The Colour of Mermaids

by Catherine Curzon

  She saw the flash in his eyes as he flicked his gaze across to her again, then he sank down onto the chair and began to work. He was silent, his expression focussed and darkened by concentration.

  So this is the Daniel Scott Method in action.

  Her thoughts began to drift to the private viewing and the moment he had first spoken to her. How long had he stood there before his approach? She thought of the heat they had shared and she didn’t know, couldn’t begin to guess, how long this would last. Living with such intensity might be exciting, but surely there would come a point at which it was exhausting.

  Eva didn’t want to think of that. Instead she lay still, thinking of every painting she had ever seen of courtesans and lovers, models who must have carnally known the men who had painted them.

  Long minutes of silence passed, Daniel’s gaze flickering back and forth between the page and his muse—not that she would ever think of herself like that, obviously, not for a moment—the nib scratching on the paper as he worked. Occasionally he paused, chewed his lip, tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, but he never spoke. The silence was broken only by the sound of seagulls from outside, the occasional toot of a car horn or shouting voices that drifted up on the breeze, all of it a world that didn’t exist for them.

  “The light’s terrible,” Daniel murmured, almost to himself. “We should be in the studio.”

  Eva’s arm had gone sleep and she stretched it above her head. “Why not? I hope you have a decadent chaise longue for me.”

  “It needs to be a bed.” He folded the papers carefully into four and put them on the desk. Then he stood and tilted his head to one side to look at her. “Tell me about your illustrations.”

  “If you wish…” Eva rolled onto her front, propping her head up on one hand. “They’re really not all that exciting. You’ve probably seen them and you wouldn’t remember. But they’re out there in the world, decorating articles and opinion pieces, websites and books. Cakes and bees and mermaids and whatever else I’m asked to draw.”

  “And what about your art?” Daniel sat on the bed beside her. He brushed his fingers tenderly down her hair. “What comes from your soul?”

  “All my illustrations have a bit of me in them.” Eva leaned into his touch. “But when I get time, or even if I don’t, but I can’t stop, I paint. Or use charcoal or anything really. Whatever the image needs. It’s all a bit scattershot—landscapes or people or just colours and shades. They’re for me, really. I sometimes give them as presents, but most of them are piled up in my studio.”

  “Why?” He brushed a strand of hair back behind Eva’s ear. “Do you show them to your kids?”

  “Sometimes I do, if it fits in with the theme for that session. They seem to like them!” Eva laughed. “But no one else gets to see them. It’s not as if you’ll see an exhibition any time soon.”

  “You know that’s not why you’re here, right?” His voice held a guarded quality suddenly. “I’m not offering a favour for a favour and I didn’t get that from you either. You do know that?”

  “I do know that. I’m not asking anything from you.” Eva felt hurt at the idea that he thought she had only come here to advance her career, or whatever it was he seemed to think. But it must happen to him all the time, being unable to trust people or allow them to get close. “I’m quite happy working as an illustrator, honestly. I didn’t come here for anything other than to be with you.”

  “I’ve had offers. Always say no.” He smiled, that arrogance seeping through. “I didn’t think it of you, but in case you’re wondering, I did you a little favour this morning anyway.”

  It went the other way too, of course, as Rupert had made clear on their failed date. Share more than a boring snog with the man who called Eva’s art outreach ‘art for chavs’ and he might consider exhibiting her work. Eva hadn’t been interested.

  “I’m glad you didn’t think that of me.” Eva reached for his hand. Her tone became playful. “But what favour’s this? Can you tell me, or is it a surprise?”

  “Your gallery-owning boyfriend wasn’t too keen on letting a bunch of kids from an outreach group rampage around his gallery. He didn’t tell me why, but I know his sort.” Daniel raised an eyebrow. Of course he knew the sort, because he had once been just the kind of child that Rupert was now terrified might wreck his precious space. ‘Council estate rats’, as Rupert had once sniggered. ‘Watch your handbag, Eva, they’ll have it off to Cash Converters if you blink.’ “If you still want to take your group to my show, they’ll find the red carpet rolled out for them.”

  “Thank you!” Eva kissed his hand. “That’s the loveliest thing, Daniel. And… Rupert’s definitely not my boyfriend.”

  “You should probably remind him of that.” He smiled. “He dropped a pretty strong hint that you had an on-off thing.”

  “At the risk of spoiling the mood, although it’d take a lot to do that, we went out on one date, and it was not something I wish to repeat.” Eva shuddered theatrically. “I won’t tell you what he called my art outreach, but I’m sure you can imagine, and he said he’d show my paintings if I went to bed with him! He didn’t put it in so many words, but it was very clear it’s what he meant.”

  “I called it right. He is a prick.” There was a knock at the door and Daniel winked, almost playful. “Sounds like dinner to me.”

  Eva laughed. “I suppose you’re going to answer the door without a stitch on?”

  “Except my sunglasses.” He rose to his feet and crossed to pick up the Wayfarers, hiding his eyes behind them again. For a moment she thought he was actually about to carry out his threat, but at the last moment he opened the large wardrobe and took out one of two white dressing gowns that hung inside, each embroidered with an elaborate M on the breast. As Daniel slid his arms into the sleeves he told her, “I’m choosy about who sees me in white, let alone naked. You might want to pull those covers up?”

  Eva slipped under the edge of the bedclothes. “Am I decent now?”

  “I hope not.” He tied the belt of the dressing gown and opened the door. She heard the sound of rattling crockery, then Daniel stood back to let in a young man, pushing a trolley laden with cloche-covered plates. There was a fresh silver champagne bucket from which the neck of a bottle protruded and two candles in silver candlesticks, their wicks unlit.

  With a polite nod of acknowledgement for Eva, the young man pushed the trolley with its pristine white tablecloth covering into the room. He took a lighter from his pocket and sparked the ignition, applying the flame to the candle wicks. Then he told the couple, “We’ve added some chocolates and strawberries for dessert. Compliments of the house.”

  He gave the suggestion of a bow, scooped up the exhausted champagne bucket and said, “Have a pleasant evening.”

  “I’m sure we will.” Eva grinned at Daniel. “More champers, Mr Carswell!”

  “And my massage oil.” He held up a small, dark bottle. “That’s for after dinner. Will you join me, Ms Catesby?”

  Eva got out from under the covers and took the remaining bathrobe from the wardrobe. She sank into its softness and went over to Daniel. “This is a lovely treat,” she said, and slipped her arm around his waist. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers, letting their kiss linger as he embraced her.

  “Shall we dine, Mr Carswell?” Eva lifted one of the covers to reveal a plate of pasta, just as she’d described. “I like this hotel.”

  “I suppose I should apologise for the taxi driver,” he told her slyly, turning to take the bottle from the bucket. “Did it bother you that he thought you were booked?”

  “No, I thought it was funny! Bearing in mind how I was dressed, too.” She kissed Daniel’s cheek, then said, “He was delivering me to someone with unusual tastes!”

  “The notorious Mr Carswell.” He replenished the glasses. “Let’s eat, and you can tell me all about Eva.”

  They brought some chairs up to the trolley, and sat at it opposite each other as if it we
re a dining table. Eva wound a length of pasta around her fork, then she laid it down on the side of her plate. “Before we start, can I make an apology?”

  “It’s not a husband,” he mused. “You’re not looking for a quid pro quo and it looks as though you’ve ordered a great dinner. So what’s left to apologise for?”

  “For what I said at the private view. About throwing wine in your face.” Eva looked up from her plate at Daniel. “I’m sorry. I just felt a bit…vulnerable. I didn’t mean it. If I’d had wine, I’d’ve been drinking it, not wasting it like that!”

  “I don’t take criticism well.” He picked up his own fork, then pushed the sunglasses back into his hair. “Especially when there’s truth in it. I know I need to push what I do—I’m hoping a few roots, a home, might help with that. Maybe I need a muse?”

  Eva lifted her fork, catching the end of the pasta with her tongue as it began to unravel. After passing the back of her hand across her mouth to dash away any sauce, she asked, “And where will you find one of those?”

  “I think it’d be pretty easy to find one,” Daniel admitted. “The problem is, what artist would want a muse who applies for the job? Who’s yours?”

  “My muse? I don’t know…” Eva sawed the end off the baguette and tore the golden crust open to reveal the soft white bread inside. “Well, actually, I do know. And you’re going to think it’s cheesier than this bowl of parmesan. But it’s Brighton.”

  “Is there enough of Brighton for two of us?” He wound his fork into the pasta. “Because I’m not planning to go anywhere.”

  Eva chewed off a lump of bread and grinned at him. “I’m happy to share.”

  “Are you happy to visit my place and pose properly?”

  “Wow, I’d love to!” Eva dunked the other end of her bread into the sauce. “When would you like me?”

  “I can give you my address and number.” So the withheld phone number was about to become a thing of the past, it seemed. “Whenever you feel ready, just message me, and if I’m at home, we can start. Or I could click my fingers and see how fast you run?”

  He winked again, then put the forkful of food between his lips.

  The reckless part of Eva would have willingly volunteered to go back with him that night, but that flash of playful arrogance reminded her that perhaps she was being just a bit too keen. “Let me finish my bees first. Is that okay?”

  “And bring some of your work when you do? Not the recipe books, the actual stuff.” Daniel reached for a piece of bread. “The stuff that inspires those kids of yours.”

  “If you really want to see my scribbles!” Eva loaded up her fork again, wondering if she could repeat the dish at home. She pictured Daniel at the island in her kitchen, but pushed the thought away. “By the way… You know that date with Rupert? I didn’t really want to go, but Lyndsey is a bit of a matchmaker and…I broke up with someone a few months ago, and she thought she was being helpful. You know how some people are?”

  “That’s why I don’t like people. Most of them, anyway.” He wound his fork into the pasta again and winked. “You’re all right, when you’re not tearing shreds off my paintings.”

  Eva slathered another piece of bread with butter. “How long did you stand there behind me, listening to me waffling on?”

  “Long enough to hear about the Daniel Scott Method. What exactly does it entail though, in your opinion?”

  “Lots of being intense!” Eva laughed. “It’s a shame, if you’d been there earlier you would’ve heard me say I love your work…”

  “I was so angry,” he admitted, pausing to take a sip of champagne, “because you were saying what I’d lost sleep thinking. Nobody tells you, change it up, because nobody sees the repetition in it. I’ve been around the world, I’ve spent a fortune discovering myself and I’ve come back and settled straight back into it. So what do I do, Eva? What would you do?”

  Eva sipped her champagne, thinking. She couldn’t really imagine what being Daniel Scott was like. “You’re here now, in Brighton. Why not take a break? You don’t desperately need the money, do you? So…just potter about for a year. They won’t forget who you are. Learn how to sail a boat, or join a dance class. Find something to do which isn’t being Daniel Scott. And I bet you’ll find your inspiration then, when you’re heaving up the sails on a dinghy or spinning across a ballroom.”

  “Maybe even outreach?” Daniel teased. “The thought of a year off is— Jesus.”

  “You won’t fall apart if you have a rest, I promise.” Eva reached across the makeshift table and stroked his hand. “It may even keep you together.”

  His hand moved up to the sunglasses, but instead of flipping them down over his eyes, he smoothed his fingers through his dark hair. Then he asked softly, “How the hell did a woman who draws dancing cakes get to be so wise?”

  “My mum’s a hippy, she’s always saying things like that!” Eva picked up her drink and took a mouthful. “She said something similar to me when I broke up with Miles. We’d been going out for a while, and he was fun to start with, and he really liked the fact that I’m an illustrator.”

  Eva sighed and put down her glass. “But people change, don’t they? It was as if one morning I woke up next to a different man. He said I just sat about all day drawing with a crayon, and he wasn’t very nice about outreach when I started to do that either. It made me question what I do, who I am. And Mum said to me, just have a rest. I sat in my studio where I’m safe, where I feel most like me, and faffed about, and I felt a hell of a lot better afterwards. So there you go. Take some advice from Mrs Catesby!”

  “Will you tell her about me?” he asked. “I don’t have a mum to tell, so I’m counting on you to scandalise yours instead. Will Eva’s hippy mum worry about you being debauched by Daniel Scott?”

  “My mum was debauched by—well, she had quite a wild youth, put it that way!” Eva let her laugh ebb. Daniel’s admission that he didn’t have a mum made her wonder once more what had happened. It must have been why he was in care. Had she died, or had she been such a bad lot that he had blocked her from his life? “I think she’d like you. And I’m sure she’d be your mum, if you want.”

  Something changed in his face, just a glimpse of something, but Eva couldn’t see what. Sadness? Regret? Perhaps it was annoyance, but she didn’t think so. It was lost a moment later when he dropped the sunglasses onto his nose and told her, “She’s got her hands full with you already, hasn’t she?”

  Eva leaned over the table and lifted the sunglasses to peer underneath. “She has big hands, Daniel.”

  “I hope she’s proud of you,” he murmured. “Because she should be.”

  “She seems to be.” Eva smiled as she took his sunglasses from his face and folded them neatly beside his plate. He looked down, as awkward as a child waiting to see the head teacher, then he raised his gaze to meet hers and tried a smile, just the slightest curl of his lips.

  “Better?” Daniel whispered.

  “Yes.” Eva went on with her dinner. “You have beautiful eyes.”

  “And a beautiful lover.” He raised his glass. “To you, Eva Catesby, and your bees.”

  Bashful, Eva clinked her glass with Daniel’s. “And to Mr Carswell and his excellent taste!”

  It didn’t surprise her that Daniel managed to polish off his entire meal, since they’d worked up such an appetite, and he set down his cutlery and decided, “That almost makes me wish I could cook. I’ll let you order for me again.”

  “I should try to whip that up at home sometime. I’ll invite you round for tea, of course.” Eva brushed the crumbs off her hands and came over to Daniel’s side of the trolley. She put her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. “What were you planning to do with the massage oil?”

  He put his arm around her and pulled her down into his lap. “I thought you might like a nice—” Daniel punctuated the words with kisses. “Relaxing. Massage?” The last kiss was long and deep. “Then a bath as Brighton lights up jus
t for you?”

  “Yes, please, that sounds perfect!” Eva took the end of her dressing gown’s belt and slowly pulled. “Where do you want me?”

  “Get comfortable on the bed.” He kissed her shoulder. “We’ll start on your back and see where we finish?”

  Eva stood and let the belt fall, and the gown dropped to the floor after. Daniel’s hand stole forward and stroked over her bottom appreciatively, before he told her, “Don’t forget your champagne.”

  Picking up her glass, Eva winked at him. “As if I’d do that!” She climbed onto the bed and lay in the middle, watching Daniel over her shoulder. He picked up the bottle of massage oil and approached the bed, where he knelt beside her. Then he leaned forward and kissed Eva’s shoulder again as he unscrewed the cap from the bottle.

  “This would make a painting,” Daniel decided. He poured some of the oil into his palm and set the bottle aside. As she watched, he rubbed the oil between his hands before pressing them to her back, his touch as soft as it was sure.

  Eva raised her head, sniffing the air. “Mmmm! Doesn’t that smell wonderful? I feel all tingly!”

  “It’s mutual,” he teased, sweeping his hands over Eva’s skin. “How does it feel?”

  “Great! I feel relaxed, but I also feel…” Maybe it was feeling his hands on her body, or maybe there was something in the oil, but Eva was feeling decidedly aroused and a tremble ran through her. “I’m sure you can tell.”

  “There’s been a few clues.” His hands swept lower, massaging the warm oil into her buttocks. His fingers strayed a little farther, sliding between her thighs, and he whispered, “Tell me what you want, Eva.”

  Eva gasped and clutched at the bedclothes as her body tightened with need. “Kiss me,” she murmured. “But not on my mouth.”

  Daniel shrugged off his dressing gown and bent forward to kiss her shoulder. Then he trailed his lips down her back, dotting soft kisses over her oiled skin. As he did, he continued to caress her body, parting her legs a little more. Yet he still took his time, teasing her until Eva finally felt his lips on the most sensitive part of her.