Illicit Canvas: political romance and stand alone romance (2 page)

“Yes, I do, but I prefer Impressionism. What about you?”

“Arwen, my name is Arwen,” I answer with a smile. He raises his left eyebrow, probably wondering why the hell I just told him my name.

“The elf princess?” he asks with amusement in his tone. My face heats up, but I don’t look away. I’m used to it by now; people think that it’s funny to be compared to the Lord of the Rings character. After all, I have slightly pointed ears.

“My mother isn’t a big fan of fantasy films, but my ears are freaky, so after my birth, the name kind of stuck,” I answer, lifting my black hair and showing him my ridiculous ears, probably looking like a tomato.

He laughs.

“I like your ears,” he says, and I grin like a mad woman. “I’m Ethan, by the way. Nice to meet you, Arwen.”

 
He pronounces my name almost perfectly with a soft American accent. Ethan—I like his name. It kind of fits. During this whole time I haven’t taken my eyes off him. I have to stop; otherwise he might think that I’m hitting on him. He is like a hundred years older than me, but that fit body and those incredible eyes can be misleading.

“Thank you,” I answer.

“Shall we move to the next painting or shall I leave you alone?”

I open my mouth to tell him that we could stay here forever, but then no sound comes out. What’s got into me? I can’t talk to him like that.

“Actually, I have to go. I have a lecture in ten minutes,” I lie, not moving. I don’t know why I just said that, but this is crazy. I can’t be talking to attractive strangers in galleries. Ethan looks disappointed, losing that lovely smile.
 

“That’s a shame … well, possibly I’ll see you again, Arwen, the elf princess.”

I send him a faint smile and start walking away faster than I should. My heart pumps too much blood to my veins and I keep telling myself not to look back. I lose the battle with my hardcore subconscious, and when I open the door, I turn back to look at him. Ethan is looking back at me with that same deliciously sexy smile.
 

I widen my eyes in panic and leave the gallery, almost bumping into another person on the way. I don’t even know what I’m doing walking back to the campus. I must have been in that gallery half an hour tops. Normally I stay for hours, walking around and admiring art. For the first time in my life I left not seeing every single piece.

Chapter Two

Ten minutes later I’m back in the park where I said goodbye to Colin earlier on, going over and over what happened in the gallery. Then that strange conversation from years ago comes back to me. One of my girlfriends said that I would always know if I were attracted to someone, that the feeling would be like a storm that comes in unexpectedly, wrecking everything on the way. One big, huge explosion of emotions.

I sit there remembering these words and I know that this is exactly how I felt in the gallery. Lost within the river of heat. That man, Ethan—made me feel everything she described. My guilty conscience reminds me that I have Colin now, and Ethan was just some stranger that I will never, ever see again. Plus he was old enough to be my father. Laughing at my own thoughts, I find my phone and check the time. I still have at least two hours before another lecture. Maybe there is another gallery or museum somewhere nearby.

When I met Colin, there was a kind of spark of attraction between us, yes, but the feeling was subtle; nothing like I felt with Ethan. I can’t go crazy over this. Even later on when I get home he is still in my head and I realise that maybe it wasn’t just my imagination; maybe he felt it too.
 

Several hours later in the evening, Colin arrives back at our flat bringing curry with sticky rice. He hasn’t been living in Belgium long. He moved here a couple of weeks ago to study, just like me. His parents are divorced and he has been living in London with his mother since he was twelve.

“All right, ladies, chicken tikka masala, korma and lamb biryani,” he announces, grinning like a schoolboy. “And I have a few extra surprises for dessert.”

“Yummy, I’m so glad we didn’t have to cook tonight,” states Maja, looking at all these dishes that Colin puts on our table. I had to tell him that Maja was going to be in. She met Colin briefly a couple of days ago, but like me, Maja doesn’t know anyone on campus. Yesterday she cooked some amazing Swedish meatballs for me, so I thought that I should return the favour tonight, having her join us. I noticed that Maja is quite nervous around strangers, especially men. She stays in her room mostly, reading and studying. She might be shy. Either way, we get on really well.

Colin serves each dish onto three plates, and we all sit around our miniature table that can barely fit two people, let alone three. I’m still not used to how small our accommodation really is. We have a tiny living room with a bog standard kitchen. Colin looks up and raises his eyebrows, probably wanting to know how the food is.

“You’ve done well, Colin. This is delicious,” I say with my mouth full.

“Yes, thank you,” Maja adds. “Hey, did you guys know that there is a party on Saturday in Saint-Gilles? We should all go. Apparently it’s for freshers.”

I look at her, amazed and surprised. Since we’ve been living together, she hasn’t been out at all and now all of a sudden she seems to be up for it. I guess I have a lot to learn about her.
 

“Hell, yeah,” Colin says. “I started playing for the local football team and all the boys mentioned that party. I think we should go. You won’t meet anyone if you keep sitting behind these four walls, Arwen. Listen to your roommate.”

I smile and Maja goes red instantly. Colin likes to party a lot. He always talks about the clubs in London. I don’t mind enjoying myself, but I have to remember why I’m here. It’s been over three weeks and so far I haven’t made any progress with tracking down that painting. The truth is that I have to start hanging around with art dealers, other artists, people that can help push me in the right direction.

“Yes, you’re right. We should go out. I heard others talking about all these cool clubs around this area,” I add, which gets Colin in the mood and he starts talking about a party that he was invited to in London a few months ago. Maja looks interested, listening in. She is a total book nerd, but a couple of days ago she said she wants to go out and experience university life. She’s on an exchange programme, studying marine biology. She is very pretty with platinum blond hair and blue eyes like mine. It’s probably a big step for her, agreeing to go out with me and Colin on Saturday night.
 

We stuff our faces, finishing all the food. Colin will probably want to stay tonight. Maybe if I have sex with him, I’ll get over the handsome stranger in the gallery.

 
I take the plates and put them in the sink, biting my lip, still remembering those intense amber eyes. I find the bottle of red wine, take three glasses out of the cupboard, and put it all on the table. Colin’s phone starts ringing and he goes outside to take the call. I pour some wine into the glass for Maja and hand it to her.

“He’s cute and smart, but tell me—do you really like him?” she asks shyly.

“Yes, he’s great. Why are you asking?”

“Well, I don’t know. I feel like there is something missing between you two.”

I should be used to it. Maja is honest and she says exactly what’s on her mind.

“We only just started going out with each other. Maybe I should give him more time. What do you think?”

She drinks a bit of wine, thinking about her answer.

“It might be early days, but he’s very much into you. I see this all the time and you’re the classic example.”

I think that we have a language barrier somewhere, because Maja is totally confusing me right now.

“A classic example?” I repeat.

“You’re too nice and you don’t like saying no. He probably chatted you up and you felt bad saying that you wanted to be just friends, right?”

I look away, wondering how come this girl feels so awkward around men if she knows so much about them. Is it possible that there might be something wrong with me? Maja just nailed it. It’s always the same pattern with me. Since high school, boys that were interested in me were the ones that I didn’t particularly fancy, but I liked the compliments and presents, so I ended up going out with them. Maja sparks uncomfortable thoughts in my mind. Thoughts about my absent father, who preferred some old painting rather than his only daughter.
 
The sadness is digging its way out, but I can control it this time. The episode from the past is fading, but this secret still hangs over my head.

“I thought that he just wanted to hang out. I like him, but now he wants to introduce me to his mother. I said yes, but I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”

“What? His mother? But you guys just met.”

“Like you said, I just don’t like saying no,” I sighed. “It will be fine. He’ll get bored of me eventually and then we will break up. That’s how this normally works.”

“Arwen, don’t play the victim. You can’t create the spark; if it’s there, it’s just there. You can’t fake it.”

“Arwen, wine already? Wow, I thought you would wait for me,” Colin says, walking back into the room. I smile, somehow glad that I don’t have to carry on with this conversation, and head to the kitchen. Maja’s comment reminds me about the storm of emotions earlier on in the gallery. The spark—that’s what I felt being around that man.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur. We drink; we laugh and talk for hours. Colin talks about his life back in England. Part of me is with them, but the other keeps going back to the painting and the guy from the gallery. I have to stop thinking about my own crazy emotions and that enigmatic stranger. My life needs sorting out before I can deal with what’s going on in my heart.

In the morning I wake up in my own bed not remembering much from the night before. I’m still in my jeans and top, so it looks like I fell asleep while watching the film. I have a class at nine and some free time in the afternoon, which gives me enough time to look around for the next gallery.
 
I swallow my meds quickly. It’s been three years and so far I haven’t missed a single tablet. Mummy should be proud.

Some days I’ve been waking up at five and searching for studios, private collectors and all the exhibitions, hoping to come across Dad’s painting. After two weeks I’m still stuck in the same place with nothing to go on. The artist that created the piece, Eugene D’Orsay, had been quite well-known in Belgium when he was alive. His paintings had been purchased by major art dealers and museums. My father had one of his paintings, the portrait of a woman, a very rare and priceless piece. D’Orsay created only three copies, and I know that two had been stolen years ago. Dad has the last one in his possession. I know that if I find the painting I will also find him.
 

After some intensive research, I locate a gallery situated on the other side of town. This way I don’t have to worry about anyone interrupting me. I can be alone with my thoughts. I reach the university library, get a few books that I need, and then find my next class. This morning we are painting a young Italian model with a pretty hot body. Most of the girls are happy with this arrangement. The class goes on for two hours, followed by an hour of sculpture and graphics. By the time I’m able to think about the gallery, it’s time for lunch.

I eat as fast as I can, risking bad indigestion, and then grab the Metro to the other side of town. My next lecture is at four, so I have another two spare hours.

Dark heavy clouds are hanging in the sky and it starts raining when I find the right building. Inside I pay six euros for the ticket. This time around I’m going to see a very famous impressionist painter, Albert Baertsoen. He’s from a period similar to the artist whose painting I’m trying to track down. I decide to give it a go and ask an older Flemish woman about him.

“Excuse me, I’m not sure if you can help me, but have you ever heard about Eugene D’Orsay, a painter from the same period as Albert Baersoen?” I ask in French.

“Eugene D’Orsay,” she responds, thinking about it for a moment. My heart thumps faster. Maybe I’m finally getting somewhere. “I’m sorry, no, I have never heard of him.”
 

The disappointment washes over me, but I don’t know what I was expecting. My father used to guard this stupid painting like it was worth a million euros.

“Okay, thank you,” I add. “In that case, maybe you could recommend any art dealers or studios that might help me?”

I know that’s a lame question and I’m aware that I can easily find this information online, but I don’t want to just go to anyone at random.

“No, I’m sorry. To be honest I’m not into art at all. I’ve been working here only for a few weeks, but why don’t you ask a curator? I’m sure they would know more than me,” she suggests politely.
 

“Yes, right. Thank you.”

I smile and start walking towards the exhibition. The first room is empty, so I stay admiring a few pieces that present a landscape with a river. I can’t seem to concentrate on the style and colours today, instead scanning for any curators. I manage to spot one in another section.

“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you’ve heard of Eugene D’Orsay? I’m searching for one of his missing paintings.”

“Eugene D’Orsay?” she repeats.

“Yes, yes, it’s one specific one. A portrait of a woman.”
 

“Yes, I have heard of him, but I’m sure that the painting you’re talking about was stolen. That happened years ago.”

“Yes, that’s true, but D’Orsay created three copies. There is someone that has one and he lives here in Brussels,” I say.

“My colleague is quite into painters from D’Orsay’s period. Stay here. I’ll go and check with her,” she says with a soft smile, leaving me alone. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I figure it’s worth asking.

I dart my eyes towards another painting of a landscape, feeling that maybe today is my lucky day. For three weeks I have been going around museums, not getting anywhere.

“Excuse me, did you say that you’re searching for Eugene D’Orsay art?”

A familiar deep, alluring voice shakes me back to reality. I turn abruptly around to see that it’s the enigmatic stranger I met yesterday in the other gallery, staring straight at me.