Authors: Kathleen Tessaro
O
livia climbed up the stairs. It was late; the house empty and quiet.
Without turning on the lights, she opened her wardrobe, began to undress. Light streamed in from the street lamps in the square outside her bedroom window. And watching herself in the mirror, she unzipped the dress, slipping it down, slowly over her hips. She felt languid, warm. It crumpled in a silken heap at her feet. She stepped out of her panties. Then she was naked, skin luminous in cool, blue light.
It was odd to think of her body as hers. For so long, she’d considered it only in terms of what might please her husband. But now it belonged to her again. She ran her fingers over her breasts. They stiffened at the touch.
There was her vagina: pubic hair closely, neatly cropped, the lips visible, glistening. Ever since the performance began, she’d been aroused. It wasn’t like her. She was normally so contained. But something, maybe the music, maybe the heady experience of being seduced by a stranger, had excited her and now, at last, she was alone.
Arnaud had bought her a vibrator; something pink, made of plastic. He was fond of props; fond of anything that made him seem sophisticated and sexually adventuresome. They’d never used
it. He’d shown it to her, winked and leered a bit and then popped it, along with some other “toys,” into a drawer in his bedside table, where it remained untouched. She’d been horrified at the time.
But a week ago, she’d bought herself another one, from Liberty’s of all places.
She’d been staring at it in the lingerie department for about two minutes before she worked out what it was. Handmade from clear, flawless glass, the thick, long shaft curved gently, with a dazzling crown of Swarovski crystals around the top. It cost nearly a thousand pounds. And try as she might to concentrate on floral cotton pajamas, Olivia’s attention kept wandering back to the display case where it sat in full view.
This fascinated her. Here she was in Liberty’s, home of the Arts and Crafts movement and universally acknowledged as the perfect place to buy your mother a scarf, staring at a diamante dildo. The expense of it made her giddy; the idea of spending so much money on her private, sexual pleasure was wildly decadent in an age when decadence at all was difficult to achieve.
Blushing, she asked to see it. The sales assistant, brisk and businesslike, focused demurely on the middle distance as Olivia ran her fingers along its cool, smooth surface. “I’ll take it,” she said, surprised by her own certainty. And, as the assistant wrapped it up, she realized she hadn’t been that exposed in front of anyone before.
Now she pulled the box out from its hiding place under the bed and unwrapped it from the tissue paper. And, retrieving the Philippe Starck Ghost chair, she positioned it in front of the full-length mirror, sat down, and spread her legs.
Here were her breasts, her thighs, the round slope of her tummy and her vagina, open wide for all to see. For a moment her mother’s voice sounded in her head. “A lady always sits with her legs together! What if someone should see your panties?” Implicit in her mother’s tone was the assumption that they would be dirty.
What if someone did see?
Olivia thought of the sales assistant. She’d known exactly what Olivia would use it for.
She spread her legs wider.
What if everyone could see?
The cool crystal slid inside.
She had pornographic longings. She’d had them for ages. Unbecoming, unladylike, animalistic. Desires she’d never shown anyone.
And now she was acting on them, fucking herself in full view.
Was she disgusting?
Or was she sexy, real, alive?
She threw her head back. Her mouth was dry; beads of sweat formed on the backs of her thighs and between her shoulder blades. Her mind was besieged with images.
She was surrounded. There was a crowd of men, dressed in suits, watching her, their breaths shallow with desire. Then they disappeared, melting away.
And now they were women—two beautiful, naked brunettes with soft, round breasts. They were touching her skin…peeling away the layers of her clothes. Moving slowly, languidly, their warm, wet tongues licking her…
She stiffened.
No.
Stop.
Olivia tried to morph them back into men. Young men, dancers perhaps, lean and muscular, arms encircling her, rigid, rubbing against her. Now their fingers were working their way under her skirt…large, male hands, thick, strong fingers…but the image wouldn’t stick.
The women were back again.
They were dressed in tight black YSL skirts and expensive
high-heeled shoes, leaning back into a gold damask sofa. Only now they had shiny black bobs, like the mysterious girl in the back of the theater. The buttons of their silk blouses were undone. They were playing coyly, rubbing each other’s nipples until they were stiff.
Her desire grew.
Smiling, they pulled up their skirts. The tops of their white thighs gave way to dark curls of hair.
She bit into her lower lip with a groan.
“Can you see?” they teased, fingers straying into the swollen pink flesh. “Arnaud might be anywhere and here we are, begging you!”
The overwhelming tide of orgasm threatened.
OK. Stop!
Stop!
Men!
Sex is about MEN! Olivia reminded herself.
And once more, she tried to force a male presence back into her fantasy. A man on the sofa, trousers open, enormous, red cock…OK, huge, unreal cock…maybe he’s masturbating…what about a dog? Another man? Three?
“Can you see our pussies?” They were back again.
The big-cocked men vanished.
“Yes,” she whispered to her imaginary temptresses. “Yes, yes!”
One after the other, she kissed them. She was the dominant one, the one forcing their legs apart, burying her face between their perfumed thighs. They arched their backs and sighed. And Olivia Elizabeth Annabelle Bourgalt du Coudray, possessed with lust, dripping with sweat, and thrusting a thousand-pound dildo, devoured her fantasy lovers with a hunger she could no longer control.
She came.
It was all over. She was back; breathless; a little cold; alone. She pushed her hair off her face.
Her first impulse was to feel silly or ashamed. But to her surprise, the biggest sensation was one of relief.
Perhaps it was all for the best, she thought, unsticking herself from the plastic chair, if Arnaud and she no longer shared a room.
She stood up.
And taking the crystal dildo and her imaginary lovers with her, she climbed beneath the covers of her enormous, empty marital bed.
Meanwhile, back in the less fashionable districts of South London, Jonathan Mortimer was having a dream. There were approximately ten minutes between the time when either the baby, the three-year-old or the six-year-old would wake in the night and want to be held, fed, changed or comforted. And in this time, Jonathan had a vision of a life, different from the Victorian fantasy that both he and Amy had originally imagined, but satisfying nevertheless.
In this dream, he saw himself in the kitchen, with an apron on. Normally this would’ve disturbed him, but this was no girlie number, but a clean solid masculine strip of white cloth, knotted roughly around his waist, Gordon Ramsay style.
And Jonathan was making something.
With his hands.
Anyone who has spent their days in front of a computer or with their ear attached to a phone will be familiar with the novelty of using one’s hands in a constructive way. Jonathan felt useful and industrious. And the kitchen was filled with warmth and peace;
sunlight filtered in through windows high above; counter tops were clean and orderly. Jonathan knew exactly why he was here and what he was doing—a feeling that he hadn’t had in his waking life for years.
Amy walked in, with a bag in her hand. He knew she was leaving. But it wasn’t a bad thing. No distress. She even kissed him goodbye. Then something truly wonderful happened. The most amazing smell filled the house. Even in his sleep, his mouth watered and Jonathan realized he was baking bread. He opened the oven, but instead of hot loaves, out popped his children, one after the other, laughing and merry, like characters out of a Grimm fairy tale.
Then the baby cried and he woke up.
But even as he sat in the dark, cradling his tiny daughter, a feeling of profound contentment persisted.
If only he could hold on to that feeling—that sense of usefulness, of being present.
Pressing his lips to his now sleeping daughter’s head, he wondered how difficult it was to make bread.
F
lick was having a cup of tea when Hughie arrived at the flat the next morning.
“Oh, good!” She put her cup down, referring to a list on her desk. “I’ve got some errands for you to run. Our mark is bubbling along nicely. And I’m very pleased with you, Hughie,” she smiled. “You’re coming along nicely too.”
“Hum.”
“Now, there’s a specialist bookshop in Curzon Street. I’ve asked them to set something aside for me and I want you to collect it, please.” She looked up, frowned. “Hughie, you haven’t shaved!”
Skulking around the edge of the room, staring at his shoes, Hughie dug his hands even further into his pockets. “I forgot. What do you want me to get?”
“A book.” Flick took off her reading glasses. “What’s got into you today?”
“Nothing.”
“Bollocks. I’m not blind. Sit down, Hughie.”
Sighing listlessly, he dragged himself over to a chair.
Flick folded her hands in front of her on the desk. “What’s going on?”
“It’s just…” he shrugged his shoulders, crossed his legs, jogged his foot up and down in frustration, “I don’t get this.”
“Get what?”
“What we do—what this is all about! I mean, it’s not like it actually works or anything!”
She looked at him, hard. “How would you know?”
Eyes back on the floor, he nibbled his nails. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.
“Hughie?”
He crossed his arms defensively.
“Hughie, have you been practicing our methods on an unauthorized mark, by any chance?”
“So what if I have?” he challenged. Bouncing up, he paced the floor. “It doesn’t work! What’s the whole point of this stupid, useless profession if it doesn’t even work!”
She took a deep breath. He was always going to be a bit of a wild card.
“It depends on what you mean by work,” she said after a moment.
Suddenly his defenses crumbled. He looked crushed, all puppy-dog eyes. “She doesn’t love me.”
Flick crossed, shut the door then perched on the corner of her desk, trying to decide if she should lecture him or not and, more importantly, if it would penetrate.
“It didn’t work,” he muttered again, sinking back into his chair, deflated and despondent.
Flick was silent. There were platitudes, promises, dozens of clichés…none of these would ease his pain.
“No, it doesn’t do that, Hughie. In the same way that a wedding ring is not a marriage, a Cyrano is not a relationship. So you’re right, it doesn’t work.”
“So why do we even bother?”
“For the same reason that Tiffany’s still sell rings: because people want them. People want romance. It’s not love but it’s a light
glimmering in the darkness when love feels forgotten. Besides,” her face softened, “where would any of us be without it?”
“I thought if I could do it properly, do all the right things, prove to her that I cared…” His voice trailed off.
“Well,” her tone was almost brisk, “you gave it a shot.”
“What does that mean?” He was offended.
“It means you’re the kind of guy who gives life a try. That’s going to stand you in good stead.”
“Great.” He kicked the side of the chair petulantly.
“Do you know where our real strength lies?” she continued. “I mean, as professionals?”
He shook his head.
“We’re not in love, Hughie. That makes it a hell of a lot easier.”
“Not today,” he admitted.
“No, maybe not today. But soon it will fade. And in its place, hope will return.”
He looked unconvinced.
“I promise,” she added, with a wry smile.
Flick’s smiles were infectious. “Thanks for not telling me off.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So,” he sighed, pulling himself up, “what was the name of the bookshop?”
Slipping on her glasses, Flick moved round to the other side of her desk. “Heywood Hill,” she said, jotting it down on a piece of paper and passing it to him. “They’re holding a first-edition Pablo Neruda under my name. Oh, and Hughie?”
“Yeah?”
She flashed him a look. “Buy a razor. After all, you’re a professional now.”
R
ose walked up the front steps of the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The very magnitude of the place filled her with dread. But Olivia had insisted that this was the place to start. It was shocking how busy it was; full of children, young people, tourists. Were they really all enjoying themselves?
Olivia was waiting in the main foyer. Spotting Rose, she waved eagerly.
“Are you excited?” she asked, coming over, planting a kiss on her cheek.
“Yeah, well…” It had seemed like a good idea at the time, asking Olivia to teach her something about art. But now fear supplanted enthusiasm.
Luckily, Olivia had enough for both of them. Linking her arm through Rose’s, she gave it a squeeze. “Well, shall we?”
Together, they made their way up the grand marble staircase. This was what art was about: vast, imposing buildings filled with large paintings of haughty women in white wigs staring out of huge gold frames.
This was the art that Rose knew. She also knew that she couldn’t do it. Even before she got to the top of the stairs, she wanted to turn round and run home. Still, desperation and good manners forced her on.
“I think it’s so brilliant that you’re expanding your influences!” Olivia dodged a long line of German schoolchildren.
“Well, it’s a little more basic than that.”
“I have to say, this has got to be one of my favorite places in the whole world!”
It would be, Rose thought. Olivia was probably a direct descendant of the women in the white wigs.
“Let’s start with late Gothic, Pre-Renaissance.”
“Sure. Great.” Here was a whole new language barring her way. Already, she was defeated.
They turned into one of the side galleries.
Rose stopped.
This wasn’t what she was expecting at all.
Wall after wall of the most intensely colored canvases; the paint jewel-like, clear, vibrant, ornamented with gold leaf. These were all the colors she’d loved so much as a child—crimson, scarlet, sapphire blue, bright emerald green…colors she’d imagined you were meant to grow out of. But they were all here, glorious and bold, lining the walls of the National Gallery.
And the figures weren’t daunting either. They were lively; comical even. It wasn’t a glossy display of perfection at all, but something altogether more compelling.
Olivia stopped in front of a Duccio painting of Jesus raising Lazarus. “Here’s a great example of both the strengths and problems of Early Renaissance painting.” She waved Rose over. “Have a look.”
In one corner of the painting Lazarus was dead, then Jesus was arriving, then he was bringing him back to life with everyone rejoicing. Rose was relieved. At least she knew the story.
“The thing about these paintings is the strong narrative quality, which is all religious in nature. Remember, most people would only ever encounter art in a church. And of course, no one could read.
So these paintings were vital. Look at how the whole story is all on top of one another, everything happening at the same time.”
“That wall’s all wonky,” Rose pointed out.
“Yes, they didn’t understand about perspective in the late Middle Ages. Wonderful use of color, terrific movement created by the folds of the drapery, but sadly, it wasn’t until much later, when Brunelleschi made his famous scientific discovery about perspective and the idea of the vanishing point, that artists were able to use it properly.”
Rose stared at the painting.
“Vanishing point?”
“Yes. Now, if you compare it to this one…”
But Rose didn’t move.
“Are you sure?” What Olivia was saying didn’t make sense.
“Sure about what?”
“Well,” Rose concentrated, “if he can’t paint perspective, how come he can paint the wall from all those different angles? I mean, he can do it, right?”
Olivia tilted her head to one side. “Well…”
“Maybe he just doesn’t want to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” Rose shrugged her shoulders. “It’s just, maybe it’s sort of like a comic book.”
“A comic book.” Olivia was clearly not impressed.
“Yeah. You know how in a comic book they divide the page up into blocks so that the whole story can be on one page? Well, this looks the same. What if they’re not trying to make you think about what great artists they are but about the story? Which, you have to admit, is pretty cool—guy raises the dead and all.”
Olivia tried to explain it more clearly this time. “It’s a well-known fact, Red, that Brunelleschi’s system of linear perspective altered the entire course of art and architecture—”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Rose cut her off, “I’m not saying it didn’t. But couldn’t it also be true that there’s something else going on too?”
Olivia sighed. (She was meant to be the authority here.) “I suppose so.”
“I mean, in a weird way, there’s something completely real about it, isn’t there? After all, people think these stories are true, right? And when I remember things, I don’t remember it all in chronological order. I remember it all at once, jumbled, as if it were happening all at the same time.”
“Yes…”
It had been a long time, maybe years, since Olivia had really looked at the Duccio. She remembered seeing it for the first time on a slide in an art-history lecture, absorbing the opinions of her tutor unquestioningly; the same ones she was offering up to Red now.
She turned back to the painting.
“Well, I guess that’s a valid way of looking at it,” she admitted slowly.
“It’s really cool,” Rose decided.
She wandered into the next room and Olivia trailed in after her.
There was a Piero Della Francesca “Madonna and Child” on the wall opposite.
Rose sat down on the wooden bench in front of it.
She’d always imagined real art to be lofty and difficult; that you needed to be an intellectual to grasp its meaning. But here was a scene she understood perfectly.
The Madonna was as young as she’d been when she had Rory. She glowed with quiet self-containment, a quality Rose recognized instantly; she and the baby were in a world all their own. That first year with Rory, they had been so connected, communicating with the slightest shift or sound. The baby Jesus was wriggling about,
the way that all babies do when they’re about ready to walk; Mary was having difficulty keeping him on her lap. And Rose identified the ready index fingers of all would-be toddlers, forever pointing, poised to poke at anything and everything around them.
Olivia sat next to her. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” Rose agreed. “Which is weird, because she’s really just a teenage single mother, isn’t she?”
Olivia looked at her in surprise. She’d never imagined the age of the Madonna or her circumstances. She hadn’t bothered to translate them into present-tense reality. The image had always been distant, twee even; the stuff of Christian chocolate-box sentiment.
But Rose couldn’t take her eyes off it. Peace pervaded. The Madonna was beautiful, the baby Jesus was beautiful, the folds of her dress and the neat countryside behind them were all beautiful; composed. For a moment, Rose felt part of the same vision, as if something of the same thread of beauty ran through her own life, if only she could see it.
“She’s not ashamed.”
Olivia looked closely at her. “No. Not at all.”
“That’s how I feel. All the time.”
The sudden intimacy startled Olivia. Here was a young woman whose circumstances couldn’t be more different from her own—with youth, talent, a blossoming career and a beautiful child—but wasn’t that the way she felt too?
A great feeling of protectiveness and closeness welled up inside her.
Tour groups came and went, streams of people drifting along.
“Do you think the painter used models?” Rose asked after a while.
“Most certainly.”
“I wonder if that was her baby. What do you think?”
“Oh, yes,” Olivia decided, a whole story unfolding in her head of the painter’s secret muse and their illegitimate child.
She wondered how many Madonnas in history were modeled on the features of wayward young women?
It made her smile.
How could she have missed the fact that the most painted motif of all time was of a teenage single parent? A woman whose life had undoubtedly strayed a long way from her childhood hopes and dreams. Yet here she was, offered as a radiant symbol of eternal serenity.
Maybe you don’t get to be loving, accepting and calm until you’ve understood what it is to lose your childhood dreams.
They sat a while.
Rose turned to the painting opposite.
It was the “Martyrdom of St. Sebastian.”
“Look!”
“What?”
“God, that’s so weird! I mean, how can a young man, hands and feet all tied up and with arrows sticking out of him, be beautiful? But look!”
“I don’t know,” Olivia admitted.
And she experienced something she hadn’t felt in a long time: wonder.
The gallery she knew so well was suddenly fresh and new. She didn’t have the answers; they weren’t to be found in a stack of art-history books. That filled her with hope. Life had expanded; she was no longer so frightened that everything had to be nailed down, explained away.
And wasn’t that perspective too?
Different from Brunelleschi and his mathematical formulations, a great deal more comic book and wonky, but also somehow more real.