Things That Go Hump In The Night (32 page)

SIX

I woke up the next morning to find the fox gone. There was an indentation in the blankets from his body, but he was nowhere to be seen. My stomach clenched in fear. I tugged on the closet door. It was still locked.
Phew.

I heard Ryan's voice in the kitchen below, and Kylie's laughter floated up the stairs. For some reason, this made me feel jealous.
Why have I been sleeping while she's downstairs eating breakfast with Ryan? Why is she so interested in him, anyway? She's dating Ray the re-enactment geek, and she doesn't even know anything about art.

I pulled on my best dressing gown (made from red satin, and containing no holes), stopped in the bathroom to gargle and brush down my bed hair, and padded downstairs.

I found Kylie sitting at the kitchen table, retelling one of her favourite anecdotes about the time she was invited to tea at Buckingham Palace and ended up getting completely trashed. Ryan stood in human form in front of the stove flipping an omelette in the pan and nodding at appropriate moments. He looked even better than I remembered, with his red hair all rumpled, the curls falling over his warm brown eyes. Miss. Havisham sat on the corner of the counter, attempting to hook a rasher of bacon from out of the container. Everything had been cleaned up and put back in place, except the smashed painting, which lay in a plastic bag by the front door.

"–and then my aunt said we should celebrate with a few pre-tea glasses of champagne, and then–"

"Hey," I waved timidly from the doorframe.

Ryan dropped the spatula against the pan. "Good morning, Alex," he said stiffly, his expression impossible to read.
Is he upset with me, because I rejected him last night?

I gestured around the clean kitchen. "When did you have time to do this?"

"When it became clear the sun was rising and Marcus wasn't coming back. I couldn't abandon my post and fall asleep, so I got up and cleaned up a little."

"Thank you," I said.

He shrugged, avoiding eye contact. "No need to thank me. If it weren't for me, nothing would have needed cleaning up in the first place. I'll buy you another print to replace the one that broke."

"Don't worry about it. I work in an art gallery. They sell those things in the lobby for ten quid," I replied. "Something smells good."

With a devilish smile, he lifted a fresh omelette from the pan, folded it with all the confidence of a celebrity chef, and presented the plate to me.

"I didn't expect Ryan Raynard to know his way around the kitchen," I said, as I slumped down opposite Kylie. "I thought a rich snot like you would have a kitchen staff preparing
fois gras
and snail droppings 24 hours a day."

"A man cannot live on snail's droppings alone," he replied as he cracked more eggs into the pan. "Before I returned to the family manor, I lived in an artist's squat in Belfast for a few years. You learn fast that cooking skills are a commodity that can be bartered for cigarettes or clean blankets. I never stopped enjoying being in the kitchen."

"Do you think it's something to do with being a fox? The scents and things?"

He looked up from the pan and met my eyes for the first time, a strange expression on his face. "That's very insightful. I'd never thought about it, but you're probably right."

Kylie smiled at me from across the table as she stuffed the last square of omelette into her mouth. "What are you doing today, Alex?" She asked, her mouth still full of egg.

"I have to take Ryan's paintings to the gallery. They need to go into cataloguing today if we've any hope of getting everything hung in time for the opening.
Someone,"
I shot Ryan a filthy look, "insisted on a ridiculously tight exhibition deadline."

"I'll take you into the gallery," Ryan offered.

I spat out my juice. "Excuse me?"

"I'll drive you to the gallery. I'm the artist. I should make sure my paintings arrive at the venue in appropriate condition."

"Ryan, I don't think you understand. You haven't been outside your manor in ten years. When people see you walking into the Halt Institution with me, you're going to get swarmed."

"Maybe I'll go in disguise."

"What? I just walk a fox inside? What do I tell Callahan? ‘Don't worry, sir. The fox is just another part of the exhibition. Raynard is experimenting with naturalism - this fox here is his attempt to place the viewer inside the painting...' No, Ryan, that won't work."

He laughed. "You're not thinking clearly. If I haven't left the house in ten years, no one knows what I look like. Now, where is your car?"

"On the street, why?"

"We'll need to take it. I came here through the forest. I don't have my car. I don't even own a car."

"You want to drive
my
car?" My mind reeled as I thought of all the takeout containers, fashion magazines, dirty laundry and art books strewn across the backseats of my little Fiat.

"You know what Marcus has done to those other people. It's my responsibility to protect you," he said. "I can't do that if I'm not near you. Besides, you could use some help carrying the paintings."

"Fine," I shovelled in another mouthful of omelette. "Give me twenty minutes to get dressed. And get some coffee brewing. I'm going to need it."

***

SEVEN

Forty minutes later, I gripped the edges of my seat, my knuckles turning white with terror, while Ryan threw my little car around the streets of Crookshollow like he was on a Formula 1 track, oblivious to all known traffic laws. In the boot, ten priceless paintings bounced and slid against each other.

"I haven't been behind the wheel since my days in Belfast," he laughed as he careened around a corner, cutting off a large lorry exiting Prince Edward Drive. I cringed as horns blasted in our wake.

Once on Main Street, Ryan weaved in and out of lanes. "Watch out!" I cried as he raced through a traffic light, narrowly missing a woman pushing her pram across the street. I shut my eyes, unable to watch. I heard my brakes squeal, and the women shouted something unseemly though my open window.

"Oops." I opened my eyes to see Ryan smiling at me. Despite the situation, my insides turned all giddy.
Dammit.
I didn't want to like him, but the more time I spent with him, the closer I was to falling for him.

"You'd better not think this is funny." I snapped, trying to hide my desire behind scorn. "Park in here." I pointed to a building up ahead.

"Don't you have a space at the gallery?" he asked.

I shook my head. I did, but it was right next to Matthew's space, and the last thing I wanted was for Ryan to crash my car into my boss's. Ryan turned in, scraping my door along the concrete barrier, and miraculously managed to park on the third floor without hitting anyone. I opened the boot and was surprised to see none of the crates were damaged. Ryan picked up the three largest pieces, while I carried a stack of smaller paintings. We descended the fire escape, Ryan leaping the steps three at a time, while I leaned against the wall and slid along the balustrade, feeling out each step with my heels before I set down my foot.

I’m walking down the fire escape, carrying millions of dollars of precious modern art in my hands, and the world's most sought-after art celebrity – who also happens to be a shapeshifter – is walking in front of me, whistling "Eye of the Tiger" under his breath.

Surreal.

At the staff entrance, I swiped my ID card, and walked through a dark hall into the main storage and inventory space. It was early, and, although there were lights on in the offices, the warehouse was still shrouded in darkness. I flicked the lights on, watching the fluorescent tubes flicker to life. "Quickly, in here." I pulled Ryan down the aisle for incoming exhibitions that needed cataloguing. I found the bay we'd set aside for his work, and dumped the seven heavy wooden frames into it.

"With any luck," I whispered to Ryan as he stacked his three frames behind them, "If we hurry I can get you out of here before anyone sees
–
"

"James Alexandra Kline!"

I spun around, my heart pounding against my chest. "Matthew, hi." I wiped my hair out of my eyes, certain my face must betray my nervousness. "It's a beautiful morning, isn't it?"

Matthew folded his arms across his wide chest. "Darryl just came up to see me. He said the Raynard paintings still haven't been delivered. I gave you
one
chance, Kline, one big opportunity to make a name for yourself with the exhibition of the year, and you blew it
–
"

Ryan stepped forward, eyes blazing. "Darryl needs to get his eyes checked." I gestured frantically at him to shut up, but if he saw me, he was ignoring me. He pointed at the bay we just finished loading. "All the Raynard paintings are right here."

Matthew's eyes narrowed. "Who are you? Alex, you know you're not allowed unauthorised visitors down in the warehouse."

"Uh…this is Damien. He's…uh, an intern from the university." I said hurriedly. "He's going to be helping me with the cataloguing."

Matthew sighed heavily. He turned away, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. "Whatever, I don't care. Just get these catalogued today so they can be hung tomorrow. If you need me, I'm going to be yelling at Darryl."

"Don't stress your vocal chords too much," I said. "You've got plenty more yelling to do before this thing goes public."

He snorted. "Tell me about it. I didn't even want this bloody exhibition in the first place. Raynard is an arrogant shit. He must be running low on cash if he wants this exhibition so badly, but of course, we have to do it on
his
terms. We have to bow down to the great
Almighty Artiste
. Did you meet him yesterday? Was he as big a prick as I imagine?"

"Oh, no sir," I stifled a giggle. "He's an even bigger prick."

He snorted with amusement, then stormed off, yelling for Darryl.

Ryan turned to me. "I'm hurt," he pouted. "Is that any way to talk about the man who saved your life?"

"That wasn't the man," I replied. "That was the fox. I like the fox, but the man I'm still undecided about."

He grabbed my wrist, pulling me close to him, pressing his broad chest against mine. "What about the man?" he growled, his eyes boring into mine. I wondered if he could feel my heart as it quickened against my chest. The tension between us crackled like lightning. I wanted nothing more than to reach up and press my lips to his …

But I knew it would only end in heartache. He wanted me because he believed I was his fated mate. But that wasn't the way I did things. I needed to
choose
Ryan, and right now, I barely knew him. As Ryan leaned forward, his eyes burning with intense desire, I turned my head away, wrenching myself free of his grasp.

He advanced again, and I backed away until my back pressed against a rack of crates. I held my hands up. "Don't come any closer," I warned. "I can't think straight when you're too close."

Ryan looked confused. "Alex?" he breathed. "What's wrong? Don't you want this? Don't you feel
something
when we're together…"

I shook my head, forcing myself to ignore the hurt look in his soft eyes. "It's not that I don't feel anything for you." I said. "It's this fate thing. I can't help but feel as if this…
chemistry
between us is forced upon me, because you're telling yourself that we're meant to be together."

He took a step forward. "Why is that a bad thing?"

"If I'm with a man, it needs to be on my own terms. Fate has no place in my life, Ryan. I want a choice. I
demand
a choice."

His shoulders sagged, and he glanced down at his shoes. A long, expressive silence flowed between us, broken only by the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. When he looked up again, that same self-satisfied smirk was on his lips once more.

"Very well," he said. "You will have a choice, Alex. I just have to get you to choose me."

"That's all I ask."

I relaxed, feeling the awkward moment had passed. "C'mon, Damien." I said, heading for my office. "We need to get these paintings catalogued."

***

EIGHT

With "Damien", the attractive intern, helping in cataloguing, my two assistants completed their work on the Ryan Raynard collection in record time, even if there was an extraordinary amount of high-pitched giggling coming from their office. It wasn't even lunchtime when Ryan knocked on my office door.

"Save me from their incessant prattling," he demanded.

I looked up from my paperwork in mock surprise. "You mean you haven't gained any deep intellectual insights from your morning with Trixie McBimbo and Alice Legsakimbo?"

"Conversational stimulation is clearly not their forte," replied Ryan. He leaned across the corner of my desk, eyes sparkling as he pushed his face so close to mine I could see the shadow of his stubble across his cheeks. I held my breath as the woody scent of him invaded my nostrils. "You can have a break now, right? I want to walk through the museum."

His lips moved, but I barely heard what he said. I imagined leaning forward, pressing my lips against his, feeling the warmth of his touch against my body.
Why does this have to be so hard?

"Alex? Let's go …"

"No." I registered what he was saying. That would be too dangerous. Anyone could spot him, recognise him. Out in the public galleries were actual art critics and collectors, people who would know what Ryan Raynard looked like, even after ten years.

"I insist," he said. "I haven't been outside the manor in so long, Alex, except to hunt in the woods. I want to see artwork hanging on walls, not in books or on a computer screen. But most of all, I want to see it with you."

My stomach flipped. I glanced at my phone. "I can take two hours, since my cataloguing team seem to work twice as fast with you around–"

"I crack the whip," he smirked, tracing a path across my hand with his finger. I yanked my hand away. I couldn't focus when he did that.

"I'll need to work late tonight anyway. There's still a lot to do to prepare your exhibition. But sure, I can take you through the public galleries, if you promise not to draw attention to yourself."

Ignoring the jealous glare of Belinda from across the hall, I led Ryan through the staff lounge and out into the gallery itself. We started in the west hall, where his work would be displayed. Currently, we had a kinetic exhibit on display; a large section of the room had been given over to a garden of multi-coloured paper windmills glued to a fibreboard floor. Fans disguised in towering white mushroom-like sculptures blew the windmills this way and that. From the ceiling hung an enormous mobile – a neo-objectivist study in the style of early Rodchenko – of interconnected swirls and whirring gears made from hammered tin and wood. On the far wall, a metal ball rolled around in a strange, malleable corrugated maze, making a disharmonious gurgle as it rolled over the metal ripples. A plaque in front of the display invited the viewer to move the ball or change the course of the maze.

Ryan stood in front of this piece for a long time, watching the ball roll back and forth, his brow furrowed. He did not reach out to touch the piece, although when two young boys pushed in front of him and started pushing the maze back and forth, he smiled.

"This is a fun piece," he said. "But it's not art as I know it. I don't look at this and see into the artist's soul. I don't feel as if I've stepped into a world out of my being. I just feel entertained by the moving ball and that strange, otherworldly sound."

"It's a statement about the world," I said. "Kinetic art is all about bringing the audience inside the piece itself, to show that each person is part of the problem, and part of the solution. This art is never static, it is created in the moment – right now, as those boys are playing, they are part of the work itself."

"I see," he replied, and led me into the next gallery.

For the next two hours, we walked arm in arm, looking and commenting on the paintings and sculptures on display. Ryan pulled me from piece to piece, scrutinizing every detail and leaning on me for commentary on the work, the artist, the treatment of materials. We could have been any couple visiting the gallery, not the self-conscious gallery curator and the reclusive celebrity artist who turns into a fox.

Ryan had a deep knowledge of the art world, but like much of his knowledge, it seemed to stop around the time he became a recluse. With his fancy public school education, he knew much of the Renaissance, the Impressionists, the Pre-Raphaelites. We had an exhibition on Fauvism that engaged him for more than thirty minutes, as he painstakingly examined of every inch of the small canvases. But a photographic exhibition of political street art from the Middle East left him baffled, as did a video projection of two men blowing red-coloured bubbles into each other's mouths through a pink straw, interspersed with extreme panning close-ups of a cactus. To be honest, I didn't really get that one, either.

"How do you survive as an artist when you don't even know what's big in the art world, or what the galleries and collectors are looking for?" I asked.

"Simon takes care of selling my paintings and all the other business details for me. All I do is paint, read books, and hunt in the forest. It's very freeing, Alex. I don't have a thousand contemporaries swimming around in my head. I'm not part of a movement, or a school. When I want inspiration, I head into the woods. As such, my work does not look like anyone else's, because no one else is like me–"

We paused in the door of our main gallery, where we had a permanent exhibition of works from the greatest painters of the last five hundred years. Ryan's gaze swept immediately to the Picasso on the far wall. His reaction was physical. His whole body stiffened.

"Ryan? Are you OK?"

He didn't seem to hear me. He was lost completely.

"Ryan?" I waved my hand in front of his face. He didn't even blink. I followed at his heels as he stalked across the room like a man possessed. He stopped in front of the painting and stared, his eyes narrowed.

I stood beside him, not certain what I should say or do. Was this some kind of fox thing? A shapeshifter trance? I glanced over again, and saw him blinking, his eyes filled with tears.

"Ryan?" I tried again.

This time he heard me. He stepped back, shaking his head, the spell broken. He rubbed his eyes, as though disoriented. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "All my life I wanted to see a Picasso in the flesh. I've seen them in books, of course. I have thousands of art books in my house. But I've never seen one in life before. I've had Simon search for one for my private collection, but they're impossible to get on the black market unless you're a Saudi royal or an American rockstar. I never thought to see one for real. The colours, Alex! It's just amazing."

"I know," I whispered back. "The first time I came to this gallery, it stole my attention. The way he uses shape to convey every side of an object, as if he's reaching back in time and forward into the future at once. Sometimes I come here to eat my lunch, and I just sit and stare at it, wondering about the mind behind such a work."

"Don't tell anyone that I …" he pointed to his eye.

I laughed. "You mean that you got a piece of dust in your eye? No, Ryan, I won't ruin your street cred, as long as you don't tell Matthew I eat in the gallery."

"Deal," he took my hand, clasping it in his own, the heat of his touch radiating through my arm, up through my body, clutching at my chest. "Thank you, Alex. Thank you."

Eventually, I had to say goodbye to him and head back to the office. I had so much to do to prepare for the exhibition, and Ryan decided I'd be safe enough inside the gallery. "Marcus could hardly come in here with all these people about," he said. "I'll be back at 7pm to pick you up. Give me the keys and I'll get out of your way."

I backed away, shaking my head. "I'm not giving you my car."

"Why not?"

Did he even have to ask?

Ryan set his mouth into a firm line. "Fine. I have other ways of getting around."

"Ryan Raynard, if you shift into a fox within the walls of this gallery, I shall never forgive you. What are you going to do?"

"I want to walk around a bit, explore Crookshollow in the daylight, feel the pavement beneath my feet again," he smiled. "Perhaps I'll find a restaurant for dinner."

"I'd like that," I smiled. He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, the hot echo of his lips lingering long after he'd stalked from the room.

***