by Susan Lewis
‘You’ll be coming back, won’t you?’ Philip said. ‘I mean, eventually.’
Penny shrugged. ‘Who knows? But even if I do you’ll all have moved on to other things by then and all my contacts will be in Linda frigging Kidman’s black book. It’ll be like starting from scratch all over again.’ Slumping forward she rested her chin despondently in her hands. ‘Plus,’ she added, ‘I don’t know a single, solitary soul down there.’
‘Well, I don’t think you’ll be short of visitors,’ Annie Kaplin, another journalist, grinned, already thinking about her summer holiday.
‘When are you going?’ Karen asked.
‘God knows. I haven’t actually said yes yet. Oh shit, why can’t she send Linda? She’d love it down there on the Riviera, strutting her stuff for the seriously brain dead. And what the hell am I going to look like down there in all that sun? I won’t be able to cover up any of the nasty bits . . . Maybe I’d better keep those cellulite creams and try a bit harder. What the hell’s all that?’ she cried, glaring up at the post boy as he dumped a sack full of mail on the floor beside her.
‘Applications for the Declan Hailey talk on nude art,’ the post boy informed her. ‘I was told to bring them all to you.’
‘You left this in Sylvia’s office,’ Rebecca said, handing Penny the scribbled bank details Sammy had given her.
‘Oh yes, thanks,’ Penny said, taking them. ‘I suppose I’d better do that now or she really will manage to get herself arrested. Anyone fancy the wine bar for lunch? I’m in need of one last binge before I start the next deportation of fat cells.’
Laughing and groaning, they all turned back to their desks. Penny’s diets were as legendary as they were unsuccessful – though at times they were almost as good a source of entertainment as her outrageously chaotic love life.
Chapter 2
EARLY THE FOLLOWING afternoon, complete with overnight bag, portable computer and bulging sack of Declan Hailey mail, Penny was unceremoniously deposited by a taxi into the driving rain at the entrance of a secluded and picturesque little harbour just outside Portsmouth. Two neat rows of smart town houses, currently being belaboured by the storm and hazed by low-sailing grey cloud, fringed opposite sides of the harbour, where yachts of all sizes and descriptions bobbed and clanked recklessly on the swelling tide.
As Penny struggled along the narrow towpath with her luggage she was wondering what kind of mood she was going to find Declan in after their phone call the night before when she’d tried to persuade him to come up to London rather than her having to drag all the way to Portsmouth when she was so busy. He’d won the battle, partly because she’d had too much to do to spend the time arguing, but mainly because not having seen him all week she wasn’t about to deprive herself any further of the kind of things they enjoyed most.
After almost a year they were still photographed and written about on a fairly regular basis, though nothing like when they’d first got together. It was Penny’s revelation that the nude portrait which had catapulted Declan into the media spotlight was indeed of the royal personage rumour claimed it to be. Since one of Declan’s trademarks was never quite to reveal the face of his subject – in this instance, the woman concerned was draped languorously across a bed of silk cushions with her face turned shyly into the crook of her arm – no one had been able to say for sure whether or not it really was the mischievous limelight-seeker whose flagrant hedonism was known to provoke many a wince at Her Majesty’s breakfast table. After interviewing Declan Penny had been able to put an end to the speculation with the exclusive that he, in an unguarded moment, had given her. Declan had been furious that she had gone to print with what he called ‘a royal confidence’, and had publicly challenged Penny to print the entire truth of their interview. Penny hadn’t, for two reasons: first because Starke wasn’t the kind of magazine that ran that sort of story; second, because she wasn’t proud of the way she had allowed herself to be so easily – and repeatedly – seduced during the weekend it had taken her to interview him. Instead she had written him an apology which had also reminded him that she hadn’t revealed the fact that he and the married lady concerned had had an affair. Declan had agreed to accept the apology on the condition that she, Penny, sat for him for three whole days the following week at his studio in Portsmouth. As it turned out, they made love for three days, which both had known they would, and ever since then Penny had happily posed for him whenever he asked, but only because of what it led on to, certainly not because she hoped to see the end results on public display – which they never were.
As she approached the last house in the terrace, which masterfully concealed an expansive top-floor studio with a panoramic view of the sea, she was desperately hoping that she wasn’t going to find him in one of his artistic sulks. She needed to talk and, when in spirits, he was the most level-headed adviser she knew, whose logic, though as peculiarly and poetically Irish as his long, jet-black hair and devilish turquoise-blue eyes, always seemed to contain more basic common sense than most would ever credit him for. But when in a sulk he was totally insufferable and best given the kind of berth one would normally reserve for a kamikaze recruiting agent.
Inserting her key in the lock, she pushed open the door and dropped her bags in the hall.
‘Is that you?’ Declan called out as the door slammed behind her.
‘It’s me,’ she called back, looking up through the three levels of wrought-iron staircases. She waited a moment, then started to smile as he came to lean on the banisters and look down at her. His dark hair was tied in a ponytail, his lean, handsome face was smeared with paint and he was badly in need of a shave.
‘Hi,’ she said, thinking that Diane Driscoll, the diarist for one of the seamier tabloids who was more commonly known as the Doyenne of Drivel, was right when she’d written that ‘one look at the artist Declan Hailey is enough to electrify the extremities with the desire to be titillated by his masterful brush’.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Hungry?’
‘Mmm, a bit,’ she answered. ‘You working?’
‘Yeah. Richmond’s here.’
‘Hi, Richmond,’ she shouted.
‘How you doing, Pen?’ the Olympic gold medallist called back.
‘Just fine. I’ll leave you to get on with it,’ she said to Declan. ‘I’ve got a whole stack of things that need finishing by Monday. Did you pick up the papers this morning?’
‘They’re on the table,’ he told her. ‘Got a kiss for your old man?’
Blowing him one, Penny shrugged off her coat, then carried her computer through to the sitting room, where the log fire he’d no doubt built for her was smouldering towards extinction in its black marble niche. The rest of the room was in its normal state of chaos, telling her that he’d had guests the night before and Mrs Pettigrew had once again been too hungover to make an appearance.
Yawning, she pushed her fingers through her hair and started to clear a space for herself on the glass-topped dining table that separated the high-tech kitchen and eclectic bedlam of the sitting room. Then, finding some hot coffee in the percolator, she emptied it into the one remaining clean cup and went to rekindle the fire. Much as she liked Richmond she was hoping he wasn’t planning on staying the entire weekend, which most did when they came to Declan’s, for people were drawn to him as if he was some kind of messiah. But since Richmond lived just a couple of miles down the road she doubted he’d stay long and as Declan knew she wanted to talk he’d have very likely built some time for them into whatever the weekend schedule was. Meanwhile she had the rest of this Italian interview to translate and with the promise of a couple of hours without interruption she’d do well to get down to it.
The first hour went well, Carla Landolfi having had plenty to say that was both revelatory and unflinchingly courageous, but when it came to adding her own comments to the interview Penny found her mind wandering back to Sylvia’s decision to send her to France. Apart from desperately not wanting to go, the thing that
was bothering her most about it was why Sylvia had chosen now to send her into exile, when, to be frankly immodest about it, her rising popularity as an interviewer was just what Starke needed and, unless she’d totally misread everything, was projecting her towards the position Sylvia had always intended her to occupy. So to banish her now didn’t make any sense. It was like nurturing a prize-winning rose then snipping off the bud before it had a chance to blossom.
Getting up from her chair Penny wandered back to the fire and stacked a couple more logs. As she watched the flames flare up, she bit down hard on the anger that was growing inside her. Her diary was full for weeks ahead, requests were coming in all the time for her to interview celebrities and statesmen, as well as offers to talk from the normally publicity shy, so why the hell would she want to go to France? She’d almost rather take a job on the Sunday Sport than leave London now. The trouble was, though, she doubted she had it in her to throw everything back in Sylvia’s face by turning her down when Sylvia had done so much for her?
With a quick sigh of impatience she turned to answer the phone. Everything was silent upstairs and, knowing Declan would just let it ring rather than break his muse, she snatched up the receiver and barked, ‘Hello!’
‘Pen? Is that you?’
‘Mally?’ Penny cried, breaking instantly into a smile. ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘London!’ Mally yelled ecstatically. ‘We just got in. I called your flat. Peter told me where you were.’
‘How was the tour?’ Penny laughed. ‘I read about it. Seems you were—’
‘Fan-fuckin’-tastic!’ Mally cut in, in a broad Northern accent. ‘But what the hell are you doing in Portsmouth? We’re only here for the weekend.’
‘Then get on a train and come down,’ Penny cried. ‘There’s plenty of room. Declan won’t mind.’
‘What, all of us?’ Mally gasped excitedly. ‘D’you hear that, you pissheads?’ she called over her shoulder. ‘She’s inviting us down there.’
Penny laughed at the bawdy cheer of approval from Mally’s band. ‘Yes, all of you,’ she confirmed. ‘Get on the next train.’
‘Right on, sistuh,’ Mally boomed. ‘Be there as soon as we can,’ and after jotting down the address she rang off.
Still laughing, Penny replaced the receiver and strolled back to her computer. Mally and her rock band were old friends from college days whose rise to fame was beginning to take on meteoric proportions. They’d already had a number one hit and the next was currently zooming up the charts, while their recent tour of the States, from what she had read, had been a total sellout. It would be great to see Mally and the boys, but, damn it, how was she going to get rid of Richmond before they turned up so that she and Declan could talk? She’d told him on the phone about France, but though he hadn’t passed any comment at the time he had seemed as keen to discuss it as she’d expected him to be.
Smiling to herself, she sat back down and rested her chin on her hand. The entire world knew how possessive Declan was of her – his public outbursts of jealousy had on one momentous occasion resulted in him challenging a hapless young hack to pistols at dawn and, on another, to emptying a plate of squid over an MP’s head, in order to, as he’d put it, ‘cool his filthy ardour’, because he’d been gazing a touch too lustfully into Penny’s eyes. There were countless other incidents too, most of which had found their way into one diary column or another and kept the better part of London, if not the nation, highly entertained with the hot-blooded romance that, at the outset, no one had believed would last.
But it had and Penny smiled to herself as she recalled how only last weekend, which they had spent at his studio in London, he had left a message on his answerphone announcing to the world that he couldn’t come to the phone because he was making love to his woman. This was so typically Declan that it had simply made her laugh when she’d found out, and, besides, it was the truth: they’d spent a rare and blissful two days without a single interruption and she could only wish they were similarly occupied right now.
A surprising frisson of excitement suddenly passed through her, but it wasn’t only at the thought of their love-making, she realized, it was also at the idea of the kind of life they would lead if they did go to France. She was in no doubt that if she went Declan would come with her, if for no other reason than on the couple of occasions they had visited the Riviera he’d talked so wistfully of living there, had waxed so lyrical about the quality of the light, that she’d almost felt guilty at the way her job tied her to London. Once she had attempted, half-heartedly it was true, to persuade him to give in to his longing and take a studio in the artist’s village of St. Paul, but the conversation ended pretty quickly as there was no way he was going without her.
So, she asked herself with a sigh, what was there to discuss? Sylvia had made up her mind, Declan would be all for them going, and, she had to confess, now that she’d had a little more time to get used to the idea, the thought of all the parties she and Declan would throw, the endless stream of guests from London and Ireland, as well as the circle of itinerant intelligentsia and slightly barmy indigenous wits he would inevitably attract, was becoming quite appealing.
Damn Richmond, she thought, glancing at her watch. It had only been in the past couple of months that Declan had started to do male nudes and, boy, had she learned a thing or two about male vanity in that time! To see them gazing at Declan’s perfect renditions of their beauty was like watching Narcissus catching his reflection in a stream. They couldn’t tear themselves away and Declan, loving nothing more than he loved praise, was quite happy for them to ogle his masterpieces for as long as it took him to get bored – which could be anything from an hour to an entire day, depending on the subject’s eloquence.
It was rare for her to interrupt him while he was working, but in this instance Penny felt justified in climbing the three flights of stairs to the studio, for she had to let him know that Mally and the boys were arriving. With any luck this would remind him that the time they would have to talk had suddenly become limited – and if she were to let him know how keen she was to remove her own clothes right now, then Richmond would probably be out of the door in even less time than it took to put his trousers back on.
Pausing when she reached the top stair she rested her elbows on the banister, and quietly regarded the scene in the studio. Declan, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose over the elastic waistband of the Turkish-style pants that drooped well below his navel, was at his easel, a brush between his lips, a palette on the stool beside him and such a fixed air of concentration about him that Penny felt reluctant to speak. Though his skin was pale, dressed the way he was he had something of the Suleiman about him, and as she noticed the outline of his genitals beneath the flimsy fabric of his pants a spark of lust bit deeply into her.
Richmond was sprawled across an old maple-wood day bed, his perfect, athlete’s body gleaming with the oils he had earlier massaged into his ebony skin. One arm was thrown across his eyes, the other hand was resting, Penny noticed with some surprise, beside an almighty erection. She wondered how long he had been in that state and whether it was something Declan had insisted on or was simply a result of Richmond having recently taken a quick dekko at his portrait.
Canvases were stacked all around them, fighting for space with vast, embroidered cushions, a couple of threadbare throne-style chairs, an assortment of three-fold screens and the usual artist’s paraphernalia, which cluttered every available surface. The scent of whisky in the warm air was only slightly masked by the turps and tempora, and the dazzling spotlights focused on Richmond’s body made it almost impossible to see the colourless seascape beyond the rain-spattered windows.
As she brought her eyes back to Declan she saw him wink, telling her he knew she was there. A minute or two later he removed the brush from his mouth and, sliding a hand into his trousers as though into a pocket, he stood back for a critical view.
‘Fucking brilliant,’ he said, the obscenity r
olling off his Irish tongue like a lover’s endearment. Then, removing his hand from his trousers, he planted it on his hip, hooking his shirt out of the way so that Penny could see his partial erection.
Smiling to herself, Penny waited for him to turn and look at her. When he did she allowed her eyes to rest on his for a moment, then dropped them blatantly to his groin. The exhilaration he felt when he’d finished a portrait never failed to manifest itself in the kind of rampancy she had no problem in matching, which was why he always waited until she was around before applying the final strokes.
She was so ready for him that she’d almost forgotten Richmond was there, until he swung his legs from the day bed and stood up. He was the same height as Declan and about the same build – and, she noticed, still as hard as a constable’s truncheon.
‘Watcha,’ he said to Penny, stretching his arms above his head, then running his hands down over his chest. Since he appeared totally oblivious to his erection, or the fact she could see it, Penny found herself becoming increasingly fascinated by the dark beauty of his masculinity. In fact, she could barely tear her eyes away as she watched him pad over to the easel to take a look at Declan’s latest chef-d’oeuvre.
As they stood side by side, staring wordlessly at the portrait, Penny was struck by how devastatingly attractive a contrast they made, one so white, the other so black. It felt strangely, almost mind-blowingly, erotic watching two such powerfully built men standing in such close proximity when both were sexually aroused. Declan turned to look at her, as though knowing what was going through her mind. She thought for one heart-stopping moment that he was going to invite her to join them and wondered what she would do if he did, but then he turned back to the portrait as though telling her this was a fantasy they would keep for later.
Then suddenly she felt her legs turning to water as Richmond’s arm came up to rest across Declan’s shoulders. Declan turned his head towards him and as their lips met she saw Declan’s tongue move into the darkness of Richmond’s mouth.
