The Other Side Of Midnight Page 2

  I turn away, walk to my painting, and look at it with new eyes. Yes, it’s good. I know that, but it’s not worth one hundred thousand dollars. Only a fool would pay that much for an unfinished work by a totally unknown artist, and there is no way in hell he is a fool. I clasp my hands tightly together.

  What does he want with me?

  Who are you, Rocco Rosetti?

  I am no longer able to paint so I clean up the mess and put everything back into its place. Then I switch off the lights, lock up, and go out through the back door. I get on the purple bargain bicycle that I found on Craig’s List for thirty five dollars, and ride through the silent town of Hunter’s Cross to the trailer park where I live. My caravan faces a field that backs up to the woods. Almost all the caravans are in darkness, except for Mirabella’s.

  She is a wizened old gypsy and I think she makes her potions late into the night. Once or twice I’ve run into her selling her good luck charms in the supermarket car park. Once she winked at me and said, “There’s a Prince waiting for ya, little one.”

  Yeah, sure he is, but I was afraid she was going to ask me to buy one of her charms so I just flashed her a polite smile and hurried away in the opposite direction.

  I chain my bicycle to the metal railing outside my caravan and unlock my door. I switch on the lamp and everything feels strange. My cozy little home looks shabby and claustrophobic. I go into the bathroom and look in the mirror.

  There is paint on my face and hair, and I look a terrible mess, but it is my eyes I am drawn to. I hardly recognize them as mine. They are very bright and my pupils are much larger than I’ve ever seen them. Shocked and confused, I quickly undress and shower. Under the cascade of warm water my hand strays between my thighs.

  I cannot stop myself.

  I close my eyes and circle my clit. I think of him, those magnetic blue eyes staring into mine as his fingers slip into me. “Autumn,” that commanding voice calls, and I climax quickly with a hoarse grunt.

  I pour shampoo on my palm and rub it into my hair. Then I bow my head and let the water pour over me. How strange. The throbbing need for him is still not gone. My body remains as unfulfilled and unsatisfied as it was before I masturbated. I know doing it again will not do the trick either. The only way to quench this… this intense hunger is to allow him into my body.

  Something I’m never going to do.

  I switch off the tap and get into my toweling robe. I should dry my hair, but I can’t be bothered. A few steps later I’m in my tiny kitchen. I have no appetite, but I boil some water and make myself a bowl of ramen noodles. Then I settle on the battered couch and quietly slurp it down.

  Afterwards, I pull my crane blanket over me, and think of him. Those eyes. As if he could look right through me and into my soul. I find my hand straying once more between my legs, but I stop myself. I should go to sleep, but I know I won’t be able to. Not until I get him out of my mind.

  I force myself to think of my painting, of my father, my mother, my brother, my to-do list, my laundry…

  Half an hour later, I still cannot stop thinking of him or repeatedly replaying our bizarre encounter in my head. Nothing made sense. His appearance in the shop. His insane offer for my painting. My reaction to him.

  I grab my phone and text my best friend, Sam. She is a night-bird like me and is almost certainly awake and surfing the net.

  Are you awake?

  We grew up together and we were always inseparable, six months ago I came here to paint, and she went on to Atlanta to study something technical to do with computers. What exactly my turpentine soaked brain has never quite been able to grasp.

  As soon as my phone rings, I snatch it up and launch into my story. I tell her everything that happened at the store. For a few seconds, after I stop talking, there is only silence from her end.

  “Sam?” I call.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I’m just thinking.” Sam is the opposite of me. She doesn’t rush in where angels fear to tread. She thinks about her every move carefully.

  “Okay, have you finished thinking?”

  “Maybe you’re a better artist than you think,” she says.

  Sam is a total sweetheart, but I can’t help rolling my eyes at her naivety. “Oh please. He offered a hundred thousand bucks for a painting that is not even finished yet.”

  She laughs. “Perhaps he has so much money he can afford to throw lots of it at anything he fancies.” She pauses, then adds dramatically, “Or maybe you’re what he fancies.”

  “What man do you know offers a hundred thousand to sleep with a paint-splattered woman?”

  “Maybe he’s kinky.”

  “Can you please be serious?”

  “If I was a man with lots of money, I’d pay that for you,” she pipes up loyally.

  “Thanks, Sam. I feel incredibly valued right now, but can we please step back into the real world for a minute?”

  She laughs. “Fine. Have it your way. Personally, I think very rich people are mad. Who knows? Maybe, he really liked your painting, but how could he possibly hang it up next to his Van Gogh and Monet if it was only a thousand dollars? His friends would laugh over their caviar and cocaine when they came over to dinner. This way he can boast that clever him found this unknown artist in a tiny little artist town who is really hot right now and he found her first.”

  “Hmmm… I wonder if you are in the wrong career path. Don’t you think you’d do better as a novelist?”

  “Well, if I was a novelist, I would say, be careful. He sounds like a dark one.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just the vibes I get from you. I get the feeling he’s disturbed you, and not just about the money. There’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “I can’t get him out of my mind and I really, really, really want to go to bed with him, but at the same time I’m scared to. There is an air of danger about him, something unknowable about him.”

  “When you say unknowable, I’m hoping you don’t mean rapist/serial killer unknowable.”

  “No, no, nothing like that. He is too beautiful, mysterious, and magnetic. I can’t imagine a woman saying no to him.”

  “Here’s what I would do if I was you. When you see Larry tomorrow ask him all about this guy. Get all the details. If he is legit and he asks you to, then go out with him to a very public place. I’ll call you while you’re out and you can loudly say you’re having dinner with him. That way he will understand that if anything happens to you, the police will be on to him immediately. If he turns out to be dodgy in any way at all just walk away.”

  My stomach churns as I say the words. “No, I won’t go out with him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I cannot explain it in words, but there is something about him that scares me. That I could fall too deep and never recover.”

  “Wow! I’ve never heard you talk like this before.”

  “I’ve never felt this way before.”

  “I’m the one who is more reserved and cautious of the two of us, but you know what? If such a man appeared in my life, I would go for it. I would risk a broken heart because otherwise I would spend the rest of my life thinking what if…”

  Chapter 4

  Rocco

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkADj0TPrJA

  -In The Air Tonight-

  I put the top down on the custom-built Bugatti, and the cold air rushes through my hair as I press down hard on the clutch and make it fly up the road that winds around the mountain.

  The road has been deliberately built in a way to make it impossible for the curious person to come up it. To start with you can’t use an ordinary car. It is so narrow in some places an ordinary car will end up with its wheels hanging off the cliff. Other places have potholes so big it becomes downright dangerous to try and maneuver around them. You have to know where they are or you will get stuck.

  My privacy is very important to me. I need solitude the
way other people need friends. Of course, I have houses in cities all over the world, but I always come back here. To this house high on the mountain top, and shrouded in mist for most of the year. It is my sanctuary.

  I pull up to the black cast iron gates, wave my remote, and they part for me. I slow down to a crawl on the cobblestone driveway, and soon arrive at the impressive entrance. It took five years for three craftsmen from Europe to intricately carve the blocks of sandstone imported from Italy.

  There is light blazing from most of the downstairs windows.

  As I reach the double door, William opens it for me. He is English and has a pale, poker face. He is exactly what one would imagine a butler to look like. Stiff, polite, distant, impossibly efficient. He also speaks only when absolutely necessary. A quality I appreciate greatly. That, and his unceasing loyalty to me. My other staff come and go, but William alone has been with me for longer than anyone else.

  He nods gravely. “Good evening, my Lord. Your sister is waiting for you in the music room.”

  I feel an old fury rush through me like lightning, but I instantly catch myself. There is absolutely no way Isadora can know about Autumn. No way at all. I must calm down, get complete control of myself, and not let her see that anything has changed. I stride towards the music room and find her sitting on the yellow chaise lounge. A furry white dog is curled up in her lap. She has a drink in one hand. She searches my gaze. I know what she is looking for. I feign boredom and head towards the bar.

  “Where have you been?” she asks, arching one blonde eyebrow. “I’ve been waiting for ages.”

  As I pour myself a drink I hear her petulant voice float towards me.

  “You know you’re meant to pick up the phone when it rings, especially when it rings… a thousand times.”

  Instantly, I run out of patience. Throwing the brandy down my throat I start to walk out of the room.

  “What if I was hurt or something?” she asks.

  “You’re not, are you?” I fling, as I carry on walking.

  “I might have been,” she retorts. “One of these days I just might be in real trouble and because you have chosen to not acknowledge me in your life, I could be hurt or even killed. How would you feel then?”

  I stop and turn to look at her. “Who’s going to dare drive a stake through your cold heart?”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” she asks, a tinge of irritation coloring her voice.

  I sigh. “What do you want, Isadora?’

  “When are you going to stop punishing all of us?”

  “Never,” I say bitterly.

  She lifts her dog into her arms and stands. She is tall and willowy and dressed in a skintight dress. There can’t be a man alive who can resist my sister. More’s the pity because she will drop kick every single one of their hearts into oblivion as soon as she gets bored. She comes forward, her face pleading. “Look, I didn’t even do anything.”

  “But you knew about it.” My voice is cold and distant.

  “Yes, I knew about it, but I didn’t realize how important it was to you.”

  “It?” I rage, as the black anger returns to fill my chest.

  She shakes her head in exasperation. “Stop being so fucking sensitive, I was not calling her an it. I was referring to the situation.” She takes a deep breath. “I didn’t realize how important she was to you. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. Have you never made a mistake in your life?”

  I stare at her bitterly. “Yes, I have made many, many mistakes in my life. The biggest was trusting my own family.”

  “For fucks sake we are your family, Rocco. We made a mistake. A big mistake, but you have to understand that they did it because they love you and she was going to destroy you. At some point you’re going to have to forgive them… us. We’re your blood.”

  I lift my head. My voice is cold and final. “Perhaps, at some point, but not yet.”

  Her eyes fill with disappointment.

  I turn and leave her.

  Chapter 5

  Autumn

  After my phone call ends I find it impossible to sleep so I unpack my easel and paints, put out a primed canvas, and start to paint. My strokes are not calm and considered, careful of how much paint I use, but frenzied, rushed, and unusually extravagant. I squeeze out nearly half a jumbo tube of white paint and dash it onto the canvas.

  I don’t even take a break to step back to consider my next move. The brush seems to move on its own accord. It doesn’t even feel as if it is me painting. It is as if I am possessed. This is not even in my usual style. The strokes are short and fat with paint.

  I don’t know how long I paint, but when I finish my hand feels stiff from holding the brush so long.

  I stand back and stare at my painting with some shock. It is hard to believe I painted this scene. It is of two people in the throes of intense passion. The woman’s neck is so unnaturally stretched and thrown back it looks as if she must be in terrible agony, but the expression on her face is that of ecstasy. Her legs are wide open. The man’s face cannot be seen, but he is blond. His back is broad and powerful, and he dominates her completely as he fucks her hard. Their joining is such that there is no way to tear them apart. Their primitive bodies bled into each other until they seem to be one four-legged feral beast.

  I move forward and sign my work. Even my signature has a slightly different flourish to it.

  I open the top cupboard, pull out a bottle of Vodka and take a mouthful straight from the bottle. Then I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I feel strangely exhilarated. I know without anyone telling me that I turned the corner as an artist. I have painted my best work so far. I take another mouthful. The neat alcohol goes straight to my head. I stick my headphones on and the throb of dance music fills my head. I take another swig of Vodka and start to dance.

  I’m behaving totally out of character, but it feels great. It feels amazing to be drinking and dancing on my own while everyone else is asleep. Then, as suddenly as the euphoria had come it is gone. I feel sleepy and utterly exhausted. Dawn is already in the sky.

  I fall into bed and do not wake up until the alarm rings at nine.

  With a groan, my hand flings out to stop the sound. My head is throbbing slightly. Then I remember. Rocco Rossetti. I shoot out of bed and rush to my painting. Wow! In the bright morning light, it is breathtaking. I approach it with awe. Standing three feet away from it I just stare at it. There is not a stroke on it I’d change. I’m hardly able to believe I created such a complete piece of art in one session.

  I take a few photos of it, then I clean up the mess I made last night, dress quickly, and get on my bike. When I get into work, Larry is not in yet, so I open all the doors to remove the lingering smell of turpentine. It is strange that Larry should run an art gallery when he doesn’t like the odor of turpentine. Once I’ve dusted the surfaces in the showroom, and run the vacuum cleaner around the carpet, I change into the white shirt and black knee-length skirt that serves as my work attire.

  By the time Larry comes in at half-past ten the air is filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Larry is a serious, bespectacled man, who looks like a younger version of Bill Gates.

  “Good morning,” he greets formally, as he takes his leather gloves off.

  “Hiya,” I greet, as I watch him unwrap the thick scarf from around his neck. He doesn’t like the cold much. While he hangs up his thick puffer jacket inside the cupboard, I start to fill his coffee mug. Wearing a yellow sweater, a striped black and white shirt; and a pair of brown slacks he approaches me. I hold the mug out to him.

  “Thanks,” he says, and starts to turn away.

  “Someone called Rocco Rossetti—”

  The name is like magic, he whirls around to face me, his eyes shining with anticipation.

  “Came into the shop last night while I was working out back,” I continue. “He indicated that he wanted to buy Miranda Taking a Bath. He says to put it away for him, and someone will come and pick it up
on Thursday. Uh… he also left a cash deposit. A thousand dollars.”

  Larry looks at me in disbelief. “The Count left a deposit! Are you sure that was him?”

  I feel my face growing warm. “Um… yeah. He didn’t say he was a Count though.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Uh, blond, very handsome, beautifully dressed, good—”

  He raises his hand to indicate I should stop babbling, and I shut my mouth with a snap.

  For a moment he says nothing, then he smiles approvingly. “Well done, Autumn. There should be a nice commission for you in there.”

  I grin widely. I’ve never had the chance to sell anything or earn any commission before. I’m just the minion and everybody usually asks to speak directly to Larry before they make a purchase.

  “I guess I’ll finally be able to pay you back for all the paints,” I say.

  He frowns. “Ah, no. Don’t do that. They were presents. It’s not often I see someone so talented and genuinely eager to paint and it gave me pleasure to encourage that passion.” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got to make some phone calls. Take the sold painting out of the window and replace it with…,” He pauses as he considers which painting would do best in the shop window. “One of Jerry’s, um… how about The Final Crucifixion?”

  “Great choice,” I confirm.

  He smiles then starts sprinting up the stairs to his office, only to stop halfway, and turn to me. “I’m catching up with my accounts today so I will have to work right through lunch. Will you pop out to Franks later and get me a ham sandwich?”

  I nod. “Sure.”

  He disappears out of sight and I hear his footsteps go to his office. I’ll have to wait until this evening to ask him about the mysterious Count Rossetti, but for the moment I can do some research of my own.