily, Ryan was still avoiding my eyes, so he didn't see.

"–to the painting hall. If you want me, I'll be in the studio. Please deal with Ms. Kline on all aspects concerning the exhibition, and make sure she understands that even though my paintings will be available to the public for the first time, I will not. Don't let any other guests in."

Without even another glance in my direction, he slipped back into the hall and disappeared. The clomp of his boots faded away into silence.

Simon inclined his head toward me, indicating I should follow him. Picking myself up, I following Simon out of the cold drawing room and back down that drab hall, through another dark, gloomy sitting room, and along a narrow corridor. All the while I replayed the meeting with Ryan Raynard over in my mind – his handsome face hardening to stone when he realised I was female, his body going rigid like a statue, his aversion even to meet my eyes, the way his shoulders bulged from that black tank top...

I shook my head. Artistic visionary or not, the man was a complete tosser. It wouldn't do for me to dwell on his looks.
 

We stopped in front of a heavy steel door - at odds with the drab wood panelling that surrounded it. Simon hunched over the lock, keying in a complex combination. The door clicked open, and I was greeted with a sight that took my breath away.

A long, white room stretched in front of me, the other end a distant blur on the horizon. Rectangular skylights flooded the space in natural light, and after the gloom of the house, the light, airy space made me feel giddy, almost drunk. Simon flicked a switch, and rows of low-hanging spotlights flickered on, illuminating the artwork hanging on the walls. Every spare space on the walls was taken up with paintings - a hodgepodge of different styles and eras, all chosen with the keen eye of someone who understood colour and light and beauty. I noticed what looked like a Banksy print to the left of the door, butted up next to a Chagall. I turned, dizzy with the splendour of it all, and came face to face with Monet's water lilies, the beauty of the lines leaping from the canvas, pulling me into the gardens of Giverny, filling my nostrils with the scent of spring. I turned again, and this time my eye fell upon a Cézanne still life, the repetitive, exploratory brushstrokes creating a dramatic tension between the objects.

Nestled amongst these great words were pieces I recognised as belonging to the hand of Raynard himself. Impressionist views of forests - great oaks with branches twisting, birds flying in lazy circles over a foggy grove, deer drinking from the brook. A beautiful red fox frolicking between the trees. I stepped closer, admiring the dappled light streaming from the gaps in the leaves, touching the fox's fur.

I glanced at the title.
Vixen.

"Why isn't this painting in the exhibition?" I breathed. Ryan's exhibition was called
The Hunt,
and his images, we'd been informed, took inspiration from the animals in the Crookshollow forest as they went about their nocturnal wanderings. This remarkable piece should have been the focal point of the room.

Simon shook his head. "He will not part with that one for anything," he said. "And don't you even ask. Come, I have packaged up the ten pieces for the exhibition. Three of them are quite large, and I shall help you carry them to your car."

***

THREE

It was well past 8 PM by the time Simon and I packed the paintings into the car and the iron gates of Raynard Hall creaked shut behind me. I drove home, my stomach fluttering nervously every time I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the stack of precious Ryan Raynard paintings. I replayed my encounter with Ryan over and over again in my mind. He certainly was a strange man. How could he be so cold and callous, and yet paint such emotional and harmonious scenes? What was with his aversion to me being female? Could an artist as young and handsome as he really be as old-fashioned as all that?

I drove home to my flat. The Halt building would be shut up tight for the night, and although I could enter the main building after hours, I didn't have security access to the gallery spaces or the warehouse, which were high-security zones. Only Matthew and Gavin – the head exhibition technician – had after-hours access to those areas. I didn't exactly want to pull Matthew away from watching
Coronation Street
in his pyjamas – or whatever it was he did in the evenings – to get him to unlock it for me. The paintings would be safe enough in my flat for the night.

Once home, Kylie helped me carry the crates upstairs. We dumped out all my clothing on to the bed and stacked the paintings into my closet.

"It looks like you've already got some paintings back here," said Kylie, as she pulled out a large square of canvas wrapped in brown paper and a wooden frame, similar to the way Simon had packaged Ryan's pieces.

Heart racing, I snatched the canvas from her hands. "That's nothing. Don't worry about them," I said. "Just leave them back there and stack these on top."

The previous tenants had attached a bolt to the outside of my closet. For what purpose I could only guess. Did they punish a naughty child by locking it away? Were they afraid their shoes were going to walk out in the right and strangle them in their sleep? Regardless of the reasoning, the bolt came in handy tonight.

"Now I just need something to lock it with," I said, leaning against the door and staring at my tiny room, the walls crammed with artwork and the bed piled high with dresses and jackets and shoes. What a strange day this was turning into.

"I've got it!" Kylie scampered downstairs, returning a few minutes later with her bicycle lock.

"Don't you need that so thugs won't steal your bicycle?"

Kylie shrugged as she fitted the lock on the door. "I am no longer a cyclist. On Monday, I cycled home and it rained, and then a bird pooped on my shoulder. I'm back to being a gas-guzzling air polluter, just like you. I'm secretly hoping my bike
will
get stolen so I can claim it on my insurance and buy some new shoes."

I sat on my bed amongst my Fluevog boots and vintage rock tees, staring at that closet door; unable to believe I had ten Ryan Raynard paintings just sitting in there. My eyes flicked across the room, where my easel was set up, a canvas half finished – a moonscape painted through the trees outside my window. Quickly, I leaned across the bed and flipped it over, so Kylie couldn't see it. She didn't even notice.

With the exception of my art teachers at university, I'd never shown anyone else my work; not even Kylie, who was probably the closest friend I'd ever had. I didn't paint as much as I had in university, but there were times – usually after a bad breakup, or after Matthew had dressed me down in front of everyone at the office – where I would sit at the easel for hours, slashing at the canvas with my brush as though it were a carcass to be butchered. I had boxes of sketchbooks and journals under the bed, as well as those finished canvases packaged up in the closet, hidden away from the cruel eyes of the world.

Years working in gallery management had shattered my dreams of being a working artist. I wasn't anywhere near the same league as those guys. They were big thinkers, dreamers, and escapists operating outside the normal plane of existence. I was a realist. Ryan Raynard painted because painting was how he became who he was. When I painted, I did it to become, for a few hours, someone who was not myself.

Kylie saw the expression on my face. "You need wine," she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me downstairs.