Page 21 of Zenith
I ignored his endearment and asked, “And the portrait?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure what is to come of it, to be honest. The gallery does not know about this piece as I was unsure as to when I would have it completed. I may keep hold of it, or if you are uncomfortable, perhaps I will paint over it and turn the canvas into something else.”
“It’s wonderful,” I murmured, the image of myself haunting my very thoughts. “It would be a shame to paint over it.”
Rivers seemed to think upon this as we studied it further in silence. I mulled over many things in the following minutes, from his unrequited attraction to my current state of unrest to the anger Edward would no doubt exhibit if he ever laid eyes on the painting. It was a beautiful rendering, but all it did was cement the need for my departure. I knew I couldn’t stay here, and I would have to leave as soon as I was able. I’d been delaying far too long.
“I would love for you to attend the opening with me,” Rivers said, breaking through my fevered thoughts.
He was asking me on a date to his own opening, and I blushed, focusing on the painting.
“Think about it,” he went on. “There’s no rush, and if you do not wish to attend with me, you are welcome to come on your own. However you like.”
“Perhaps,” I murmured. “We shall see.”
* * *
Friday came, and I agreed to attend the opening with Rivers, making it clear I was not interested in it being a date. He’d begrudgingly accepted, and it was done.
I felt obligated to attend, knowing I was the muse for this latest collection and for the assistance he’d provided in offering me lodgings for the past two months. I’d overstayed my welcome, though he insisted I could stay as long as I needed to. He was glad for the company as he mostly lived on his own.
Knowing I would have to dress accordingly and without access to Alice’s cornucopia of fashion, I allowed Adele to take me shopping for a dress. She’d frowned when I told her about Rivers’s exhibition but had accompanied me without much complaint. I now wore a fitted navy dress that cascaded to my knees and the neckline demur to conceal my scars. It was simple and elegant and paired with a loose hairstyle and little makeup, I looked well enough. I was far from an image of perfection, not like the wealthy people who would be in attendance, but comfortable in myself.
Space Gallery was situated in an upmarket area of London, surrounded by designer boutiques and restaurants, the streets bejeweled with fine people and cars. We arrived early so he could show me the exhibition without buyers and critics blocking the experience, and not even the curators or caterers were allowed into the space until we were finished.
It was surreal seeing how well Rivers commanded their respect and attention. I’d known his work was well sought after in the art world, but I had one hundred percent misunderstood what it meant until now. These people fell over their own feet in their hasty attempts to please him, and when I saw the prices on the canvases closest to the entrance, I could see why. Their commissions would be fat and healthy, indeed!
Just inside the door was a long, white wall separating the gallery into three distinct sections, and upon this surface, there was nothing but some glossy black writing declaring the artist and the theme. I smiled as my eyes flew across the markings. Rivers had titled his exhibition asIcescapes: A Journey Under The Surface.A fine play on words, knowing what had inspired him.
“Do you like it?” Rivers asked as he stood beside me, looking dapper in his suit—sans tie and his collar open.
“Very clever,” I replied with a laugh.
“I thought so myself,” was his retort. “How about I leave you to view the pieces on your own, Jane? I feel as though I would crowd your experience and fall to my knees and beg for a good review. I wouldn’t like to put that kind of pressure on you.”
“Of course,” I said with a nod. “I could not have it on my conscience if I soured your mood with an unfavorable critique. I know nothing of art anyway, so it would be ill-informed.”
“Then let me take my leave.” His laughter was relieving, and the easy friendship we once shared resurfaced once more.
I began to feel at ease as he left me to walk the gallery alone, a solitary figure amongst the ambient lighting and the moors, which had never looked so colorful to my eyes. Even during winter, when the shrubs and craggy outcrops were covered in snow and the clouds hung low, it hadn’t looked as magical as the images before me.
I attempted to decipher the emotions behind each, as Rivers had told me they represented a facet he saw in me, but I could not understand them at all. I was a mystery even to myself more often than not, so an attempt by another to unravel my inner mechanics was even more confusing.
“How do you like them?” came Rivers’s voice. I raised my eyebrows, and he shrugged. “I could not help myself.”
“They look quite stunning hanging like this,” I replied.
“Have you seen the centerpiece yet?” His smile was wide, and I frowned, shaking my head. “Then you must come with me.”
With a flourish, he took my hand and led me through the gallery. I was so shocked at his touch I didn’t pull away and allowed him to take me wherever it was he wanted to go.
As we rounded the corner, my gaze hit the oversized canvas, and my mouth dropped open.It was my portrait.
“Do you like it?” Rivers asked, staring up at the painting. “It looks beautiful with the lighting, don’t you agree?”
I was struck completely dumb. I had no words to describe the sharp bolt of fear that twisted around my very being.How could I have been so naive?
Rivers had said it himself. The portrait was the crowning jewel in his collection, and it would mean nothing without the image of its muse at the center. The exhibition was about me, not the landscapes of the moor. He’d told me they were all representations of my emotions, so how could I not have seen this coming?You fool.
