Yearn (31 page)

“And here he is now!” June, who was excitable by nature and an enthusiast by calculated choice, leapt forward as an impeccably dressed man of about thirty entered the gallery.

The young man, who was well over six foot tall, was immaculately dressed in a Paul Smith suit. Although he appeared to wear his body more than his clothes, moving in a sensual manner that suggested he was both proud and aware of the physique that was no doubt a result of hours in the gym. His face was broad and almost Slavic, with long narrow eyes that were a piercing blue, high cheekbones, and a strong mouth with a fuller lower lip. His thick blond hair was trimmed close to his skull. In short, he appeared so perfect as not to be human at all.

“This is Sven,” June declared as if she were announcing the arrival of a new marketing campaign, “and today he is to take you to the Frieze show—which this year is, I promise you, sublime!”

Sven held his manicured hand out to Sara.

“Norwegian father, Essex upbringing—so Stephen to you.” His voice was unpretentious and surprisingly pedestrian in its accent. It didn't fit with either his persona or his fashion sense. Nevertheless Sara found herself taking an instant liking to him.

“Sara Le Carin,” she said, shaking his hand. To her pleasant surprise his grip was strong, masculine. His large hand engulfing her own ignited a sense of femininity in Sara that was momentarily thrilling.

Smiling, he leaned forward so that he was out of earshot of the gallery owner. A wave of Gaultier's Le Male swept over her; he smelt delicious enough to eat.

“Love the bag, but it doesn't go with the stockings,” he murmured.

“That's the point,” she whispered back, grinning, making them instant coconspirators, an evident intimacy that had June in a self-congratulatory slather. The gallery owner watched the two for another second, then brusquely clapped her hands together.

“So, Sven is my latest discovery, an up-and-coming art curator, actually more of an art philosopher than critic, and one of the best young commentators on contemporary British work—as yet unknown. You couldn't be in better hands, Sara. So go! Go! Go and conquer!” June exclaimed dramatically while ushering them toward the door, half an eye on another client who had just entered.

As Sara was about to step back out onto Cork Street, June called across the gallery: “Oh and, Sara, whatever he tells you to buy, you buy! He has the best eye in the nation!”

Outside, backlit by a sliver of sunshine that had escaped between the tall buildings, the critic's beauty was a little more intimidating than Sara had bargained for. Thank God for the accent, she told herself, grasping the one flaw that made him human.

Stephen slipped his arm through hers, presumptuous but friendly, and utterly nonsexual in a gay male/female friend sort of way.

“June exaggerates,” he informed Sara as they strolled down toward Piccadilly.

“She does?” Sara inquired, although she intended it to be more of an ironic statement than a query.

“Oh yes,” he reassured her, deadly serious. “I have the second-best eye.”

 • • • 

Frieze was the largest annual art show London boasted. Set in tents and buildings in the center of Regents Park, it was the last art show in a series of important art shows, but it was considered the most fashionable and serious one to be seen at and to buy from. Sara had missed the one the year before due to her deteriorating marriage, and as this was her first outing in public life since the divorce, she felt excruciatingly self-conscious as they entered the white-walled art sanctum.

Sara glanced at her companion. Was it obvious that Stephen was a walker—a professional social escort? She was hoping he might be mistaken for her latest boyfriend—at least at a distance—for in truth his sexuality was as apparent as his beauty. But it was still flattering to be seen walking beside such a paragon of male perfection, his handsomeness reflecting on her own good taste.

As if sensing her anxiety, Stephen paid for their admission then led her to the first stall he claimed was interesting. A photography exhibition, the first two of three walls were covered in blown-up images of young adolescent girls who, although in contemporary evening dress, were obvious references to the Pre-Raphaelite concept of beauty. The third wall was hung with close-ups of body parts, isolated and blown up in a montage of skin creases and crevices that looked very sexual in an ambiguous way, so one could not tell breast cleavage from a pressed armpit, a buttock crack from the tops of thighs.

“A little obvious, but he's very collectible at the moment,” Stephen commented after reading the dismay that momentarily swept across Sara's face.

“It's just so . . . visceral, which is not part of my emotional language at the moment,” she replied, tight-lipped, feeling very middle-aged surrounded by the bevy of exotic, gorgeous young men and women who always seemed to appear at such art shows. Drifting through the exhibition in groups of three and four, they were like lost muses just waiting to be discovered by some unsuspecting artist. Such blatant physical beauty reminded Sara of her ex-husband, and her mood shifted down a gear to a darker, more miserable place.

They moved on to the next stand, which displayed a triptych of abstract canvases consisting of a block of color with various fluorescent grids set over the top. As hard as she tried, Sara just couldn't see the point of them. She felt as if they were trapped in a kind of stupefied, misplaced reverence as they stood for a good five minutes in front of one canvas. Her gaze slid sideways toward her companion and she wondered whether he disliked the art as much as she did. She coughed politely and fidgeted until finally Stephen, clutching the catalog, flicked it open decisively.

“I do think any art that requires extensive catalog notes to appreciate it is suspicious.”

“Of course, but I have to confess I do need a little narrative, you know, something my imagination can get hold of. Perhaps I just haven't the intellect to understand something so abstract.” Sara replied, wondering if the grid might have some religious symbolism—the Christian cross, perhaps? But as much as she tried, the painting just looked like a glorified traffic sign to her, a reaction she dared not share with the critic. As if reading her mind, he interrupted her reverie.

“Don't beat yourself up. Art is about emotion, instinct, gut reaction—if it doesn't move you it doesn't move you, nothing to do with intellect. This is cold, constipated, emotionally indifferent.”

Hugely relieved, Sara turned to Stephen, grateful for the validation.

“I'm so glad you think so. My ex-husband used to accuse me of having a plebeian eye,” she confessed, then immediately wished she hadn't.

Sensing her sudden vulnerability, Stephen lightly touched her arm. Sara found it a comforting but strangely erotic gesture. “Ouch. I'm assuming that's why he's an ex-husband?” he asked, but Sara fell silent. It was painful for her to talk about the divorce and she now regretted even mentioning Hugh.

“Are you buying with a purpose?” Stephen asked, changing the subject.

“Actually, I am. I'm thinking of starting a collection, you know, officially, to eventually auction for a charity. The trouble is, I can't seem to be able to decide which charity.”

“I find that once you start collecting, the shape or tone of the collection will dictate its eventual home. Maybe you should just start and wait to see what presents itself organically.”

“But you think it's a good idea?”

“I think it's a fantastic idea. The Le Carin Collection—it has a nice ring to it.”

It did have a nice ring to it, and the more Sara thought about it the more she liked the idea of the family name being immortalized in such a manner.

They strolled past a stand where the centerpiece was a Jeff Koons–like graphic sculpture of a couple making love. Cast in shining bronze, it would have been tasteful except that there were bronze flowers sprouting from both the man's and woman's anuses, a motif underscored by a bronze rose clutched between the male figure's teeth. Wistfully Sara noticed that the female seemed to be enjoying herself, with her eyes shut and her mouth open in an orgasmic cry. Unconsciously Sara found her own lips twitching in mimicry—she had been celibate for months. Without realizing it Sara sighed out loud, a long, wistful sigh that was suspiciously close to a moan, emerging far louder than she had intended.

A young couple gazing at the sculpture looked over, the girl grinning cheekily at Sara. Stephen swung around and Sara found herself blushing. With a gentle push to the waist he herded her away from the sculpture and on to the next stand.

“Sex does seem to have experienced a revival this year. I suspect it's a counterbalance to the economic doom and gloom. A kind of finger up to grim reality,” he murmured, his vaguely peppermint-scented breath drifting across her cheek.

“Maybe in the art world but certainly not in mine.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” he replied archly, a sad smile flittering momentarily across those perfect features.

Surprised, Sara faltered for a moment: “But surely a man like you—”

“A man like me was left six months ago by the boyfriend. An older, far wealthier businessman who decided he wanted his freedom. I think it was some kind of hideous midlife crisis, from what I can glean from his behavior since, but I did love him—still do, most unfortunately.” His fingers played with the collar of his Paul Smith shirt and for the first time Sara saw him as vulnerable.

“But someone like you would have all the choice in the world.”

“I'm fussy, monogamous, and ridiculously loyal. And I do not do casual sex, absurd as that might sound coming from a gay man. All of which leads to great stretches of celibacy between relationships.”

The way he pronounced “great stretches of celibacy” made Sara think of the two weeks she'd recently spent in a retreat on the edge of the Western Sahara in hopes that such sensory minimalism would awaken some dormant spirituality and exorcise the all-pervading sense of loss the divorce had induced. In fact all the retreat did was fill her with boredom and an inexplicable thirst for B-grade horror films and popcorn, leaving Sara doubting whether she was capable of any spiritual profundity above and beyond a love of beauty.

They were now standing in front of a tapestry, a deliberately naive craftlike wall hanging with motifs of religious figures interspersed with the occasional rock god: an embroidered Iggy Pop floating over a sequined Krishna, Mick Jagger genuflecting at the feet of Inca, a demon-headed God. Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction, Sara noticed, seemed to be holding a scarlet-threaded vagina in her four upraised arms. Wondering whether her imagination had taken on a theme and she was projecting, Sara peered closer. Constructed out of meticulous tiny stitches, there were indeed miniature female genitalia scattered among the imagery. The heiress tried hard not to stare. Stephen coughed politely.

“This artist is now practically a household name, very collectible, but you do wonder whether she would have been considered as avant-garde if she hadn't adopted the cross-dressing. Fantastic PR.”

“Spin does seem to be almost as important as the work itself nowadays,” Sara murmured. Still fascinated by the needlework, she was trying to work out whether the sequins sewn onto the tiny vaginas symbolized clitorises, or whether in fact they weren't vaginas at all but eyes. Either way the vagina-eyes appeared to be winking at her as if mocking her current state of celibacy, an effect Sara found very disconcerting. She couldn't help herself; in her enthusiasm she grabbed Stephen's arm and pulled him closer to the tapestry. In that instant she realized that she found the combination of his eau de cologne and faint but distinctive body odor disturbingly arousing. An undeniable sexual flush washed over her. She began fanning herself furiously with the catalog, hoping he hadn't noticed her blushing face.

“Are those vaginas?” she asked in a stage whisper.

“Well, it's been a while, but I think I'd recognize one if I saw one,” Stephen joked before peering closer, his face just inches away from the hanging tapestry. Now Sara could see the young woman looking after the stall glancing over at them anxiously, obviously nervous about their proximity to the work. Finally Stephen spoke up.

“Yes, I think we can safely presume Kali is depicted here with a superlative number of orifices. I guess the artist is making a statement about the destructive side of sex.”

“I guess,” Sara replied faintly, thinking that the only destructive aspect to sex that she knew of was not getting enough.

“Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

Pale? Sara felt as if her body was on fire. She stepped back from him, anxious that her body might betray her desire in some mortifying fashion.

“Jet lag and possible culture shock. It's been months since I've been out in public and to anywhere so crowded.” She fanned herself with a glove.

“God, I'm sorry, I didn't realize this was to be the first big outing since the divorce. June said nothing. C'mon, let's break for a coffee or something stronger.”

He guided her through the crowd toward the hospitality area, a temporary coffee bar with tasteful white tables and chairs placed around a tree that soared up through the tented ceiling. Arm in arm, they made their way past the small gatherings of socialities and art dealers grouped around a wine tasting. A tall, rather cadaverous man in his late fifties stood alone by the tree, empty wineglass in hand. He seemed marooned by his own loneliness, exuding a kind of sad isolation. He looked vaguely familiar. Sara tugged on Stephen's sleeve.

“Who's that?”

Stephen turned and glanced across. “I think that's Rupert Thornton—you know, that weatherman who made such a fool of himself a while back.”

“That's right, he failed to predict the big storm of eighty-seven. God, he's aged.” Sara had been in her early twenties but she remembered vividly how shocked the nation had been about Rupert Thornton's failure to warn them of the catastrophic weather. But boy, did he look as if he'd paid penance now, she thought.