You’re just shadow-boxing with yourself, kid. It’ll be hard. It’ll be well-nigh impossible. Ellis McKenna will be a tough act to follow, if only because you love him to distraction.
21
But there had been no internal debates about Josh Redding once Jess began her London adventure. Her lover’s giant presence in her mind didn’t leave room for anything else, and even just thinking about her art class friend felt like being unfaithful.
Especially when she reached her destination …
Ellis’s London apartment was much more like the billionaire pad she’d initially expected him to have. Like a wonderland, a glossy photo spread made real. The colour scheme surprised her though, and made her laugh the instant her brain made certain connections. When he’d told her the location, she’d checked out properties in this same giant building, on Zoopla and Rightmove, and when the housekeeper had shown her in, she’d expected the classic sea of white and chrome, as in the illustrations.
Instead, to her delight, she found a warmer, much more welcoming palette. Tones of rich dark brown, near black polished wood, all lightened with sand and cream and fawn, and high-lit with zingy little accents of blue and green, in jewel tones. The more she looked at it, when the housekeeper had left, the more an impression formed. And then it clicked.
It’s got the same colour scheme as you have, Mr McKenna.
The blacks and browns for his hair, creamy tan for his skin, blue-green for his fabulous eyes. She wouldn’t see him until later, but somehow, his presence was all around her as she settled in and explored, strengthened by his colour aura.
The concierge/housekeeper had offered a dazzling array of in-house services, but Jess had wanted to be alone in Ellis’s space.
‘Of course,’ the quietly efficient woman had said, ‘you’ll find the kitchen is stocked with all the staples you’ll need, and just press 0 on the house phone if there’s anything else you require.’
And now Jess was taking five, sitting in a vast living room area that overlooked the Thames, sipping a reviving cup of tea.
And here comes the rain again. Why is it always raining? We met in the rain and it seems to follow us wherever we go.
The London weather was indeed disappointingly wet and grey, but somehow even that had an impressionist charm, imparting a misty blue-grey aura to the busy City view, that almost might have come from the brush of Monet. Or Whistler.
I can’t believe I’m here. It’s like stepping into a dream. Even more so than Windermere Hall.
Her tea finished, Jess decided on a quick snoop around the apartment before she ventured out onto the rainy streets of London.
Ellis had been right when he’d said he didn’t have a great many pictures and works of art in his London pad. But the ones he did have were much more to Jess’s taste than the few rather dull country scenes he had on the walls at Windermere, which she suspected had been in the house when he’d first arrived there.
Here though there were three rather nice, impressionistic London views that were vibrant and accomplished. Not by artists she knew though, and she cursed the limitations of her artistic education. She knew mainly those ‘greatest hits’ that she cherished, and the pre-eminent art movements and their exponents, but beyond that was a very great world of painting, still unexplored.
There was nothing on the bedroom walls, as yet, which surprised her. She’d half expected some gems of tasteful eroticism, art to set the mood when Ellis brought his temporary conquests here for seduction.
Conquests like you, kiddo. You’re just the latest.
Jess had blushed when the female concierge had shown her into this football-field sized room rather than a guest room, on her little introductory tour. But then she’d thought, what the hell, why worry?
She’s probably perfectly used to different women sharing his bed. It isn’t as if I’m the first. He’s never deceived me about that!
Back in the room shortly after, on her own, Jess couldn’t resist the siren call of Ellis’s wardrobes, curious about his clothes.
The sliding door glided on its track, revealing hanger after hanger. Suits. Shirts. Razor-sharp business attire such as the billionaires of film and fiction might wear. She tried to imagine him clad that way, so different from the casual, unstructured beach bum look in which he’d made such a stunning first impact on her. She loved that style. It just seemed so right for him. She’d always remember him that way … either that, or stark naked.
Checking the label on a shirt, she grinned.
I might have known.
Paul Smith. She checked another and another. It almost seemed as if Ellis had every flowered or patterned shirt the man had ever designed. She pulled out one adorned with tiny washed out cornflowers and held it against her face. The cotton was very soft, and it smelt of Ellis’s fresh yet spicy cologne. The lovely odour made her heart twist, and she was tempted to stash the shirt in her bag, as a keepsake, and hope he wouldn’t notice it was missing.
It was time to head out on her gallery pilgrimage now. Hanging around here, her thoughts were arrowing inexorably in familiar, dangerous directions that she knew they shouldn’t.
The pursuit of great art would distract her from the recurring and inconvenient truth that she’d fallen for a man she couldn’t have.
Getting around London isn’t nearly as time-consuming when you have a luxury hire car to take you wherever you want to go.
Great galleries were still great galleries, though, and each had to be lavished with all the attention its precious collection deserved. With hours outside Ellis’s bedroom strictly limited, Jess asked the driver to take her straight to the venue right at the top of her list.
The Courtauld.
The limo drivers of London clearly had the same knowledge that the world famous black cab drivers possessed, and knew all the same clever rat runs that lesser mortals simply weren’t privy to. Staring out at the rain and the scurrying crowds with their mackintoshes and umbrellas, Jess was shocked at how quickly the car drew up at the Strand entrance to Somerset House.
‘Would you like me to see you to the door with an umbrella, miss?’ the driver asked.
‘No, but thanks very much. I’ll be fine.’
‘If you’re sure, miss. Just give us a call on the number on the card when you want to move on. It won’t necessarily be me, but whoever it is will get you exactly where you want to go.’
As the long black car sped away, weaving neatly into traffic, Jess headed for the arches that led into the Somerset House courtyard. She popped out to take a quick look at the fountains, but just as she was doubling back, her phone rang, so she darted beneath cover again, just in front of the gallery entrance, to take the call.
‘Jess, it’s me. Where are you?’ Ellis’s voice. Her heart trembled every time she heard it. He’d only texted so far today, presumably in his meetings.
‘Just about to go into the Courtauld Gallery. I’m very excited. I can’t wait to see the Impressionists.’
I wish you were here to see them with me.
‘Good! You enjoy, sweetheart. Take your time looking around. I’m almost finished here, so I’m hoping I can get to you there, and we can maybe enjoy some of those pictures together.’
Jess’s spirits leapt. Sharing this experience with Ellis would be just as wonderful, in its own way, as making love.
‘That’s great! I’d love that. I’ll mooch around. There’s masses for me to see before you get here. Shall I wait for you in a particular room or something?’
He probably thinks I’m crazy. I sound like a giddy kid … but I don’t care!
‘I’ll find you, Jess. It’s a relatively small gallery. I shouldn’t be too long, but if I haven’t tracked you down in an hour and a half, keep doubling back to the Impressionists and I’ll look for you there. Does that sound like a plan?’
‘It does indeed. I don’t need any excuse to loiter around in front of La Loge or A Bar at the Folies-Bergère.’ She could hardly believe she was going to soon see
those sublime artworks … with her sublime, albeit temporary lover.
‘Okay, Jess. Got to go again now. Enjoy the pictures. Ciao!’
The connection went dead, and Jess realised she was shaking. Was it the art? Or was it Ellis? Probably both.
I could spend days in here. It’s a house of treasures …
The Courtauld is a small gallery, but to Jess’s mind, it was perfect. The rooms are relatively small, and the atmosphere intimate, almost like viewing art in someone’s beautiful home rather than in a sterile, formalised environment. She moved from room to room, not ashamed to be open mouthed in wonder at the superb collection of works, doubling back on herself to look at particular pieces again, following no set pattern of viewing, entranced by the genius displayed.
Rubens. Botticelli. Gainsborough. Goya. Turner. Every one a jewel.
She was conscious though, of saving the best until last, so she could share her thoughts with Ellis. But finally, she had to give in and enter the rooms where the Impressionist paintings were hanging.
Manet. Monet. Degas. Cézanne. Renoir. Magical names.
It hardly seemed possible that she was seeing them for real. They were the stuff of her dreams, almost in the way Ellis was. They reminded her how barely formed her own artistic aspirations were, and yet at the same time they fired her with ambition. She’d never be famous, but she could try new things, push her skills, and learn and grow in the journey.
Ellis was the start of a journey too.
He’d prompted her to find her inner heart as a sexual woman. She knew he would not be with her much longer on the path, but she had no qualms about giving herself and her virginity to him. She was happy, in a bittersweet way, to have known him and loved him at all.
She stared hard into the face of the barmaid in A Bar at the Folies-Bergère. The face was enigmatic, weary, the eyes sad, resigned. Had she known a special lover? Had she lost him? There was regret there, Jess was sure of it, and she resolved not to ever, ever feel that way when looking back on her time with Ellis McKenna.
It was difficult to tear herself away from the great Manet masterpiece, but she felt tugged towards her other particular favourite. Renoir’s La Loge.
A happier painting, yes, and prettier in a more obvious way, but although the central figure – the cocotte? – seemed to be confident, and to gaze out boldly, Jess still wondered … what was her background? Did she too hide some doubt about her status? And who was her male companion ogling at, in another theatre box?
Don’t you care? Or does he always do that? And it’s
As she stared at the details of the pretty girl’s hair, her face, and her striking black and white gown, Jess had the oddest feeling.
No … Nobody has sixth sense like that. You can’t just know he’s here.
And yet her body shuddered finely. Her heart began to race. She wanted to turn around, but somehow she couldn’t.
Knowing she’d see a sight more dear to her than any French Impressionist masterpiece!
She’s the masterpiece. Art pundits would throw up their hands in horror at me saying that. But she’s the sight I most want to see here, the most beautiful.
Ellis paused in the doorway, as entranced by the image of Jess standing before La Loge, as she was by that famous work. Her face was aglow with wonder, illuminated almost. He felt in awe of her and the pure communion between her and the great painting.
Seeing Jess like that made him glad to be in the gallery. He’d experienced a gut-wrenching shudder on entering, irresistibly drawn back to family plans that had once been made. Julie had been so keen to visit this gallery, and he was sure that even though Lily and Annie had been only little girls, they too would’ve been able to appreciate the experience. They’d certainly have loved the pretty opera box girl, with her black and white dress and her flowers. Lily had loved to dress up, and would probably have requested a dress like that for her next birthday.
The pang of pain struck him again, but ebbed a little when he focused on the woman who waited for him in the here and now, so slim, yet shapely, elegant in her simple summer outfit, cornflower blue cotton trousers and a short, toning jacket. He loved the way her dark hair hung shiny to her shoulders, and her face was so fresh with barely the lightest touch of makeup.
You know I’m here, don’t you?
Something subtle about her stance had changed, as if she’d sensed him in the way he was sure he’d have sensed her with their positions reversed. But she wasn’t giving in to the urge to turn around, the minx. She was making him come to her, like the goddess she’d become, and perhaps always had been, unknowingly.
Smiling, he lingered a moment longer, enjoying the invisible push-pull between them. It made him want her furiously, stirring the hunger that had gnawed him since Sunday last. The primal beast part of him wanted to hustle her imperiously from this wonderful gallery, bundle her into a limousine and speed back to the apartment to fuck her hard, then slow, then kinky, then gently vanilla. Maybe even start the process in the back of the car.
But most of him, perhaps even a greater part, just wanted to be with her, and to share experiences. This gallery. London. Simply being together.
He wanted to say, Look, all you people, I can actually be happy. I can stop being an emotional cripple, at least for a little while, and take pleasure in the company of this wonderful, enviable woman.
Oh, what the fuck was he waiting for?
Ellis strode across the room, weaving through fellow Impressionists devotees. He walked softly across, and snuck up behind Jess, following her eye-line to the painting.
‘What do you think he’s looking at? If it were you and I in that box, my eyes would be only for you, never mind the audience, or even the opera.’
‘I knew you were there,’ she said, turning to him, her face provocative, smiling. ‘I was just wondering how long it’d take you to come across to me.’
‘Whoa, super powers now, as well as your many other talents.’ He reached for her hand, and drew it to his lips. The gesture felt perfectly natural; she was a queen, and he was her courtier.
‘I suppose so,’ she answered, then took his breath away, by leaning in towards him as he straightened up, and pressing a quick kiss to his lips.
Oh God. He stiffened in his underwear, suddenly glad of a loose, longish jacket. He’d have to focus on art appreciation or he was going to embarrass the both of them.
‘I’m glad you’re here, Jess. I’ve missed you. It’s been a very long week.’
She frowned a little, as if she didn’t quite believe him, but then smiled again, her face openly happy. ‘Yeah, I’ve missed you too, Ellis.’ She paused and winked. ‘Although all the presents have helped to ease the pain. You’re a very extravagant, but very, very kind man. Thank you so much.’ She reached up and touched his face, making his erection jerk again. ‘I’m not going to embarrass you, by saying I can’t accept your gifts. I think I know you enough to know that you don’t … um … mean anything by them. You’re not trying buy me or make me obliged to you. You’re a better man than that, and the books, and the pencils and everything … well, they make me feel happy.’
Emotion stole away Ellis’s voice. She was a wonder. So honest. So fresh. She played no mind games. For a moment that spear of pain pierced him again. Jess’s frankness and lack of guile reminded him of Julie, even though in most ways they were very different women.
‘I’m glad,’ he said at last. ‘Very glad. Now, shall we admire the art?’
‘Yes, isn’t this amazing?’ She turned back to La Loge. ‘I love it, but it’s a bit of an enigma, just like the best things always are.’ She turned back quickly to him, with a wag of her eyebrows. ‘Is she a lady? Or is she a prostitute? That’s what you always wonder … what they were trying to say, as a comment about their times. She looks contented enough, doesn’t she? Not like the girl in the Folies-Bergère …’ She nodded towards that other painting, not too far away. ‘She looks sad to me.’
Ellis ste
pped back a way, trying to think critically about the paintings when all he wanted to do was take Jess in his arms and hug her and kiss her. ‘I don’t know … I think she’s just a young woman out for the night with her boyfriend, really. And he’s being a bit of a git, as we mostly are.’
Jess turned from the picture and gave him an appraising look. Was she wondering about the word ‘boyfriend’? Was he her boyfriend? He’d never been anyone’s boyfriend since Julie. His relationships, or whatever they’d been until now, had not really merited that term.
‘Let’s look at this gal then,’ he said, resisting self-analysis and taking her by the arm and leading her towards the Manet.
‘So, what do you think?’ As they stood in front of the famous bar scene, he experienced an insane urge to hold her hand, or put his arm around her. But he resisted that too. Too possessive. Too mine, mine, mine. Too confusing for them both.
‘It’s hard to know what she’s thinking. Or what Manet wants us to believe she’s thinking. The whole thing is a bit unsettling. The reflection is all skew-whiff but he must have meant it to be that way.’ Jess pursed her lips, staring hard at the image. ‘It’s wonderful, truly, but it makes me uneasy. And even more so, seeing it for real.’
Wonderful but uneasy. That’s how I feel.
Suddenly Ellis wanted to get out of here, absurd as that seemed. He’d wanted to share this experience with her, but the provocative art was dredging up thoughts he didn’t want to face.
You bloody coward, man.
He glanced at his watch, and saw the perfect out.
‘When did you last eat, Jess? I hate to raise mundane matters in the presence of high art, but it’s way past lunchtime.’
Her frown wasn’t puzzled, but knowing. As if she saw right through him. Her perspicacity was far more unsettling than any Impressionist masterpiece. ‘I had some biscuits on the train.’
‘Biscuits? You can’t live on biscuits, woman.’ He did reach for her hand now. He needed the touch of her flesh to centre him, and return him to territory he felt secure on. ‘You need to build yourself up. You need fuel …’ He leaned in and whispered in her ear. ‘For later. For stamina.’
How to Seduce a Billionaire Page 24
