Snippet: Night Owl Romance

...the stories were interesting and exciting. Reviewed by Jack

Chapter One

LONDON 1890

“I say, there’s Lord Ogilvie, Earl of Douglass,” Horace Atherton said, raising his voice to be heard above the clinking of glasses and the murmur of table talk.

Blair Dunleavy searched through the pall of cigar smoke at the chequer-board of black tail coats and trousers, white waistcoats and bow ties. He located the earl, sitting amongst the industrialists, merchants and bankers, all here to view the risque art.

Blair smothered a yawn. He was here under sufferance to keep Horace company. Two months spent in London was proving to be too long. He had to admit he’d stayed longer than usual just to pique his mother. He had sent a letter off this morning to advise her of his imminent return.

Despite his annoyance at his mother’s demands, Blair was eager to return home to Ireland. The estate didn’t run itself, despite what his friends might suggest. And after he had solved the problems his bailiff would have for him, the woods waited, full of red deer and grouse, the river stocked with salmon and brown trout.

He turned his attention back to the room as conversation fell away into silence. The auctioneer had taken his place at the podium.

The first painting appeared. Once placed on the stand, a complete silence came over the room, bar the odd, sharp intake of breath. It was an explicit portrait of a woman’s body from the waist down in perfect, biological detail. Each black, pubic hair carefully wrought, the rounded thighs parted.

“What do you think of that, eh?” Horace whispered. “Rather well done. Like to buy it?”

“I prefer the real thing in my bed,” Blair answered dryly.

The auction took off with an offer of one hundred and twenty five pounds from Charles Ogilvie, Earl of Douglass, a ginger-haired, hollow-cheeked Scot, known for his questionable tastes. Blair found the man as cold as the climate of northern Scotland where he resided in an ancient castle. Soon others joined in, quickly raising the stakes to two hundred pounds.

After the gavel came down and the painting went to Ogilvie, another, entitled Death of a Christian, by Harold Schiller appeared. In this painting, a young woman was bound to a post, the bonds seeming to cut into the soft flesh of her arms. Blair thought it lacked beauty, but it was an emotive work and drew a lively response, going to a fellow Blair didn’t know, for two hundred and fifty pounds.

The next painting to emerge from behind the curtain was Aphrodite, by Milo Russo, a Pre-Raphaelite work. There was no denying its sensual beauty, but there was something more personal, a tenderness from the artists brush, a sort of reverence for his subject. In an Ancient Grecian setting, a young woman reclined on a couch. Blair found himself holding his breath as if waiting for her to raise her hairbrush to her waist-length, red-gold hair. Her robe had slipped off one smooth, creamy-skinned shoulder, its folds outlining the perfect curve of her waist and hip. On the table beside her sat a glowing, red apple, just like the one that Eve had bidden Adam eat. Did she await a lover? The languidness of her pose suggested he had just left the room.

Blair leaned forward in his chair. The painted, silky gown gave a tantalising glimpse of the girl’s full, rounded breasts. Her slightly raised knee hid from the observer that part of her so slavishly detailed in the previous painting. To Blair, it only made her more desirable. This girl was no milk and water English miss. The nostrils of her strong nose flared slightly and her luscious, full-lipped mouth parted in a half-smile. Her magnificent eyes, somewhere between green and brown, seemed to both invite and disdain the onlooker’s gaze.

“My God,” Blair said softly.

“Reminiscent of Manet’s Olympia,” someone behind him muttered. ‘superb.”

“Two hundred pounds,” called Lord Ogilvie.

Blair raised his hand. “Three hundred.”

Heads turned to look at Blair with knowing faces.

“Three hundred and fifty,” countered Ogilvie in a challenging voice.

“Four hundred,” Blair countered.

“Four hundred and fifty.” Ogilvie’s eyes narrowed and he turned to glare at Blair.

“Six hundred pounds,” Blair said coolly.

There came a collective gasp from the fascinated onlookers.

Ogilvie stood so quickly his chair fell to the floor. Ignoring it, he threw down his catalogue and stalked from the room.

“Going, going ….”

When no one else bid further, the auctioneer’s gavel dropped. “Gone! To Mr Dunleavy for six hundred pounds.”

“Aah,” Horace said, clapping Blair on the back. “Not totally immune to good art, eh?”

“Not at all, my friend,” Blair replied, leaping to his feet. “I intend to find that model.”

Knowing laughter followed him from the room. Behind the curtain, Blair arranged payment and had the painting wrapped. It would be perfect for the boudoir of his London townhouse where he could enjoy it--until he found the real thing. But he could not delay his return to Ireland for even another few days. Damn, he wished he hadn’t sent off that letter.

Returning to the foyer to collect his silk top hat, cane and overcoat, he found Horace retrieving his cloak. Horace favoured a certain poetic style of dress that required an ill-tied cravat and a waistcoat held together by one button only, his wild, curly hair unbrushed. He had a good stock of quotations from the poets and even dashed off some poetry of his own, which unfortunately, was rather bad. He had the grace to admit it, but it did make him popular with the ladies.

“Not so wise to humiliate Ogilvie a second time, d’you think?” he asked Blair.

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“Nevertheless, he took it that way. Damned peculiar fellow. You accusing him of cheating at that card game has brought him unstuck, y’know.”

“It’s no secret he’s been cheating for years.”

“Trouble is, young Blackeny was there.”

“So?”

“Ogilvie was courting his sister, Lavinia. That’s not going to come about now.”

Blair shrugged. “Luckily for Lavinia.”

“Ogilvie needed the infusion of funds that marriage to Lavinia would bring him. He’s seriously strapped for cash. That castle of his in Caithness is crumbling into the sea.”

“Can’t say I’ll shed any tears over it,” Blair said, “have you seen the way he treats his cattle? Saw him riding in the park, the man’s a monster.”

“Wouldn’t care to have him against me,” Horace said shaking his head. “A few of us are going to the theatre. We feel the need of a little feminine company. I trust you are coming?”

“No,” Blair answered. “I think I’ll pick up a cab at Hyde Park Corner and go home.”

Horace looked askance at his handsome, dark-haired friend. “Home? It’s only ten o’clock. You aren’t sickening for something, are you?”

Blair laughed. “Not in so many words, Horace.”

“It’s that painting,” Horace said, staring at the wrapped parcel. “That’s not like you. I declare. I believe you to be bewitched. Remember, it is the spectator and not life that art really mirrors.”

“Are those your words, my friend?”

Horace chuckled. “I am not known for such erudition.” He gestured to the painting. “The artist may well have taken poetic licence with his subject. It’s doubtful the real flesh and blood woman will measure up to his concept of her.”

Blair raised an eyebrow. “If we must lapse into literary quotations, here is one that is surely apt: Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.”

“Touché! Shall we have a bet that my premise is correct, should you find that model?”

Blair smiled. “Why not indeed.”

“A hundred pounds.”

“Done.” Blair shook Horace’s hand.

“And should I be proved right, don’t despair. There are many beauties in London,” Horace added.

“I’m well aware of that. Have I not accompanied you on your sojourns these two months past?”

Horace laughed. “I’m not sure what it is about that painting that has captivated you. Women of the demimonde are ruthlessly self-seeking. They will tear a fellow’s heart to pieces should you become too fond of them. You must treat them lightly or it’s a high price you’ll pay with your heart and your pocket.”

“You are indeed a good friend, Horace.” Blair patted him on the back. “I wish you a good night.”

“Then sadly, I must relinquish your company,” Horace said, “and hope to see you restored to sanity at the Athenaeum tomorrow. I’d like to spend some time with you before you disappear back to that big, rambling house of yours in Killarney.”

Chapter Two

LONDON 2008

At the Pinewood Film Studios in Iver Heath, Buckinghamshire, Dylan Shaw climbed out of the mini-moke that had brought him from sound stage two to the building that housed his ‘super star’ suite. His home during the days and late into the nights for the next two months of his contract comprised of a living area, bedroom, bathroom and separate kitchen.

He felt slightly less apprehensive now that the first interior scene of Painted Lady was in the can. He planned to see the rushes before he left for Dublin. Susie, a young gofer, emerged from his dressing room, giving him a cheeky smile and flicking back her hair. “Black coffee and a chicken sandwich as requested, Mr Shaw, or should I say Blair?”

He grinned, eyeing her cute derriere as she passed. “Dylan will do nicely, thank you, Susie.” He threw himself down on the couch and grabbed a sandwich, taking a bite. His leading lady, Astrid Leclair, had arrived from Paris last night and he’d caught her press conference on late night television. She wasn’t Italian, but had always been the first choice to play Gina. Their first scene together was set for next Tuesday. Tomorrow, he and some of the cast and crew headed off to Dublin for a few days shooting.

Dylan threw the half-eaten sandwich back onto the plate and took a sip of coffee. It was tepid and he went to the kitchen to fire-up the cappuccino machine. As he took a cup and saucer from the cupboard, he thought about Astrid. He’d never met her, but rumors about her last movie made him suspect she may be hard to work with. This picture had been difficult from the get-go. The script had been rejected twice and the director had quarrelled violently with the producer. When the director left in disgust the scrabble to replace him produced another, Dylan didn’t much like. It seemed their scenes were to be written on the run. Well, it worked for Casablanca. He took a sip of coffee, perfect. He felt the kick of much needed adrenaline a good cup could be relied on to produce. To top things off, he and Jessica had gone their separate ways after eighteen months. It wasn’t a smooth break-up. They’d both retreated with battle scars.

It was an unseasonably hot day and the airconditioner struggled to cope. Before he went over his lines, Dylan put a CD on the player and, as Timbaland belted out Give it to me, he opened his door in search of a breeze. Astrid’s name appeared on the door over the hall. She would begin filming here tomorrow while he was away. They wouldn’t meet until their first rehearsal scene together. This augured badly for the film, he always liked to strike up a rapport with his co-star before this. He grabbed a page of dialogue and swatted at a fly bouncing uselessly at the window. It seemed like a metaphor for his sense of powerlessness. The fly evaded him and he gave up, settling down to read.

Chapter Three

LONDON 1890

Gina Russo looked up at the attic window where driving rain had caused a leak to form. It dripped down onto the floorboards, forming a pool at her stepfather’s feet. He seemed completely unaware of it, but then, when he was painting, she knew the building could burn down around him.

“You must move your easel, Milo,” she ordered him, placing her hands on her hips. “Your trousers will get wet and in this miserable, moldy climate, you’ll catch your death.”

He looked up blankly, paintbrush poised above the canvas where he was painting a still life. “But, the light, Gina!”

“I do not intend to be orphaned in this cold-hearted city. What would I do without you?”

He laughed and wiped his brush on a cloth, then threw it down onto a table piled with brushes and half-squeezed tubes of paint. “You have a good point. You’re not just pretty, my girl, you’ve got something up here,” he tapped his forehead.

She helped him move his things away then ran to place a bowl under the drip.

“When will you pose for me again, Gina? I have great hopes for the last painting I did.”

“When you have sold another painting and we can afford some coal,” she said firmly. “I am not stripping off in this cold. And we need decent food.”

“Aah. I can taste a tender turkey breast stuffed with sweet Italian sausage and chestnuts. That would be most welcome.”

“We shall be eating your Still Life with Apples, Milo, long before that.” Gina watched as he settled at his easel once more, picking up his brush. There would be no more conversation for the afternoon.

She grabbed the broom and began to sweep the floor at the far end of the room. She worked to warm herself. She’d swept the floor that morning, but no matter how many times she cleaned it, it always looked dirty. Work also helped to clear her head. She was constantly thinking up schemes to leave horrid, foggy London. She had been thirteen years old when her mother brought her to England, old enough to remember the sunny days and green hills of Tuscany.

She turned to study the bowl of fruit and flowers she had purchased from the market that morning for Milo to paint. Surely, the sun-ripened fruit of her homeland was sweeter. Like a delicate flower, her mother had not thrived in England. She hated the cold and fog. She was fond of saying that Italians knew how to live and the men knew how to love.

It was certainly true that the Englishmen who pursued Gina had money where their hearts should be. They knew nothing of a love that took hold of you, mind, body and soul. To them she would be an acquisition, someone they could flaunt in front of their friends and boast about in their clubs. She would have none of it. She had promised her mother.

When she married Milo and came to England, her mother had become a much sort-after artist’s model. Even after her death, Gina and Milo remained loyal to their friends of the demi-world, the shadow world of fellow artists, models, writers, thespians, courtesans and musicians, through which the upper classes wandered, paying for anything they desired. It was an exciting world, but had a dark side of despair, poverty, ruin and untimely death. At thirty-six, her mother had died of inflammation of the lungs. She was already ailing when she married Milo, who was twenty years her elder. She knew he would take care of Gina after she was gone. Even when her health was failing, she would drag Gina to church every Sunday. Her final words still echoed in Gina’s ears. “We have a saying in Italy, sweet child. You never forget your first love. I loved your father and if only he’d lived .... No matter how hard life gets, don’t ever be tempted to sell your body, for that will destroy your soul. Remember you are a good Christian girl. Promise me!”

When Gina asked her mother about her father, she would always turn away. “Better that you don’t know,” was her standard reply. Gina had often wondered if her mother and father had been married.

“Bah,” Gina said, swatting at some imaginary speck of dirt. She was sick of being grindingly poor. The struggle to live tore the heart out of you and dragged you down. She hated London, its miles of rat infested, filthy cobblestone alleys and shabby brick and stucco houses, the noise and the smells and the dirt. She hated feeling desperately sad for the tatty, barefoot children. She hated her cheap dresses, and longed to have something store-bought and pretty. And she hated their ugly, leaky attic rooms that no amount of cleaning could turn into a home most of all.

A block away, the street prostitutes trolled between the gin shop and the pawnshop, younger than she, some of them. Green from the country, they quickly become addicted to the drink and their gentle eyes turned hard. At night as she lay in her bed, she could hear them out there in the gas light. Dancing, drinking and singing into the small hours. The sounds of their hollow laughter made her want to weep and pull a pillow over her head.

As she put away the broom, Gina’s thoughts turned to Milo, how could he produce such beauty in his paintings, in a place like this? She put her hand to her mouth. How could she be so ungrateful?

“Did you say something, mio caro?” Milo asked, adding a highlight to a painted apple. The apple had become his signature and appeared in most of his paintings.

“No, Milo,” she said, going to stir the minestrone soup that, with crusty bread and cheese would have to do them until the end of the week.

“You’re a good daughter, Gina,” he said absently.

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