by Clare London
MALIA watched her boss lope slowly up the stairs and vanish into his apartment. She sighed with some relief. The vans would be arriving any second with drinks and canapés, and dozens of barely brained temporary staff who would need supervising every step of the way. The last thing she needed was some fragile artistic director getting under her feet. The responsibility should pass to her now, to get things running. Hadn’t she done this very thing for all of her working years?
Tony had paused beside the Perspex wall. He looked up at it and bit at his lip. “So what are they going to think about this, eh?”
Malia glanced up at it herself and shrugged as elegantly as she could in her severely fitted jacket. “They’ll love it. He’ll make them love it.”
“Sure.” Tony smiled. “Zeke knows best.”
Malia turned back to find cloths for the refreshment tables, but Tony called to her again.
“There’s still a picture here unpacked. Do you want me to…?”
Malia’s voice snapped back. It startled Tony, who obviously hadn’t heard such a tone directed at him for months now. “Leave that alone. Zeke said that he wants to hang that one himself—though I don’t know if there’ll be time before the first guests arrive. But he wants no one to touch it but him.” They both stood and stared at the small package, still propped against the far wall, covered in paper and bubble wrap. Neither knew quite what to say for a moment.
Then the cell phones started ringing again, and yet another gum-chewing delivery boy was pushing through the door, nearly colliding with the harassed assistant struggling in backward with a tray full of strong coffees. Malia shook off her curiosity and went to work.
Barely two hours later, the gallery opened its doors. The invitation list had been twice as long as the first show—and the invitations were twice as eagerly accepted. There was a slight sprinkle of rain outside and the first group of guests fell through the door, laughing and cursing and shaking their coats, reaching for the very welcome drinks. Malia smiled and served and generally facilitated. For one of the few times in her life, she wasn’t perturbed that none of them would remember her an hour later. She was just as concentrated as they were on the exhibition and its director.
This early group consisted mainly of journalists, sponsors, and also several representatives of the art magazines. Red De Vere was with them, arm in arm with his favorite assistant editor. He earned an appreciative glance from Malia, looking fashionably splendid in a sapphire blue silk shirt and linen pants that were molded perfectly to his shape. He handed his designer raincoat to an assistant, nodding and smiling toward his companion. But his attention seemed otherwise distracted, his eyes running over the other arrivals as if looking for someone in particular. Malia glanced down at her guest list but couldn’t see any name linked to his. Then he browsed past her, shepherding one of the sponsors into the building with some witticism or other. There was more laughter all around, a barely suppressed excitement underlying everything.
So closely after Red that any ingenuous spectator might have thought they arrived together, Carter Davison appeared. Malia ticked him off her list, knowing he was Zeke’s friend and special guest. He was more modestly dressed than the extravagant Mr. De Vere, but Malia admired the plain shirt and jacket, and soft fabric pants. He had an innate style that allowed him to wear ordinary clothes, and yet look extraordinary himself. He obviously didn’t like to attract attention, but maybe, to discerning people, he did.
And then they all turned for their first view of the exhibition.
“Shit,” came from one of the younger journalists. Malia saw a ripple of shock and excitement run through the crowd. She also saw Red De Vere turn and catch Carter Davison’s eye. Rather more intriguing, Malia saw that the brown-haired man was already watching De Vere in return. He nodded; Red raised an eyebrow and grinned back.
Malia turned, trying to imagine seeing the exhibition for the first time, just as the visitors were. It was a riot of paintings again, but the theme wasn’t of color or hue as before. It was of people and touch. There were pictures of hands praying; hands waving; hands striking; hands embracing. Pictures of children, men and women, offering comfort, help, praise, and derision. People clasping each other in friendship; striking in anger; clutching in lust.
The gallery was full of depictions of these people. Families; lovers; solitary figures. Everyone and anyone. Any age; any gender; any race.
“Hey.” Another journalist whistled.
“Fucking brilliant,” gasped a sponsor’s personal assistant, who immediately turned scarlet.
Someone else laughed with delight.
The pictures were on the walls and also hanging from the ceiling, as before. What was different this time was that in amongst them, Zeke had arranged a network of threads and cords. Hanging from these was a fabulously varied selection of personal effects—gloves, rings, watches, hair bands, hats, socks. They were placed so that they didn’t obscure the pictures and the story they had to tell, but instead they added their own perspective to it. This was an exhibition of people and their lives and their relationships, and the objects were part of that.
Red laughed out loud, an exuberant expression of his own pleasure. “Roswell, where are you?” he called. “It’s magnificent. Come here and accept your congratulations as the talented man you undoubtedly are.”
And Zeke Roswell appeared from behind the Perspex screen—the only part of the room that wasn’t covered with paintings and brightly colored, shiny, swinging items. He’d dressed in the black suit again, this time over a vivid red shirt. He had a small cord around his neck with a silver ankh hanging from it. His hair was glossy and his eyes were bright, but his grin was nervous.
“Washes up well, doesn’t he?” Malia murmured proudly. Tony stood beside her and was the only one to hear. He squeezed her hand, and despite the table of drinks and catalogs that she was fiercely guarding, she let him. The people were flocking in now, bursting through the door and swirling around the edges of the room like a river undammed. As she and Tony watched, barely able to keep up with the collection of tickets and issue of catalogs, there was a loud burst of applause and the cameras started clicking all around. Within seconds, Zeke vanished from their view, engulfed by well-wishers and a steadily growing band of fans.
AND then Miles Winter arrived.
Zeke knew immediately, some alert shivering involuntarily along his nerves. Momentarily, the cameras whirled away from him and darted to capture the latest arrival. The owner of the gallery had arrived! There were several women clustering around him, gushing effusively. Malia was attempting to keep them at bay, pressing a catalog into any hand that got too near, and drinks into the others. Miles was apologizing for being held up in traffic, on his way here from another meeting. He was smiling, but it seemed as if it were an effort. He leaned away from the free hands that reached out to shake his own, and his eyes flickered above all the heads, searching for something.
On the other side of the room, with guests milling all around, Zeke looked across and caught Miles’ gaze. For that second, there was no one else in the room for him. A catalog was opened in front of him, obscuring his sight; a glass of wine was almost spilled down his black suit. An enthusiastic former art student clapped him on the shoulder.
Zeke saw none of it. He saw only Miles.
Miles raised a hand from his side as if to wave. Then Red arrived beside him, embracing him and taking him over to meet some of the sponsors. The contact was lost.
“Zeke?” Carter arrived beside his friend, taking his arm and firmly extricating him from an overenthusiastic admirer. “It’s great, Zeke. Such an innovative idea—and such a superb collection of complementary art. I suspect that you’ll hear that from hundreds of other people tonight.”
Zeke hugged him affectionately. “So glad you came, Carter. You’re looking damned good. That jacket’s new, right? It suits you; brings out the green in your eyes. Took some fashion advice from the Lord of the Track, eh?”
Zeke knew Carter would realize he was just teasing him. He’d not spoken to Zeke about his evening with Red De Vere, and Zeke hadn’t seen either of them in the few days leading up to the show. But Zeke peered at Carter tonight and saw a very unusual flush on his cheeks.
“You like him, though, don’t you?” said Zeke, softly. He saw Carter’s eyes following Red tonight, saw the thoughtful expression on his face as he watched Red dispense his unique brand of charm and bonhomie throughout the room.
Carter was characteristically frank. “He’s not the type I’d want to get close to.”
Liar. “Too much of a handful for you?” Zeke grinned.
“And Miles isn’t?” Carter was sharp with his comeback.
“Maybe.” Zeke sighed. What did he know, anyway? This was his first sight of the damned man since last night. No word, no call, no message all day. All Zeke had to console himself with was a headache from lack of sleep, and sore calves. “Red’s different, Carter. He seems outrageous, sure. But he’s damned clever underneath it all, and he’s Miles’ friend. That’s a good enough reference for me.”
“What is this, a dating agency?” Carter looked even more flushed.
“Who mentioned dating?” said Zeke, slyly. He took Carter’s arm and drew him closer. He knew he sounded hoarse. “Look, he’s not Jacky.”
Carter frowned. “Dammit, I know that. I wouldn’t want—”
“Another one like him?” said Zeke, speculatively. “I’d be glad if that were true, you know? You deserve much better than my brother gave you. Sure, he loved you—but that was no reason to trample all over a guy like you.”
“Christ, you talk nonsense,” Carter grumbled. “Especially about Red. I only had a beer with him.”
“Guess the nonsense is on both sides, Carter,” Zeke replied, grinning at his friend’s obvious embarrassment. “It must be one of those nights.” Malia was bearing down on him, waving a catalog with an eager look on her face that implied she was selling both pictures and potential like they were going out of fashion tomorrow. Carter started to move away, acknowledging Zeke’s need to be elsewhere for a while.
“Be here for me, Carter, will you?” asked Zeke, just as he turned to go and help Malia with the paperwork. “Just to the end of tonight?”
Carter nodded. “I’m not going anywhere else just yet. You can rely on me.”
Barely an hour later, the gallery was full. The drinks were flowing and the food fast vanishing. The place was full of the noise of chatter and calls and cries of delight and surprise. The cameras still flashed, and Zeke had given several brief interviews. Red had spun sponsor after investor after connoisseur in front of him until his head whirled and his tongue threatened to suffocate inside his mouth if it didn’t wrap itself around some iced water. Malia was heavily flushed, with wisps of her perfect hair escaping from the pins, but her central catalog looked well-thumbed, and her Filofax was significantly thicker with new contacts’ business cards.
There’d been a late arrival, about half an hour earlier. Remy Dion had arrived with a group of people from her latest photo shoot, the tickets sponsored by their fashion magazine. Zeke hadn’t seen her arrive though he heard the sudden snapping of cameras and saw the reporter notebooks waving. He also saw Red moving swiftly to the opposite end of the room, expression like thunder, as if he couldn’t put enough space between him and the model. Even more surprising, he saw Carter moving after him. From the look of their subsequent conversation, Carter was calming down the lively blond. He had a restraining hand on his arm.
Well, well. Zeke had allowed himself a secret smile. So that’s the result of ‘only having a beer’.
He’d watched carefully, without appearing to, to see how Remy greeted Miles. It had been brief and outwardly civil, an air kiss or two. And when she put out a hand to him, he’d taken a catalog from Malia and offered that with a bland smile. Zeke had been ridiculously reassured.
For the moment, he stood against a wall, drawing a reviving breath in between the gushing and greeting that was going on all around him, and trying in vain to camouflage himself into the painted plaster itself. Malia and her staff were valiantly fielding the press and the columnists and the dealers, but everyone wanted to see Zeke Roswell himself. They wanted to talk to him; to ask his opinion; to pump him for information about the exhibits. They wanted to be with him.
He wasn’t just the “new boy” this time around.
“Taking refuge?” came the low voice, tinged with amusement. Simultaneously, Zeke smelled the light cologne and felt the body warmth as the other man came to stand beside him. Miles handed him a glass of sparkling iced water, matching his own, and he nodded thanks. They both stared ahead of them, out into the gallery, but their senses were on each other alone.
“Are you pleased with it, Miles?” he asked abruptly.
They hadn’t exchanged a single word since Miles had arrived, but Miles didn’t seem to be offended by the blunt greeting. “It’s brilliant, Zeke. It’s magnificent. It’s a visual feast and a startling theme. They can’t stop talking about it. Red will dine out on this for weeks to come, appointing himself your unofficial agent.”
“You thought I’d fuck up….”
“I never did,” said Miles, rather sharply. “You’re doing me an injustice again. I knew you’d deliver. I was just never sure what.”
“You wanted me to tell you all about it.”
“No—but I would have liked to have shared more of it with you.”
Zeke flushed, and his eyes dropped momentarily. “You just had to trust me, you know?”
Miles turned his head fully and stared at him. “I know. And I did. It’s a great success. You’re to be congratulated on that.”
“But….” Zeke swallowed some water, to ease his painfully dry throat. “But are you pleased with it?”
Miles looked bemused. Zeke looked at the tiny furrow in the man’s brow when he did that, and the tightening of his lips. He remembered how delicious those lips were—how skilled at both taking and giving pleasure. How it had been his pleasure, for weeks now. “The theme is for you, Miles,” he blurted out. His words sounded rushed. He wished he could remember just one of those million trite little speeches he’d practiced since he last saw Miles. “It’s because of you. No particular insistence on colors. Instead, I concentrated just on the emotion; the feelings of the artists; of the subjects. The impact on the guests. Those who look—and those who really see.”
He reached his hand up, like he had in his apartment last time they’d been there, palm toward Miles and fingers outstretched. Miles seemed to be struggling with some response, but he stayed silent. He lifted his own hand instead, and touched his fingertips to Zeke’s.
“Connection,” sighed Zeke. “That’s what the exhibition is called.” With a smile, he moved away from the wall and Miles’ startled, confused expression, and he rejoined the throng.
MILES stood in the middle of the room, temporarily ignored in the middle of a throng of excited and confused guests. The Perspex screen shone out in front of them, backlit by carefully placed spotlights. It was completely blank; completely clear of any markings or signs. At the sides were attached small, shallow troughs, a ladder of them one above the other, from almost floor level up to the height of the tallest man in the room. Miles leaned past one of the staring guests and peered at the troughs. He could see the glimmer of paint in each one.
There were murmurs amongst the crowd as they passed the screen, even as they praised the rest of the show. Snickers of scorn.
“What the hell’s wrong with this? Just gets in the way, unless he’s going to use it.”
“Guess he missed a few here.”
“Ran out of pictures, more like. Couldn’t get the sponsors he’d wanted. They say he has no contacts left in the city anymore….”
“So he’s still an erratic performer, eh? Still untried….”
Miles stood as still as he could a
nd bit his lip. When Zeke worked his way to his side, he turned to him with a puzzled expression. What the hell did Zeke mean by this strange vacuum in the middle of such cluttered activity? People would surely remember this empty, aching window long after they remembered the glory of the other displays.
But Zeke just grinned, as if he knew what Miles was thinking and cared even less. “Still trust me, Miles?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Miles. He was glad that he found it so easy to say.
“So watch.”
As Miles, Carter, Red, and many other guests stared, Zeke stepped up close to the screen. He dipped the fingers of his right hand into one of the troughs of paint. Then he reached up toward the top of the screen, and carefully pressed his damp, green-streaked fingertips to its cool surface. He left the perfect mark of his fingerprints; of his unique individuality.
The noise level fell around him, and there was a confused silence. Tony appeared discreetly at his side with a smile on his face and a box of wet wipes in his hand. He offered one to Zeke to wipe his hand clean of paint.
“Now you,” smiled Zeke, his hands waving for Carter and the others, but his eyes solely on Miles. “Connection, remember?”
Carter grinned his charming smile and stepped forward to copy Zeke’s actions. Some of the other guests laughed nervously; some moved a step forward too. Tony stood quietly to the side, with wipes for those who’d need them.
Miles gazed back at Zeke. The smile started very slowly at the edges of his mouth. “What color shall I choose, Zeke Roswell?” he murmured. There was a burst of delighted laughter and a girlish giggle around the screen. Others were pushing forward, to see what the fuss was about.
“Aren’t they all one to you, Miles Winter?” said Zeke.
“Some are brighter than others,” Miles replied softly.
Zeke smiled broadly, as if they spoke a language that wasn’t obvious in the words. “Choose what you like, Miles. The color’s not important, is it? It’s the print you leave behind that is.”
