With my reputation as a painter of nudes steadily growing, a prestigious London gallery offered me an exhibition that autumn. It wasn't going to be, for me anyway, a huge exhibition, bearing in mind my relatively young age, perhaps about thirty or forty paintings, with a few drawings and limited-edition prints. However, it would certainly enhance my reputation even more, and allow me to charge higher prices in future.
I accepted the offer of course, which meant I would have to knuckle down to some serious painting. I already had a good number of paintings and limited-edition prints, but I needed a few bigger canvases as well. The gallery also suggested they contact some of my patrons who had my work in their collections in order to borrow some of my earlier works for the exhibition, and with these, 'loan,' paintings I was confident I could mount an exhibition worthy of the name.
I sent away some photos of work already held in my collection for the gallery owner to select and was surprised when he chose a few of the more erotic paintings. When I queried him about this, he said the erotic work might well be seen as controversial, thus generating more media interest, and consequently, more visitors to the gallery. More visitors meant more sales, and so I agreed, little realising the repercussions in store for me. Let me say right now, nothing bad came of it, but it certainly brought reactions and opportunities in unexpected quarters.
With the last of the paintings crated and dispatched, I had a few days before the exhibition opened in London. Luckily for me, my lovely nurse, Fiona Brown was available again, and I spent two delightful days in her company before heading off to London for the opening night. It was what the cliché-ridden media would call a, 'glittering,' affair, or so it seemed to me, a young man from a remote Scottish provincial city.
There were a number of famous people present, actors, T.V. presenters, sports personalities and such like, as well as the usual collectors, art critics from the newspapers, etc. I positively glowed with the praise heaped on me from every side, but I knew it was all so ephemeral. I kept telling myself, 'today's headlines are tomorrows waste paper.' I was introduced to so many, 'influential,' people that it was hard to keep track, but I tried my best to keep tabs on the art critics. They were the ones who could make or break the success of the exhibition.
Amongst all the favourable reviews and interest that came my way that evening, there was one art critic in particular who made it obvious that he thought I wasn't worthy of a solo London exhibition, so I didn't expect a good review from him, but one bad review was more of a hiccup than anything else. As I mingled with the crowd, shaking hands with people I'd only seen on T.V, chatting with politicians, flirting with beautiful, sophisticated women, I was in my element.
Midway through the evening, red, 'sold,' stickers began to appear beside a few of the paintings, and the gallery owner was highly pleased with how things were going too. I even had a few women offer to model for me, offers made in a joking manner, but joking or not, it was significant that I eventually left the party with a few telephone numbers for future reference. I was like a dog with two tails, and it got even better when a well-known actress, who I'd admired for a number of years, asked if I'd accept a commission to paint her, with the proviso that it must remain private. All in all, the first night of my exhibition was a roaring success in my eyes, and at the end of the night, with a few more paintings sold, I was highly delighted, and so was the gallery owner.
That night I slept alone, getting up relatively early, and after breakfast I went out to have a stroll round the West end of London. I also slipped into, 'my,' gallery just to see if there was any favourable reports, 'the morning after the night before,' where the owner greeted me like a superstar.
'One of the best opening nights ever my boy,' he said, positively beaming, and handed me a few newspapers with the art critics reviews of the show circled in red. They were all very favourable, except for the critic who made it clear that he just didn't like my work. However, I didn't lose any sleep over his less than complimentary review, and I was to have my unwitting revenge very soon.
I went back to my hotel just after lunchtime, and as I collected my key from hotel reception, the receptionist told me I had a number of messages and indicated that there was a lady waiting for me. When I asked her where, she looked to my right, and pointed out a woman about my own age, but maybe a few years older, it was hard to tell. I thanked her and went over to find out who she was. 'Hello, I believe you want to see me?' I said, introducing myself.
'No need to introduce yourself,' she said pleasantly. 'I was at the gallery last night although I didn't get the chance to talk to you. I know exactly who you are,' she added.
'Well then, you have me at a disadvantage,' I confessed, 'although, now that you mention it, I remember your face from last night. You were wearing a blue dress - very elegant,' I added. She nodded, smiling, pleased that I'd remembered her.
'Yes, I
was
wearing a blue dress. You have a very good memory,' she confirmed, still smiling.
'Actually, I don't, but you did rather catch my eye,' I confessed, which pleased her even more. She told me her name was Annabelle, and that she really needed to talk to me. I suggested that we go into the resident's lounge and have a drink, but she looked around her, like a scene from a spy film.
'I'd really prefer somewhere a bit more private,' she said, 'is it possible to go up to your room?' I agreed, but I thought I'd have to be cautious until such times as I discovered what this was all about. As we waited in the lobby for the lift, to arrive, I took the opportunity to size her up. She was about medium height, very slim, but quite busty at the same time. Long blonde hair, with very even features, and sparkling blue eyes, all set off to perfection by the classic, 'little black dress.'
Her legs were slim and shapely, great legs, black sheer stocking or tights, with impossibly high, stiletto heels which must have cost as much as my monthly household bills. Everything fitted together perfectly; in fact, she was quite lovely. I was hoping in my wildest fantasies that there was something very interesting about to happen. The silence continued in the lift, and I sent her a few erotic thoughts, just to get the ball rolling, as well as mentally touching her. She looked at me then, a strange look on her face, which morphed into a smile. I felt she was about to say something when the lift glided smoothly to a stop and the doors slid opened. We got out, walked along the corridor a little, and I opened the door to my room, ushering her inside, where I got her a gin and tonic from the drink's cabinet, and still water for myself.
'Now Annabelle,' I said, 'you're being very mysterious, what can I do for you?'
'Sorry,' she replied in a voice, which back home would have been described as, 'posh.' She sounded a lot like Joanna Lumley, the actress, her voice soft, low, and well-modulated. Even here in London, I knew that her voice and accent denoted breeding and money, with a capital, 'M.' The voice can tell us a lot about people, and I listened attentively as she spoke, 'As I've already said, I was at the gallery last night and I was very impressed by your work.' I nodded, smiling at her, pleased that this stunning example of femininity liked my paintings.
'And?' I said, hoping to elicit more, she didn't disappoint.
