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‘Fabulous – that makes it so much more meaningful,’ Susie slurred cynically.
Her irony was lost on Felix, now carried away by enthusiasm. ‘Do you have any idea how much these City boys have influenced art?’
‘Sure, they’ve turned us all into mini-factories. A thousand Hirst spot paintings, Chapman Brother multiples, Sarah Lucas duplicates… the list goes on and on. Last week my printer reeled off 200 editions of a print. At 10,000 pounds each. Five years ago, that would have to have been a far smaller run.’
‘Rule one: got to have the stock to create a self-referencing market.’ Felix nodded sagely. ‘You know why the super-rich collectors are now buying cutting-edge contemporary work like they’ve never done in the past? Because all the truly great works of the 18th, 19th and early 20th century aren’t available any more, they’re all incarcerated in public galleries, in state museums. Everything’s been bought up. I facilitate a need. More than that, I create the need, design what is required to fill it, then sell it. A perfect self-serving closed market within which the prices keep going up and up. Susie, this is our era!’
Felix too was a little drunk, and for once enjoying it. He finished his own glass, then topped up hers. ‘Let’s go clubbing after this. You and me are opposites: you’re famous for losing control; I’m infamous for staying in control. We’re perfect together.’
He leaned forward and placed his hand on her knee. Susie looked down at the buffed, manicured fingernails, the ageless olive skin. To her horror, she found herself wondering what his cock was like. Would it be as shapely and beautiful as his hands?
Felix’s voice pulled her back into the room.
‘What do you say? I know some amazing places. We could go scouting for some beautiful extras for your photos. I’ll help you recruit. So, are we on, to go search out potential muses?’ he urged.
Only then did she remove his hand. ‘That’s not how I make my art. It’s not an arbitrary process. Besides, Alfie does most of the recruiting. There are legal things to consider, confidentiality clauses. I’m sure you know all about that. I haven’t been sued or blackmailed yet, but I’ve had a few outraged partners show up.’
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Felix’s jaw tightened. Being refused was such a novel experience he couldn’t quite assimilate what was happening. ‘Another time then. We have three months ahead of us,’ he snapped through tight lips. Was she playing games, he wondered, or had he misjudged that flicker between them when they’d first met? Knowing of her reputation for liking both men and women, he’d imagined a kindred spirit, someone who would share his need to choreograph, not just for beauty but for the sublime sense of orchestrating an event, manipulating time and life itself. Wasn’t that what her work was all about? A manipulation of the participants within the frame as well as the gaze of the viewer? For her to exclude him from participating in the game felt like a slap in the face. After all, who valued or understood her work as profoundly as he?
‘You know, I’ve always been so cerebral, yet when I stand in front of your images I feel a familiarity, as if I’ve dreamt or been in those rituals myself. It’s like sex magic. Yes, that’s it, primal sex magic—’ He stopped mid-sentence, appalled at his own honesty. Before he had a chance to explain himself further, she got to her feet and asked the waiter to fetch her coat.
‘So there is a heart in the Tin Man after all,’ she retorted flippantly, holding her handbag in front of her like a buffer.
Felix, working his face to hide his disappointment, tried to sound casual. ‘The character I related to most was the Wizard. Dry ice and mirrors, selling his sorcery to the masses. It’s circus, that’s all it is.’ He helped her on with her jacket. ‘But I insist on taking you out tomorrow, I have a few really special places I want to take you to.’
‘Deal, but the morning is mine. I have to scout out some locations – join the dots on a journey a good friend of mine took a year ago,’ she replied cautiously, again not wanting to reveal herself.
‘He must have meant a lot.’
‘Yep, that one got through the trapdoor.’
He studied her for a second. ‘You know, I learnt a while back that when it comes to loss, recovery’s always staggered. The brain tends to be the quickest – it intellectualises grief, tearing it up like defiant confetti. The heart comes next – a great lumbering dinosaur, incredulous that someone has really gone. But the slowest is the soul. When someone gets to your soul, it takes years to recover,’ he concluded with a sincerity he’d perfected in front of a mirror. It was a monologue he’d used to seduce before, and he had the delivery down pat.
‘Blimey, Felix – a Tin Man with a heart and a soul! Maybe you should stop there before you completely ruin your reputation,’ she joked. All the same, she lingered, knowing that, if he laid hands on her, she would respond. It was a terrifying yet erotic thought, and one that stayed with her long after she had stepped out of the restaurant.
Chapter Four
The music snaked through Felix’s head and up through the soles of his feet. The only distraction was Harold Weiss, who was now bobbing up and down on the leather couch in front of him in an embarrassing display of enthusiasm.
‘Oh my God, Felix, you’ve excelled yourself this time! I mean, this place, it’s goddamn bedlam! Makes Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights look like Disney.’ Harold, in beige chinos, brown baby-poo boat shoes, a tight fluorescent T-shirt with the words ‘Sugar Daddy’ encrusted in sequins, and a gold chain with a Star of David nestling in his copious chest hair, looked as if he’d been dressed by his teenage son. Felix, knowing the fashion-design aspirations of Harold’s gay son, Elijah, assumed this was actually the case.
Harold’s head whipped around. ‘Jesus, is that guy really being tortured?’
‘Why don’t you go over and investigate for yourself?’
‘Are you sure… it’s like… safe?’
‘Safe?’ Felix winked lewdly. ‘Harry, baby, we didn’t come here for safe! Go out there, enjoy yourself!’
‘I dunno… ’
‘Harold, you’re seventy, you’ve been married three times, divorced now for… how long?’
‘Nine months, three weeks and two days. I still can’t get used to the empty side of the bed.’
‘Just think about the Monet that bitch walked with – not to mention the Bacon and the Whistler.’
