Diamond

by Justine Elyot

  Tabitha paused. ‘Well, we can’t, can we? That’s the whole point.’

  ‘Quite. But do you get what I’m driving at?’

  ‘There’s only one Banksy,’ said Tabitha firmly.

  ‘Oh yes, but while the art is different, the publicity goal is the same. I think a mystery artist would interest the press and the public more than a few articles about his background and inspirations. And his work speaks for itself, surely.’

  Tabitha shuffled through the pictures again.

  ‘Well,’ she said at length. ‘I must admit, you’ve intrigued me. I want to find out more about this person and see more of his work – it is a male, I take it, from what you’ve said?’

  Jenna nodded. ‘I’ll tell you that much.’

  ‘And if you’re involved, we have an angle,’ she continued. ‘Because everybody’s heard of you. If you act as his patron, for the purposes of our PR, that gives us a huge leg up from the start. Although it might also work against us – a lot of the art establishment is utterly dismissive of anything connected with popular culture. Modern popular culture, that is – they’re mostly delighted to reference older versions of it. It might prevent his being taken seriously.’

  ‘But we want to be popular, don’t we?’

  ‘I suppose we do. It’s a risk. Everything’s a risk in this game. We take a lot of chances.’

  ‘So, will you take a chance on this?’

  Jenna fought a strong urge to snatch Jason’s pictures from Tabitha’s hand. This could really happen, and it suddenly felt very dangerous indeed. His paintings couldn’t now be unseen – nothing could be rewound. She almost wanted Tabitha to shake her head, to put them down, to say it was not for her.

  ‘All right,’ said Tabitha. ‘For you, and because I really do think this work is rather wonderful, I’ll get on board with you. I’ll see about fitting in a private view – it might not be for some months, though, if you want to use the gallery. I’m fully booked until November.’

  ‘November?’ Jenna tried to compose her disappointed expression into one of mild understanding.

  ‘I know it’s a long time away.’ Tabitha shrugged. ‘We’re doing well. What can I say?’

  ‘I’m happy for you, but …’

  ‘You’re welcome to use the gallery’s name if you want to hire a private venue.’

  ‘Thank you. Perhaps I’ll do that. Let me go away and think about it.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  Tabitha put a hand on Jenna’s arm, preventing her from reaching for the portfolio.

  ‘Won’t you tell me a little more about this man? I suppose he’s some friend of yours?’

  Jenna bit her lip. ‘Really, I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to him. I’m sure the day will come when he’ll be happy to come into the public view, but it might be a while yet.’

  ‘Goodness. I suppose he does know you’re here?’

  An unpleasant sensation of being hit in the solar plexus silenced Jenna before she could speak again.

  ‘He … he doesn’t like attention,’ she stammered, fidgeting with her coffee cup.

  ‘A recluse, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. He’s a recluse. Never leaves the house.’

  ‘How fascinating. May I keep the pictures?’

  ‘Oh. Better not. Would you mind if, you know, perhaps you could take some photos of them?’

  Tabitha sighed.

  ‘This is all very cloak and dagger, I must say. All right then. Let’s spread them out on the floor and I’ll take a few snaps.’

  They spent the rest of the morning trying to achieve the perfect photographic representation of each picture and sharing ideas about how to publicise Jason’s work.

  Jenna left with an unsettled feeling at the pit of her stomach that owed as much to fear as it did to excitement. She was pleased to know that she was not alone in rating his paintings highly, but on the other hand, she had gone behind his back, and wished it could all be above board.

  She called in at her company’s London office after a solitary picnic lunch on its roof garden, then set straight back off on the long drive to Bledburn.

  As mile after mile passed, she thought about all the offers her assistant had turned down on her behalf. Oodles of TV shows, adverts, voiceovers, appearances, free holidays had been offered and rejected. Every newspaper and celeb magazine wanted to know if there was a chance of reconciliation between her and Deano. He had made some veiled remarks in an interview, apparently, that made it seem as if it were on the cards. She would have to look that interview up, then send him an irritated email requesting him to keep her name out of his PR exercises.

  These thoughts preoccupied her all the way home, so much so that they were still on her mind when she opened the front door. The sight of Jason, sitting on the bottom of the stairs reading yesterday’s newspaper both startled and alarmed her.

  ‘God,’ she said. ‘There you are.’

  ‘Here I am,’ he said, putting the paper down beside him and giving her a raised eyebrow of disapprobation. ‘Did you forget about the bed?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A delivery lorry turned up. Hammered at the door for ages before shoving this card through. I thought I’d best not answer it. You never know whether it’s a trap.’ He held it out.

  ‘Shit, I totally forgot! I did order a bed to be delivered today. Damn. Oh, well, I’ll just have to phone them …’

  She trailed off.

  Jason had spotted the portfolio under her arm. Why hadn’t she left it in the car until the coast was clear?

  ‘What are you doing with that?’

  He reached out for it. With some reluctance, she handed it over.

  His eyes were hard, black coals.

  ‘Well? Are you going to answer me? Why have you taken my stuff out with you? What’s going on, Jen?’

  She sat down beside him on the stairs and took a deep breath.

  ‘I took them to London with me.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Don’t panic. Your name wasn’t mentioned, nobody knows about you.’

  ‘What,’ he asked, very slowly and deliberately, and not a little menacingly, ‘have you done?’

  ‘I wanted a professional opinion on your work, so I showed them to a friend who runs an art gallery in London.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Oh, don’t. What’s wrong with that? She loved them. She thinks you’re brilliant. Jason!’

  But he had shot to his feet and was storming upstairs, portfolio in hand.

  By the time Jenna had gathered herself together to give chase, he stood on the landing. He withdrew one of his pictures – a dense landscape of terraces painted in a vertiginous, swirling pattern – held it up to her, then ripped it clean in half.

  ‘Oh, Jason, no!’

  She stopped, aghast, and could only watch as he continued the process, tearing it to shreds which fluttered down the stairs towards her, settling all around like dark grey snow.

  ‘Why?’ she wailed.

  ‘It’s not mine,’ he said. ‘None of it’s mine, any more.’

  He flung the rest of the portfolio over the bannister, scattering pictures right and left, then stormed up to the attic, banging the door behind him.

  ‘Jason!’ she yelled, running upstairs in his wake. ‘Jason, come down. Talk to me. Please.’

  But no reply came from above, and he had weighted the trap door so she couldn’t open it from below. After listening to the sounds of furious paint mixing and brushing, she decided to leave him to it and slouched downstairs, threw herself on her mattress and succumbed to the darkness, outside and in.

  It was an hour, maybe two, before she moved. Her brain had run through every possibility, from leaving Bledburn tonight and never returning, to staying here forever and never re-engaging with the world outside. Somewhere, a workable balance had to be found. Jason’s innocence had to be proved, so he could leave if he wanted or stay. If she hadn’t thrown away that possibility for goo
d.

  She heard the creak of the trap door and stiffened, her nose still pressed firmly into the duvet. Soft steps whispered down the uncarpeted stairs – he wasn’t wearing shoes, she thought – then crossed the hall.

  She felt his presence in the doorway, even though she couldn’t see him.

  His voice, when it came, was a shock – rough and ragged at the edges.

  ‘Sit up and look at me.’

  It was a command, and she didn’t dare disobey. She pulled her hot, rumpled face from the mattress and turned eyes, from which her defiance couldn’t quite be extinguished, to him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I should have asked first.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said quietly with an emphatic nod.

  ‘But you’d have said no.’

  His face, pale but set as firmly as that of a sergeant major about to give the battle signal, bore down on her, making her feel squeezed and a little breathless.

  ‘I’d have said no,’ he repeated after a pause. ‘You knew that. But you went ahead.’

  ‘I was doing it for you.’

  ‘No you weren’t,’ he said, the anger flashing back. ‘You were doing it for you. Your ego. Your satisfaction.’

  She stared at him, open mouthed, wondering if he had a point.

  ‘And why not?’ he continued. ‘Because look at you. Look at Lady Muck of Muck Hall, queen of all she surveys, including this poor bastard here.’

  ‘Jason, no!’

  But he spoke over her.

  ‘I might be on your property, but it doesn’t mean I am your property. You can’t do what the fuck you like with me and mine, not without my consent, my permission.’

  ‘I know that now, I’m sorry, please,’ she gabbled, but still he went on.

  ‘I know I’m only here to keep you happy in bed, and knock a few nails into walls, but you could at least pretend to have some respect for me.’

  ‘But I do.’ She rose from the mattress and stepped towards him, hands out, palms up. ‘Jason, I promise you.’

  He held up a hand of his own, establishing distance between them.

  ‘What is it, Jen? Is it this place? Has it turned you into one of them? Made you think you can fuck the workers then sell them out? Is that it?’

  She stared in horror.

  ‘You can’t think that of me. You can’t. I’m one of you. I’m a worker.’

  ‘Maybe you were once.’

  ‘I still am.’ She shouted it, desperate, wanting to grab him and shake him. ‘Our lives are not a stupid metaphor for Bledburn, so you can shut up with that.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, breathing hard and fast. ‘Right, I’ll shut up. I’ll clear off out of here. I’ll go somewhere I’m respected, even it turns out to be prison.’

  ‘No,’ she cried, launching herself at him, in an effort to bodily restrain him from throwing himself to the wolves. She clung to his arms for dear life, refusing to be dislodged. ‘I won’t. You can’t. You can’t go to prison for something you didn’t do. You can’t go.’

  She was crying now, the tears falling into her mouth and making her voice quiver and jolt, but she kept it up as forcefully as she could.

  ‘I do respect you, I won’t go behind your back again, I’m sorry, I won’t. Please stay.’

  She saw his eyes close, felt his resistance begin to ebb.

  ‘Let go of me,’ he whispered.

  ‘Only if you stay. Only if you stay.’ She kept repeating it until he grabbed her wrists and laid his head on her shoulder.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right. For now.’

  They held each other, tight enough to make their ribs ache, feeling the other’s chest rise and fall, feeling the heat, and the shaking, and the subsiding of rage.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked, once they were calmer.

  ‘It wasn’t for glory. Please don’t think that. I just thought that the world deserves to see your work.’

  He shook his head on her shoulder.

  ‘The world deserves fuck all from me,’ he said. ‘Sweet FA.’

  Jenna didn’t reply, but she understood what was at the heart of his objection and she could only sympathise.

  ‘Call your mate,’ he said, rocking back and forth now on his heels, taking her with him. ‘Tell her it was a mistake. Tell her to forget it.’

  ‘I will. I’m sorry.’

  It had been too soon; she saw that now. She should have given him a little more time, waited until the legal nightmare was untangled. He would come round.

  ‘You’re a bit too free with me, Jen,’ he said after a while, loosening his hold enough that he could look her in the eye. ‘I’m not your toy. I think you need to learn that. I think you need to learn a lot of things.’

  Jenna bristled at first, hating, as ever, to be told that she was not right and perfect in every way. After all, she’d grown so used to the sycophancy of the TV people in LA. It was a jolt to be seen as less than impeccable.

  ‘And you’re going to teach me, are you?’ she said, slightly sulkily.

  ‘Oh, don’t tempt me,’ he said with a hard little laugh. ‘I could have you begging for mercy on this floor in three minutes flat. Don’t think I couldn’t.’

  He was infuriating and yet his words inflamed her so much that she felt weak in his arms, ready to take anything from him. Prove it, beat her heart in an excitable tattoo.

  ‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone behind your back. Mea culpa. Can we move on from this? Please?’

  ‘Yeah, because that’d suit you, wouldn’t it?’ he said. Hot breath in her ear. ‘To get away with it.’

  Her body was taut, knowing in advance that something was going to happen, preparing its defences. At the same time, her knickers were getting wetter and wetter.

  Whatever you want to do, do it.

  ‘I don’t want to get away with it,’ she said.

  He moved one of his hands down, until it cupped the curve of her buttocks.

  ‘Good, because you’re not going to.’

  He rubbed her skirt up and down, the light silky material rumpling over her bottom. Between her legs, the sensation quickened, causing her to hitch her breath and catch a little sigh.

  ‘So, what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What am I going to do with you?’ His hand rubbed again, fingertips tracing the cleft of her buttocks over the thin material of her dress. ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

  She’d never thought of herself as really kinky, although she’d had a few fantasies of being tied up and used, but the craving she had for him to raise his hand and bring it down hard on her bottom, just then, almost drove her out of her mind.

  ‘Spank me?’ she whispered, and it happened.

  It was so sudden and so loud that she didn’t feel the sting of it for a moment or two – too busy jumping out of her skin. But a handprint of heat soon seared through her and her legs came close to giving way.

  ‘Ten out of ten,’ he said. ‘Clever girl.’

  ‘That hurt,’ she said, reaching behind her to tend to her sore spot, but he grabbed hold of her hand and held it tight.

  ‘It’s supposed to,’ he said. ‘But you can take a little pain, can’t you? Especially when you know you deserve it.’

  ‘You won’t go too far, will you?’ she asked, wondering how much force he had in him, if what she’d already had was just a taster.

  ‘I won’t bruise you. Unless you want me to. But I’ll make sure you feel it for a while after. Trust me, babe. I’m an old hand at this.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Uh huh. But this isn’t the best position for it. I need to be sitting down.’

  She followed him like a lamb as he led her into the kitchen, which contained a row of breakfast bar stools, ranged like chrome sentinels, with little black leather pillbox hats.

  He positioned himself on one of them, even his long legs only just able to reach the floor, and slapped his thigh meaningfully.

  Jenna, her hand
held in his to prevent escape, felt as if she’d entered Looking Glass World. She’d never had a man treat her this way, would never have dreamt that she’d ever find herself in this position. But now she was here, she had to let the drama unfold, and it was more than mere curiosity urging her on. The place where Jason had smacked her felt good: it pulsed with excitement, and the need to feel it again.

  She had to fight her natural urge to reject anything that smacked of abasement or humiliation, of course, but Jason knew that, and he tugged her closer then tumbled her over his thighs so that she didn’t need to continue with that struggle any more. It was done. She was there, bum up, over this horrible, attractive bastard’s lap, and there was nothing at all she could do about it now.

  She could kick and flail, but her limbs came nowhere near the floor, and she was obliged to grab on to the metal legs of the stool to maintain balance, otherwise there was a real danger of sliding off his knees. Or, at least, there would have been, if Jason hadn’t put a firm hand in the small of her back, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

  ‘Keep your legs still or I’ll have to go harder on you,’ he said.

  She let her muscles slacken at once and lay, shamefully docile, over her lover’s lap.

  The helplessness felt alien to her, and she had to adjust more to that than to the position itself, which was awkward and graceless but sustainable. To know that she could go nowhere, do nothing, without Jason’s permission, gave a feeling in the pit of her stomach that wasn’t quite fear – wasn’t quite outrage – but included both of them. And yet the fear and outrage heightened the secret, shameful pleasure of it. A little nugget, hidden deep inside her, of intense realisation that she had been looking for this without knowing it. She had found it, the thing she had not known she wanted. Did she dare fully admit it to herself? Not yet. For now, she had to sigh and snuffle and complain and pretend that it was an ordeal for her. Even more so since she had the distinct impression that Jason had known she wanted this all along.

  How dared he? He could he know her sordid, taboo little secrets? It was unfair, and it laid her wide open to him.

  She concentrated on her beautiful flooring; the polished granite tiles glowing and reflecting the subtle spotlighting. It looked good, even from this angle. Perhaps she’d mention that in her online review. Or perhaps not.