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‘Never mind. Are those guys an item now?’
‘Kind of, but you know what Dustin’s like – he’s dedicated to his job, and Alfie’s kind of part of the brief, right?’ Chloe deadpanned, then returned to the art magazine she’d been studying.
Pleased that he did at least have a spy in Susie’s camp, Felix spun slowly on his heel, debating his next move. He couldn’t help feeling some chagrin that Susie hadn’t rung him. He hadn’t talked to her since the limo had dropped her off at her apartment the previous night, after the Frick. Her touch still vibrated under his skin: real, undeniable, even more disturbing – potentially addictive.
‘Maybe you’re right, Chloe, maybe it would be politic to leave her alone until she’s ready,’ he said, heading back towards his office.
‘You know artists: egos like blown glass. Breathe on them too hard and they shatter,’ she replied, quoting him.
‘A genius observation,’ he joked back.
‘A genius mind,’ came the reply.
The gallerina’s adoration was reassuring, even if it was feigned. Dear Chloe, ever the ambitious rookie. But that, he reflected, was why he’d hired her in the first place. That and her legs.
*
Once inside the confines of his office, however, the need to communicate grew until it became an overwhelming, undeniable urge. Pacing like a caged animal, Felix reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. After hitting the message command he began texting:
Susie, I need to see you, hear you, taste you.
His fingertip hovered above the send command, then hit delete.
‘You coward,’ he said out loud. ‘You goddamn coward.’
He walked to the window. Outside it was grey and small daggers of rain broke the air; somewhere a car alarm was going off.
He thought about Susie and what enactment she might be shooting in the morning. It was bound to have an erotic element, with her as the central figure. All kinds of scenarios flooded his imagination. Susie half-naked with another man penetrating her; being taken from behind, on all fours, on her back. The thought, once intriguing, now nauseated him. She might be in costume, role-playing, her face behind a mask, but it would still be her. And who would the man be? Someone she’d picked out of a club, a professional whore? It has to be me. I will be immortalised in her art; I will have my name linked to hers forever. What a fantastic historical footnote that would make in a hundred years’ time in some museum’s catalogue on significant 21st-century artists, he told himself, already composing the quote:
The man behind the mask is rumoured to have been the American gallery director Felix Baum. Considered the most powerful art dealer of his time, he was solely responsible for placing the infamous Susie Thomas firmly on the world map. As is illustrated in this image, their relationship went beyond professional…
It had to happen. Thank God, he had Dustin now in place to put pressure on Alfie. If the two men were now lovers, Dustin would be able to wrangle information out of the Englishman.
Still staring at the window, Felix was dimly aware of a flock of seagulls wheeling across the pewter sky. It provided a brief respite from the revelation that he didn’t only want to possess Susie Thomas sexually; he wanted to possess her talent. He’d never felt like that about any of his other artists. With faint dismay, he also realised he was jealous.
It was a novel sensation. Sure, he’d been professionally jealous in the past, but never sexually possessive. He’d never understood when his own lovers, both male and female, had got upset with him at his own inherent promiscuity – after all, it wasn’t as if he wasn’t completely honest with them when he was making love to them. Until now, he’d been incapable of understanding the desire for exclusivity. It was an uncomfortable epiphany.
He marvelled at this new pain – the masochism of poets and songwriters. Could he use this for a new pleasure? Turn it inside out and exploit it for his own gain? He meditated for a moment, switching his brain off and reaching down to sensation only. No was the answer that emerged. There was no masochistic joy in imagining her with another man. All he sensed was a profound and overwhelming desire to be inside her again, to be fucking her and her only. It was as if she’d infected him with a need for intimacy.
Appalled, Felix collapsed onto the sofa, his phone burning in his palm, his fingers itching to dial her number, to hear her voice – the song of the sirens calling Odysseus to his death, the voice of Echo calling for Narcissus.
‘Making contact is out of the question,’ he said out loud, then stuffed the phone down the back of the sofa. A second later he heard its muffled ringtone. Clawing at the leather, he yanked it out.
‘Susie?’
‘Hate to disappoint you, Felix, but it’s Donald.’ The art historian’s clipped diction sent Felix’s hopes crashing.
‘Oh, hi. What’s up?’ He checked his watch; it was going to be a long afternoon and an even longer night…
*
The next morning Susie found herself standing naked on the set of the shoot having her red pubic hair dyed temporarily black. She’d spent the whole morning half-expecting to hear from the mysterious Miss Latisha while, at the same time, battling flashbacks of the sex she’d had with Felix: visions that flooded her with a hormonal memory that made her weak at the knees. It had been over two days since they’d made love and
yet he hadn’t even texted her. She couldn’t quite believe it. On the other hand, it did fit with his womanizing reputation. But there was no way she was going to ring him first; that would be far too revealing. Aside from being an impossible situation, it was taking all her discipline to concentrate on the work at hand.
The make-up artist studied her handiwork with a critical eye, then began smearing white pancake across Susie’s skin and face to make her paler.
Susie glanced back across the studio towards the set. A large copy of the original erotic Chinese painting sat on an easel beside the set, ready for a comparison. On the set itself a vintage midnight-blue Chrysler was half-parked on a golden-beige backdrop that covered both the back and the floor – duplicating the gold silk the original painting had been painted on.
