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“I love this arse.” He slapped each buttock. “Tonight, this arse is going to make me rock hard. Turning it stripy is going to be heavenly.” Something for him to look forward to, as I rubbed my bum vigorously for a few seconds and quickly swung my legs out of bed in my haste to escape his teeth and pinching hands. He laughed as I dashed into
the bathroom.
“You didn’t have to do that!” I sniped behind the safety of the locked door. “My alarm clock was about to go off.”
“I consider my job today is to spur you into action, keep you energised.”
I leaned against the door and breathed deeply. I couldn’t believe the day had finally arrived—my own gallery on public display. More deep breaths. A bitten bottom was the least of my worries.
I arrived for my hair appointment, and a sharp exhale escaped my mouth as I sat on one of the plush chairs. I gave clear instructions to my regular hairdresser, based on Jason’s request.
“Pin it up, please—a twirling bun.”
Jason might prefer the style, but I fretted whether it would stay in place all day. What if Joshua’s sticky fingers came near me? Thankfully, Clara was his carer for most of the day and evening.
The final hours prior to the opening zipped along. I became embroiled in last-minute preparations, including a panic phone call to the caterers whose arrival had been delayed. Once they appeared, I deadheaded the floral displays, twisting off the limp petals with trembling fingers.
I briefly returned home to change into a new designer dress—emerald green with a straight skirt and long slit to expose my elegant leg. Jason gave his approval by sliding his hand up the slit and twanging the waistline of my panties. He’d chosen to wear a white tuxedo, and I hankered for the man behind the smart attire. Patience—he’d promised me that tonight.
I returned to the gallery, stood in the entranceway, and admired the view. The layout was just as I’d imagined it all those months ago with the lighting, brilliant-white walls, soft music in the background, and original exhibits.
Jason crept up behind me and coiled his arms around me. “Okay, babe? Everything as you wanted?” He nuzzled my neck, sniffing my fragrance.
“Yes. It’s all here, Jason.” Tears welled, and I brushed them aside with the back of my hand.
The preview session began at five o’clock with photographers and the art press lining up to interview me. Jason’s cautious PR team had arranged it all. Major publicity was very much under his control and, aside from minor stuff in niche publications, I had to work with his team. I didn’t mind—their expertise, though not in the world of art, had easily transferred. I was learning a lot.
Family members were the next to arrive, and I gave my parents a personal tour. They applauded my efforts with compliments.
“Darling, you’ve done so well with your wonderful paintings.” Mum squeezed my arm, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I want to apologise. I never took your artistic side to mean anything more than a hobby. I’m sorry I pushed you into a career you weren’t keen on.”
“Oh, Mum, please. It’s water under the bridge. Put it this way. If I’d hadn’t worked as an asset valuator, I wouldn’t have met Jason and be able to do this. I would have gotten nowhere on my own. So, it’s fine. I got here in the end, and that’s what counts.” We hugged, something becoming a regular feature between Mum and me.
Jason’s personal photographer, John—a man he trusted to do our family snaps—took a picture of us all with my paintings in the background. Again, I fought back tears of joy as I stood with my loved ones.
Later, when the main event started, Jason posed with his own parents for photographs, and I wondered if it was the first time he had acknowledged them in a public setting. They admired my efforts, and I even managed to tempt Clive into buying a painting of lawyers’ wigs dusted with powder by an unseen person. Rather poignant, as Clive had a similar wig in his possession from his days in court. I agreed with him the horsehair detail was magnificent.
What a whirlwind party! I greeted, shook numerous hands, and introduced the artists responsible for the exhibitory contributions. Art dealers and academics rubbed shoulders with students who, in turn, mixed with the elite of the business world, courtesy of Jason’s connections. I weaved and circulated, while Jason kept his own kind occupied with his particular brand of charm. When sufficient numbers had gathered, I gave a small speech.
Jason squeezed my hand and gave me last-minute advice. “Take deep breaths and talk slowly, slower than you would think.”
I thanked everyone, some individually and others by organisation. I expressed my appreciation for my husband and his support. Jason smiled back, bowing his head briefly in a gracious manner. The applause rebounded off the walls, and my cheeks burned. With the nerve-racking part completed, I rekindled with renewed energy, the knots in my stomach unwound and my hands stopped shaking.
By nine o’clock, people started to leave. The food had all but vanished, the champagne bottles stood empty, and most of the wine had gone, too.
“Art lovers are quite alcoholic, aren’t they?” commented Jason with a snort. He’d bought the wine—a gift for my opening. We stood side by side, watching the remaining visitors mingle.
“Free drink appeals to art lovers.”
“Make any sales?”
I lifted my chin, proud of my accomplishments. “Yes. We had a few offers, and some are coming back for a second look when it’s less crowded. I’m happy.”
“Any of yours?” He poked my arm.
“The Gondolier has a deposit on it.” I shrugged, knowing he wasn’t happy with my decision to sell it.
“It has.”
