Set Me Free (3 page)

‘She’s my sister. I’m
Charlotte Evans, the owner.’

He turned away
from the painting to face Charlotte Evans and watched a fetching pink flush
colour her cheeks. He fought a strange impulse to cup her face with his hands
to cool it.

With a degree of
resignation, he offered her one to shake. ‘Craig Carmichael.'

He waited for the
penny to drop.

It didn’t.

She slid her warm
hand into his, giving it a firm shake and then slowly withdrew it, holding his
gaze. Heaven help him.

Failing to bat an
eyelid of recognition, Charlotte Evans launched breathlessly into her sales
pitch. ‘Regretfully this exhibition has sold out. But lucky for you I am
connected,’ she smiled coyly, but clumsily and was only more enchanting for it.
‘If you're interested in seeing any of her recent work I can possibly arrange a
private viewing. Here, let me get you one of Emily’s cards.’

She sashayed back
across the room and withdrew a bundle of business cards from a desk drawer. ‘Of
course, you're also welcome to just have a look around. I’m not usually open on
Mondays, so I was planning to close up at five but feel free to linger.’

Craig accepted the
business card and unnecessarily checked his watch. He already knew it was just
before 5pm. ‘I will have a quick look around if you don’t mind,’ he said,
indicating the second room, into which he was desperate to escape to clear his
head. She apparently had no idea who he was. Perhaps she hadn’t taken any
notice of the signature at the bottom of the letter. He needed to regroup and
come at this again. What was he doing making small talk?   

But Charlotte was
making that rather difficult. ‘Let me show you my favourite,’ she whispered
conspiratorially and gripping his bicep, led him into the next room, denying
him his moment to recover.
Oh no, don’t touch me
, he thought, but didn’t
pull away. She drew him to a smaller piece and thankfully released him.  

The painting was washed
like the other, but the streetscape was more Mediterranean and the colours more
terracotta. The perspective was similar too, looking down a narrow street this
time, rather than an alley. Stained washing was strewn high between the three-storey
buildings, fluttering in a breeze.

‘Can you see it?’
Charlotte asked him.

He looked at her
and caught his breath at her lopsided smile. This time he wanted to do more
than cool her cheeks. Her delicious mouth was within kissing distance. Turning
quickly back to the painting, he moved in for a closer look. ‘What am I looking
for?’ he asked.

‘You’ll know when
you see it.’

And he did. In the
basket of a bicycle resting against a wall was a bunch of carefully crafted flowers.
The attention to detail was so accurate they couldn’t be mistaken for anything
but wildflowers. Fine and delicate with fragile and spindly stems, they were a
burst of colour on the otherwise washed out canvas.

‘I see it,’ he
said, grinning at her.

‘Can I tell you
why I love it?’ she asked. He nodded, genuinely interested, and she went on. ‘I
think the bike belongs to a woman who lives there,’ she pointed to a doorway. ‘She
washes clothes to make money to pay the rent and eat and send her kids to school.
It could be a really unhappy life for her, but she won’t let it be because she
has that bicycle. Every day she rides it to the hills just outside of town and
she sits and watches the clouds and breathes the fresh air. There might be a
horse she pats or a dog she plays with. And before she comes home she collects
some flowers and ties them to the basket on her bike. When she gets home, she
leaves them there because they remind her that she is free. That she is free to
choose whether she is happy or sad. And although her world could be depressing
and mundane, she escapes it every day to indulge in the joy of being alive.’

When she finished
the story she flushed a little, as though she'd said more than she meant to.

‘Would you like to
get a drink?’ The words were out of his mouth before the thought had entered
his mind.

Charlotte met his
eyes. Her shoulders dropped, and her head tipped to one side. ‘Why yes, I would,’
she breathed.

Craig
accepted his change from the bartender and returned to the spot Charlotte had
selected by the window overlooking Boundary Street. The bar was one of the more
recent establishments to open in the area, so the smell of stale beer was
absent, and the furniture still relatively undamaged. They were reclining in
adjacent black vinyl couches, a dark glass coffee table between them.

This was not going
well. He shouldn’t be drinking with this woman, not when she was already making
him light-headed. He had to get back to business and get this over with quickly.
He handed her a Pimm’s and lemonade and took a swig of his beer.

She thanked him
and appeared to be lost for words, giving him the opportunity he needed.

‘So how long have
you been in the gallery?’ he asked. And immediately kicked himself mentally. He
didn’t need to know the personal stuff.

‘About five years.
I moved up here from Melbourne to open it. Well, if truth be told, I followed
Emily up here and opened it for her. She was having real trouble breaking into
the local scene. It can be quite closed, you know. Maybe it’s the small town
mentality. But having her own personal exhibition space worked. As soon as she
was able to exhibit regularly, she was suddenly someone to watch. She still
hasn’t quite cracked the glass ceiling of the art world yet, but it should only
be a matter of time.’

Instead of coming
clean, he asked her what she thought of Brisbane, she asked him if he’d been to
Melbourne and somehow they managed to fill an hour with small talk before she
opened another door for him.

‘So what keeps you
busy, Craig Carmichael?’ she asked.

His instant
reaction was panic. Having been lulled into a state of contentment, he wasn’t
ready to fess up now. ‘Let me get you another drink, and I’ll tell you my story,’
he deflected.

Waiting at the bar
for the drinks, he considered his situation and snuck a peek at her. She was
checking her phone and stifling a yawn. A tendril of auburn hair fell across
her cheek, and she tucked it behind her ear. In his pocket, his own phone came
to life. He checked it and switched it off. Cassie could wait.

He figured he had
two options, neither of which was going to get him what he honestly wanted: to
get to know this woman some more. Charlotte Evans was sublime, interesting,
funny and easy to talk to, which made her something of a freak of nature in his
estimation. Who wouldn’t be fascinated by something so rare? 

But eventually,
she was destined to loathe him. He was about to destroy everything she'd been
working for, and potentially leave her unemployed to boot.

Option one was to
come clean, tell her who he was, why he'd come to see her and watch her face
fall, her back stiffen and listen to all manner of hatred spew forth from her
scintillating mouth. Option two was to keep quiet about his profession and his
business associations and lie, be generally dastardly and for the first time in
a long time, enjoy the company of a captivating woman, even if it was for just
an hour or two more.

Of course, there
was no way to get around the inevitable. Option two had to include another
visit to the Evans Gallery in the morning, and he could get back to business
then.

Reluctant to make
the decision he knew was the right one, he made his way back to the couches,
drinks in hand. Charlotte looked up and smiled as he approached. Option two it
was then, and he slid on to the couch beside her. Let the lies begin, because
ultimately he had nothing to lose, but a few hours of pleasure to gain.

‘So tell me
something about you, Craig,’ Charlotte reminded him.

‘I get vertigo at
heights, and I’ve never been to South America.’

‘Funny,’ she said
sarcastically. But the distraction worked. ‘Where have you been then?’ she
asked, taking a sip of her Pimm’s.

They swapped
travel stories for another hour and moved on to their favourite local haunts. Things
got a bit close for comfort when she revealed she enjoyed Sunday brunch and a
stroll through the market stalls at the wharf redevelopment he’d delivered
twelve months ago. Thankfully, her attention shifted to his empty beer at just
the right time and she insisted on buying him another.

Climbing over him
and sashaying off, she ignored his refusal. Watching her, he pondered how those
luscious hips would feel between his hands.

‘And there’s that
amazing restored Art Deco cinema out there!’ she exclaimed, easing back onto
the couch beside him. Craig asked her what kind of movies she liked; which
eventually led to a serious discussion about the Australian film industry.

‘It just seems
like some years there are no good ideas, so a number of mediocre movies get
made in order to justify an annual awards ceremony. Surely it would be better
to just admit ‘hey - we’ve got nothing this year’, than denigrate the whole
industry by producing work that just doesn’t come up to standard.'

Craig continued to
push the argument that there should be a standard of excellence by which films
should be judged, even at the concept stage.

‘But you couldn’t
even set that standard unless there were poor films to compare the excellent
ones to. Without mediocrity, there can be no excellence,’ Charlotte countered.

‘Come on!  You’re
telling me that you can’t tell a piece of art is bad unless you’ve got a good
piece to compare it with?’

‘Well, it’s not as
simplistic as that but yes.’

Craig shook his
head at her, trying to look frustrated but enjoying every minute. He was in
even deeper trouble now, and rueful that the evening had to end.  

‘I’m not going to
win this argument, am I?’ he asked.

‘No. But I will
concede that you have a point. Mediocrity does seem a waste of time and money.'
Then she hastily added, ‘I need to visit the little girl’s room.'

Charlotte stood
quickly and swayed slightly. When she stumbled, he reached up to steady her
with a hand on the small of her back. The rippling softness of her through the
fabric of her shirt had him entertaining the idea of lifting it up to touch her
bare skin. Fortunately, he was able to resist.

Regaining her
balance, Charlotte strode across the bar, the swing of her hips a little more
pronounced now. She looked drunk, but they’d only had three drinks each, and
she was drinking Pimm’s at that.  

‘I think I should
go home,’ she announced when she returned, still swaying a little. She bent
down to pick up her handbag off the couch next to him and inadvertently flashed
him a glimpse of her bosom. Craig swallowed, wondering how that lace would feel
between his fingers as he pulled it off her.

‘Are you okay?’ he
asked, returning his gaze to her face. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you seem a
bit wobbly.’

Charlotte smiled
self-consciously and wobbled a bit more as she answered. ‘I’m pretty tired. It’s
been a long day, and I guess the drinks have gone to my head. I’ll be okay when
I get home.’

‘I think I should
make sure you get there safely. Where do you live?’ he asked.

‘At the other end
of Boundary Street. It’s not far. I’ll be okay.' Charlotte glanced towards the
door and bit her lip.

Craig stood and
guided her out of the bar with his hand on her back. It could have been
chivalry, but really, he just wanted to touch her. ‘No you won’t. I’ll walk you
home.’

Charlotte smiled
sheepishly and complied. ‘Okay. It’s this way then.’

They passed a
pizza bar along the way, and Craig insisted they stop to put some food in their
stomachs. Illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lighting and devouring a giant
slice of pizza, she was still gorgeous. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. While
she unashamedly went back for a second slice, mumbling something about being
famished, he could barely even swallow his own. Something akin to shame was
lurking in the depths of his conscience.

And as they
walked, his determination to be dastardly slowly wore off. The right thing to
do was explain who he was and why he’d come to see her. Delaying the inevitable
wasn’t going to do either of them any favours. Perhaps he’d charmed her so
thoroughly that she wouldn’t care. Not likely.

The steady click
of her heels on the pavement was like a ticking time bomb and each time she
bumped into him a small charge exploded. By the time he followed her up the
stairs to her door, he was thoroughly tortured and resigned to the fact the
evening would have an unhappy ending. Stupid bloody principles.

‘Charlotte, can I
come in?’ he asked. ‘I need to talk to you about something important.'

She smiled that
coy smile and raised a curious eyebrow, again seeming drunker than she should
be. ‘Okay. Should I make coffee?’ she asked as she pushed open her door.

‘Sure. Can I
help?’

He followed her
into her small apartment. It was modest but tasteful. She obviously had a
fetish for vintage, but the balance with contemporary was tactful. The art on
the walls was clearly Emily’s, although it was less sophisticated than what
he’d seen today. Early work, he assumed.