The Mad British (24 page)

I hold out the wineglass to the waitress. "Fill me, please." I drain my glass in seconds while Jessica watches me.

"You know, you could leave some of that for the rest of us."

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "I need liquid courage right now. How do I look?"

Jessica gives me a mum look. "Drunker?"

"Good. That's what I’m going for." I throw my hair back and cross the room, over to a solitary woman who is holding a glass of red and examining a painting of a skeletal black tree in a field of ash.

"Mrs Hatter?" She turns, her hair and clothing typically immaculate. Does she buy cardigan sets in bulk? I reach out and nervously place a hand on her shoulder. "Thank you for coming. It's great to see you again."

Mrs Hatter smiles tightly. "Adelaide, good to see you." She gestures at the painting. "Very nice."

"Thank you."

Silence.

God, why can’t I think of anything to say? It isn’t like this is the first time we’ve met, and it really is a big deal that James’ mother has taken time out from. . . whatever she does, to stop by my show, and now that I have her undivided attention, I can’t think of squat to say.

Mrs Hatter turns back to the painting. "I apologise for my husband's absence. It seems he found out from one of James’ friends that there is a gathering across the street, and my husband has quite the affinity for Irish pubs, even though he has only got a drop of Irish in him." She sniffs. "If that much."

"It’s fine. My dad went with them." Actually, they’ve been gone a while now. What are they doing over there for such a long time? "My mother's been looking for him all night. I think she wants to leave soon."

"Your mother is here?"

"Um, yeah, my parents are visiting for the week." I wince when Bailey hits a bad chord in the background.

James’ mother smiles again, this time a little warmer. "I would like to meet her."

Before we have a chance to move, a couple steps in front of us and blocks our view of the painting. It’s another yuppie, and his partner is a very tanned woman with matching Louis Vuitton boots, belt, and bag. "What do you think about this one?" the woman asks her partner.

"I don't know. Can we go now, babe? All these paintings are dire. They’re ugly and give me the creeps."

"This one's not too bad."

"Yes it is. Why are you making me look at this crap? I’m bored. Let's go to Tao."

I want to throw my shoe at him. This kind of reaction is pretty commonplace in my line of work. After all, not everyone has the same taste. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t absolutely suck when it’s shoved right in my face, and rudely so.

Ignoring things is second nature to me; it’s the anchor that keeps me from drifting away into the madness of the world. In this instant, it’s the most comfortable, safe bet.

Mrs Hatter apparently has a different idea.

James’ mother steps up and locks eyes with the guy, her blue eyes sharp as a steel file, and seems to correct her perfect posture even further. If looks could kill, the suit would be tucked in for a dirt nap the day before yesterday. I see where James gets his fire from now.

She takes me by the elbow. "Come, let's find your mother, dear. You don't have to listen to the unintelligent."

The shock doesn’t wear off as I’m led away by James’ mother. "Wow, uh, thanks. You didn’t have to do that for me."

"Don't be foolish, dear. How dare he judge you when he is not even part of our family."

Interesting choice of pronoun, I think, and I do my best not to start skipping.

* * *

"Don't." Somewhere under the covers, James moves my hand away from his body. I shift, trying from another angle. "Stop it."

I don’t stop trying, using both hands now, cruising on a high that had sustained me through the rest of the show, the intolerable clean-up, and the late-night Chinese takeaway. Chloe's infatuated yuppie had taken home two of my works and one of Steffen's. I have a meeting set up with the writer from The City. James’ mother had practically slapped a guy for my sake, and to top it off, I’d snagged the last lamb dumpling moments before my brother could reach for it. All together a perfect night, and now I want to top it off in the perfect way.

James grabs both of my wrists with one hand and tucks himself into a defensive position. "Adelaide," he warns, his voice dominant and sexy, which only adds more fuel to my desire.

"What? What's the problem?" I giggle, wriggling until I am on top of him, brushing my barely-covered breasts against his face.

He rolls over, pinning me to the mattress in a last ditch effort that proves ineffective as I start grinding against his hip. "We can't. Your father is right in the other room."

I stop moving. "So?"

"You really are dirty—he’ll hear us, that’s bloody why. Plus the cat is on the windowsill."

I glance across the room. "There's like, fifteen feet between us and the wall, and on the other side there's another huge space before you get to the bed and my parents are guaranteed sleeping already.” I stroke his cheek, satisfied with my argument. “And don’t mind Cheshire, he doesn’t care. He’s probably sleeping, anyway."

"I don't want him to hear anything—”

“
Awww
. That’s so cute you care about psychologically damaging my cat.”

“Your father, not the cat. I've barely got him to somewhat like me—stop. Stop."

He begs.

I don’t stop.

"We can be quiet." I know he can’t hold out forever. He had returned from the pub with Noah and both our dads and hadn't even been in the gallery for five minutes before accidentally kicking over an umbrella stand. Bailey was incensed they hadn't waited for him.

"You're never quiet."

I breathe in harshly as he moves down me, pressing his hard body against my almost naked one. His fingers hook round the edges of my thong, and he slowly pulls them down.

I watch as he closes his eyes for a second, levelling with my centre. I start to breathe heavily. His eyes look up, rake over my face, and I feel my eyes seemingly urging him to continue, imploring him not to stop.

A flick of his tongue, and I swear I see fire.

With his finger, he softly teases my sensitive nub, while his tongue slowly explores my folds. I moan out, my hands tightening roughly in his hair. He winces slightly, but continues teasing me with his tongue and finger. Moving away for a second, he slips a finger from my clit to my opening. I yelp at the sudden violation as he thrusts his finger inside, his mouth going back to my clit, flicking me again. I almost let out a scream. His tongue goes round my clit in circles, never really going in a pattern as his finger pumps in and out.

"Oh, God," I moan loudly, my hand tugging his hair harder. I feel my body start to buckle and he bites down on my clit before sucking it between his lips. I bite back a scream.

I gasp when he slides another finger inside me, pumping harder now. My head snaps back and hits the pillow roughly. "Oh, God,
James
." I find myself begging, gripping his hair. He fastens his pace, no longer teasing, but going for the kill. I see bright colours as my eyes roll back. This time, I can't hold back the scream as my body buckles uncontrollably.

I have never felt so alive in every part of myself.

I whimper and writhe, locking my legs between his hand, clinging to him with hands and nails, needing the closeness of his body. A few frantic moments of rocking brings me to a glorious cliff edge, and I throw back my head, crying out as thunder crashes all around me, inside me, lightning exploding behind my eyelids, and I ride out the all-consuming storm with his fingers inside, his tongue tasting me, in one long ripple of passionate triumph.

In the light of a dying fire, I lie against the bed, each quake and aftershock a little less resonant, and each breath a little more even. He seems to love every mouthful. I close my eyes, bite my lip, and relish in the feel of his tongue softly licking me, still massaging my sore nub, his face buried in my sex. His fingers slip out of me, and he gives me one last kiss to my throbbing centre before coming back up, the tremors subsiding.

He smirks at my loud ragged breathing, forcing me to look at him. “See, love. You’re never quiet.”

I want to say something, but I have nothing to say. Instead, I just make a noise of contentment, almost like a purr. His big arms wrap round me and pull me back against his chest, his lips dropping down over my shoulder in slow, suckling kisses. They send chills rippling over my skin and he squeezes me tightly. There is no need for words, I decide, my head swimming. Sometimes words just ruin things.

Unfortunately, James has something to say in that moment of bliss.

He turns so that we’re face-to-face. "Can I. . . ask you something?" I see him swallowing hard.

"Okay. . ."

I stare into his eyes, the same colour as my expensive cobalt-blue paint, and he hesitates. He is stumbling like there are a lot of questions sitting in the back of his mind.

"Why won't you talk to me about Ethan?"

My heart sinks to my stomach and an uneasy feeling grows in my gut. I slide my hands out of his loosened grip, my mood shifting instantly. "Why do you want to know?" My voice is barely audible.

“Because you're still carrying it. Because I want you to know that I will never do what he did to you, whatever it was. Because I love you so damn much I want to erase every bad thing that’s ever happened to you and give you nothing but the good things, the best things. . . because. . . it’s you."

I can’t meet his eyes, feeling my own start to swell. "I. . . I don't like talking about it. . . "

Because
he betrayed me.
Because
what he said might be true.
Because
I want to scream.
Because
when I first saw you, when I started to like you, I was afraid because of
him
. I was afraid to love you, because of
him
. Now that I’ve fallen madly in love with you, I’ve never been more afraid to think about it.
Because
it’s you.

But all I tell him is, "Besides, it's not a big deal like everyone makes it out to be."

I lie.

And he lets me.

“I’M IN YOUR apartment! Put on clothing."

The last thing I want to hear at—what time is it? Seven? Eight?—on a Saturday morning is Preston's voice yelling from the front door while I’m still in bed. And naked. But at least I get the courtesy of a warning.

I pick the sleep out of my eyes and yawn, then reach over and gently shake James’ arm. "Preston's—"

“—I love you. . . and yes, that tit is here.” He speaks without opening his eyes.

"You going to wake up?"

"No. . . Get his key, stab him in the eye with it."

I press my face into his broad shoulder, rubbing my nose against his warm muscled skin. "It's technically Camilla's key. If we take back Camilla's key, then we have to take back Bailey's key and—"

I break off and yawn again. A late night has left smudges of watercolour on the sheets and an accidental crescent-shaped fingernail puncture on his neck, courtesy of unintentional mid-orgasm face grab by yours truly. There isn’t a lot of sexy in cleaning up blood.

"I'm using your coffee maker," Preston yells.

I clamber out of bed and start searching for clothing, my body begging to return to my man’s body heat. "You coming?"

"Sleeping," comes the muttered response. I pull a T-shirt over my head, the one with the Warhol soup cans, and lean over to kiss the thick stubble on the side of his cheek.

"I'm going through your fridge. How old is this milk?" Preston yells through the door again.

"I'll go get rid of him." I shrug on a pair of shorts.

“Can’t you put on something less sexy?” James murmurs, with one eye open.

I yank up my T-shirt and knot it above my belly button. Then I send him a smile that tells him he can’t control me, but at the same time, letting him know I think his jealousy is sweet and that I don’t want him to change. He groans into his pillow, but I see a slight tug at the corner of his lips when I leave.

Preston is poking through the kitchen cabinets, already impeccably dressed, a trait he shares with his wife. Has he ever owned anything as mundane as a T-shirt?

He looks up at me while I untie my T-shirt. "Jesus, Adelaide, a bra please? It's not summer any more, it’s colder now."

Crap.

I knew I forgot something in my haste to get dressed. I quickly cross my arms over my chest where I know headlights are forming.

"I forgot—shut up. And it’s not a good idea to let James hear you mention my underwear."

He stops fiddling with the milk carton and quickly kisses the top of my head. "You know, the correct response to that would be: It's my house, Preston, I'll wear whatever the hell I want so shut up and tell me why you're here."

"Okay." I slide onto one of the stools. "Stop staring at my nipples and tell me why you're here."

He shoves a stack of papers as thick as a phone book across the island. "Sign this. You're hiring me."

"Huh?"

"I’ve put tabs where you have to initial, and then sign on the bottom line, last page. I made a copy for you and today is the, uh, thirtieth of October, so don't forget that. Hey, is this sugar or salt?" He licks some white crystals off his fingertip. "Is this that weirdo organic sugar they sell at Whole Foods? I think it's just regular sugar sprayed with silicone or something, because it gives this guy I work with the runs."

I’m slowly paging through the huge document, vaguely remembering signing one of these before. "Why am I hiring you? I'm not in Liquid Sugar any more, I don't need an agent."

"Yes you bloody do." He pulls something out from underneath his coat. "Read this and then tell me you don't need an agent."

It’s a copy of The City magazine, a day before it hits the stands. "Oh my God." Butterflies flit through my tummy and I start flipping through, searching for my article. "Where did you get this? Wait, how did you get this?"

Preston is pouring tea. "Never mind that. Did you read the reporter's draft before she submitted it to her desk?"

"Yeah. I think so. Wait, no. I got busy with Camilla's book and I just told her it was okay."

The hand holding the teapot jerks and splatters the countertop with a speckle of brown liquid. "Argh, Adelaide."

My head shoots up. "What? All we did was talk about my life for like, an hour. There's not much you can do with that."

"Wonderful. Great. Smooth move."

"Cute picture." Steffen had taken the picture we’d used of me tilting my head and smiling charmingly at the camera, wearing black and white to match the small portion of Victory behind me.

"Read," he orders.

I do, roiling with excitement and a little embarrassment as I read words that someone else has written about my life. "A 'coquette with charcoal’? What the hell?"

"I know. Complete hack job. I thought you said this reporter was legit."

"I thought so, too."

I can feel a headache forming as I continue reading, first through a brief mention of my work at the UAL, then a few too many paragraphs about Liquid Sugar, two measly lines about Victory, and then an enormous segue into my relationship with well-known contemporary street artist and illustrator Ethan ‘Ace’ Coburn, best known for his work on—

"What the hell?"

"I see you've gotten to the good part," Preston remarks, shoving the contract forward again. "The tabs. I put the tabs where you're supposed to sign—"

A loud "OW!" comes from the back bedroom. We both ignore it.

A sickening chill curls round my spine as I read on, my life's accomplishments broken down in short chunks of text. My time as a professional burlesque dancer is highlighted, as is my lengthy relationship with a guerrilla artist extraordinaire, and then closed with small write-ups of my recent shows, my upcoming debut as a children's book illustrator, and my appearances at recent high-profile events with my new boyfriend, a wealthy financier, who is also the buyer of my best-known work to date.

I put the magazine down and turn to Preston, swallowing compulsively. "Got a pen?"

"Always." He pulls one from his pocket and hands it over, nodding approvingly as I initial and sign next to the tabs.

I let my head sink to the marble countertop. "This is a freaking nightmare. It’s supposed to be all about
my
work."

"Yes it is."

"And now it looks like I'm some ex-stripper fame-whore who happens to draw stuff when I'm not screwing other artists or rich buyers." I lift my head. "Preston, what am I going to do? This is my reputation on the line. I've worked. . . I mean, I'm not ashamed of anything, but . . .” Preston lifts his brow when I pause. I take a deep breath. "Should I be?"

He slams his cup down on the countertop so hard, it almost shatters. "Adelaide. Seriously?"

"But—"

"No. Stop it." His voice is terrifying. I’ve heard it before, when he’d torn into a club manager that allowed a photographer to take pictures of us in the dressing room without our knowledge. "Do not,
ever
, base your opinion of yourself on what someone else thinks. You have people that know the real you and don't give a rat’s arse what someone wrote about in a magazine, who love you even if every word is true, which it’s emphatically not. In fact, you have someone who loves you so much that he would probably shove red-hot safety pins up his urethra if every copy of this arse-paper would disappear into thin air. So please stop with the shoulda-woulda-coulda crap because now we have work to do."

I half smile, knowing he’s right. I won’t let this break me.

I don’t know where I would be without my friends.

He pulls out his mobile and starts dialling. "Okay, now that I'm officially your agent—
again
—I need that red scribbly thing you did that's at the gallery sent over to my assistant by Monday, along with whatever else the set designer wants to use. Give Steffen a call and let him know we're raiding the stash."

"Set designer?"

"Yeah, Knightley is shooting some horrible new rom-com crap and your pieces are going to be in her character's bedroom for the eight seconds she sleeps with the male lead. Hey, it's only eight seconds, but don't be surprised if she insists on keeping the paintings.

“Also, I'm now going to call the paper and bitch out that hack reporter who should have been up front with you if she wanted to write a story about your Sugar days and who you're sleeping with, past and present. But since you didn’t have an agent and gave her permission to go to print with this tripe, there's not much I can do at this point besides empty threats that she’ll be back to the desk writing traffic accidents for the rest of her career. Also, that band that wants your art for its album cover?"

"Mark's band? Yeah. That's Bailey's friend."

Preston looks almost manic. "Oh. Bailey's friends. Good. Great. But they're not my friends so I need to get in touch with their manager and get the details. Did they give you anything in writing yet?” I shake my head slowly, and everything seems to spin and swirl in my head. Preston starts dialling a number on his mobile. “No? Okay, now let's see if I can get you a different interview, something not as mainstream. I'm thinking LSD or something, and maybe you should cut your hair a bit so you look different than in the picture they ran in The City—yeah, hi? Preston Dempsey. I need to speak with Scarlet Gardner?"

I turn to see James shuffling out of the hallway, shirtless and wearing glasses, holding out a delicate pink and brown, formerly high-heeled sandal.

"Sorry, love, I stepped on one of your shoes. The heel came off."

My heart thumps like a speedboat. "Oh my God."

"What?"

"That's not my shoe. That’s Chloe's shoe."

"Really?”

My reaction would have been very different if it wasn’t for the hard fact that the entire city is about to read all the sordid details of my life's past. Okay, maybe just the subscribers to the Sunday magazine, but my best friend reads that.

"You broke Chloe's shoe. She is going to kill me. No, really, I scuffed one once and that cow pinched me on the arm." I sag in my seat. "Crap. I'm dead. I'm dead and humiliated." I snatch the shoe from his hand, accidentally using a bit too much force, and start wringing it between my hands like it’s a dishcloth.

"What's going on, love?"

I pass the paper to him and settle back with my cup of tea—I don’t even like tea. God, I need a proper cup of coffee—while he reads. I watch his knuckles turn white and his jaw clench.

Preston is fluttering in the background, practically yelling into his phone. "What do you think?" I ask James, absently playing with the strap on Chloe's broken shoe.

He places the paper down carefully, though the rage crackling from his body tells me he wants to rip it to pieces.

"That's more than you've ever told me about Ethan."

I didn’t expect that reaction.

It feels like I’ve been stabbed in the gut with an icicle. I drop my head down, unable to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” James murmurs. “I didn’t mean to. . .” He puts a comforting hand on mine. “I’ll make them pay, Adelaide, I swear. It’s going to be okay.” I look at him. “Okay?” I nod slowly, but his words don’t stop the knots in my stomach from tightening and twisting further. I feel bile rise up and down in my throat.

Behind me, Preston hangs up the phone and lets out a high breath. "Goddamn it, I love my job. Spinning people's lives, making them jump, getting everyone to do what I want. It makes me feel like King of the Goddamn Earth." He stops, a huge grin on his face, and claps James on the back. "Morning, lazy arse. What the hell happened to your neck?"