Chiaroscuro and Catgirls

She smiled.

"So... Vivienne," she said. "How are you?"

"Er... busy?" I said, temporizing.

"With?"

"Oh, you know, my legions of adoring fans."

"Well, one of them at least."

"You're not a fan..."

"Of course I am. I'm your number one fan," she said, grinning widely. "I get direct access, so to speak."

"Via phone," I was quick to point out.

"Potaytoes, potahtoes. Um... so, listen. I'm glad you finally gave me your number. I... wanted to give you mine but didn't want to presume. Anyway... so I'm back in London in a week or so and I was wondering..."

"You're from London?" I exclaimed, forgetting any attempt at aloofness.

"Oh. Didn't I ever mention that? Yes, I'm from London. Well... not originally, but for a solid while now..."

"Oh, wow. No. You never said," I said. "I mean... not that it matters, given how much you seem to flit around..."

"Yeah. Quite. Anyway... so, Vivienne..."

"Yes?"

"How do you feel about... maybe meeting somewhere for a glass of wine? It would be nice, I think. We've been chatting for a bit now, and I've never liked the impersonality of it. And... and you did say that if I'm going to criticise it should be to your face..."

"Er..."

"Not keen? Oh, okay."

She seemed disappointed.

"No! No, it's not that... it's just... I don't really go out much. Um..."

"Oh. Don't worry; It won't be anything scary. Just... a little place I know, very casual, very relaxed. But... it's your choice, I'm not going to embarrass both of us by being pushy..."

And suddenly the answer was easy.

"I'd love to," I said, taking a swan-dive of faith. "It's... it would be nice. You've been so sweet, so kind to me. It... really would be nice to be able to tell you that. In real life, I mean. To your face, as you put it..."

I knew I sounded like a moron, and I clenched my jaw closed to avoid letting any further insanity bubbling out of it.

But she was still smiling.

"Okay," she said, softly. "Well, now I've got your number and vice versa, so reaching you is... easier. Good. Email is cold, and you have a lovely voice. I'd love to hear more of it. "

Her words warmed me; I fumbled for something to give back in thanks, seizing on the obvious.

"I'm a fair way through with your..."

"No!" she interrupted, talking over me. "That's a hard no. No progress reports. No updates. I was being serious. This is not a... project management meeting, Vivienne. I am not checking up on you. This is just me wanting to... to reach out and arrange to spend a bit of time in pleasant company. And, while I'm at it, to apologise again for... being critical. It's not my place, but it seems I just can't help myself when it comes to you..."

"Oh. Um... okay? Apology... accepted?"

She snorted.

"Where are you?" I said, curious. "You said you're not in London..."

"I'm in Warsaw at the moment," she said. "Have you ever been?"

"I haven't travelled much."

"So - something for the future, then - it's a beautiful city."

Something electronic chimed; she cursed. "A moment... that's work..."

Her phone rocked and she sighed.

"Vivienne, I need to go. I've got some fires to put out and as much as I'd rather spend the next hour listening to your wonderful voice, it unfortunately isn't what I'm going to get to do. I'll ping you when I'm back in London, okay?

"Okay. That would be... nice."

"Mwa, mwa. Chat soon."

And she broke the connection.

I put down my handset, and gasped at the sudden full-body shiver that rocked me.

She was beautiful. She was intelligent and witty.

And she had the most perfect white-gold hair and the brightest blue eyes I could remember.

God, she was sexy. It must be nice to be hot and successful...

I sighed, and took a slow look around my tiny, cluttered space.

Warsaw.

It sounded like a fantasy.

Maybe... maybe I'd go, some day.

I turned and stared at her painting. Then, driven by the old, old impulse, I returned to the easel and began adding details to her already intricate work.

I went to sleep late enough that it would be better classed as early.

❧

I'd elected to use her date of return as my deadline, and the scant week that remained passed in a blur of late nights and early mornings. But I succeeded - I finished her masterpiece with a day to spare, and left it uncovered so that it would dry.

So when Kirsty reached out on Sunday evening, I knew that she was back in London.

She once more tentatively tried to broach the subject of drinks, and I was delighted to be able to smugly counter with the announcement that her commission was ready for her.

Our potential wine meetup became, instead, my visiting her at hers; she offered the following Friday evening up as a date so that she could clear her "admin backlog", as she referred to it.

It would not quite qualify as the relaxed setting she'd promised... but, maybe there'd be time for that some other time.

And anyway, this was more important. This was about keeping my side of my bargain with her.

I couldn't bear the idea of disappointing her.

She insisted on booking a taxi for me - she said she was not willing for me to risk my hard work on the Underground network. So I sat in the back of the private hire car, watching London drift by as I clutched her bubble-wrapped painting as if it were some holy relic.

North London morphed to Central, and the bright lights of Kensington and Chelsea slowly changed to the green, leafy Edwardiana of Fulham. The taxi turned off the road and snaked into a modern development - four tall green-glass and steel towers standing in beautifully-landscaped private gardens. Beyond them was the Thames, lit by lights of passing river ferries and the brighter lights of Chelsea Harbour.

I clambered out of the deep black leather interior of the car and retrieved her painting and my bag. I stood there, feeling completely out of place as I watched the taxi depart.

I took a breath, and listened to a moment of the mournful cries of the ever-present gulls. Then I turned and carefully made my way through the slowly-rotating doors of the nearest tower - Curlew Tower, as a sign proudly proclaimed in flowing laser-etched steel.

And there she stood - slender, neat, trim, and beautiful in a figure-hugging black wool coat that clung to her and hung to just above her trouser-sheathed knees.

She held out her hand; I clasped it; we smiled nervously at one another.

She ushered me to the lift, and rode upwards with me, and let me into her spacious, minimalist, glorious. glass-walled, ivory-and-ash-wood-furnished double-volume world...

I was terrified.

And so, it seemed, was she - because she babbled; while I said very little at all.

❧

"So are you ready?" I said, when I'd finally summoned the courage and we'd dealt with the pleasantries.

My heart was thudding madly in my chest and I felt almost nauseous from the stress.

"No," she admitted with a nervous laugh. "I'm a complete control freak so this is well outside my normal boundaries. But... strange as it may sound, I'm looking forward to it - in a weird, what's-wrong-with-you kind of way..."

"I hope it was worth the wait", I said, uttering a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening to me.

I slowly began to peel back the protective layers of brown paper and bubble wrap; she clasped her hands and visibly struggled to restrain herself.

Slowly the sky became visible.

I watched her face, noting the way her eyes were moving side to side as she took in details of the clouds, the snow on the peaks, the hazy slopes, and then, nearer, the bright swathes of colour of the desert flowers and the pools of standing water left by the passing storms.

"Oh... my God," she whispered, as I pulled the last bit of bubble-wrap free. "Oh my God, it's... it's not at all what I was expecting..."

She'd gone pale; I felt the crawling tendrils of panic.

"Oh. Oh... um... I can rework it if..."

"No!"

I stared at her as she gasped a breath.

"No," she continued, softer. "You... you don't understand. It's... it's so much better than I'd even dreamed it would be. Oh... thank you for this," she said. "It's... perfect. Thank you."

She slowly lowered herself onto her sofa, still staring spellbound at the painting.

"It's stupid, isn't it," she breathed. "How something as simple as rain can... entirely change things for the better."

I watched the tear that tracked slowly down her cheek; she finally seemed to notice, and looked away, brushing at her face.

"Sorry," she and I said at the same time.

She snorted, I laughed nervously.

"Vivienne," she said. "You should be doing this, not... dribbling paint on yourself for people like me."

I stared down at my fingers, still tangled in bubble wrap.

"Thank you," I murmured. "But... you're the only person who's ever said that to me."

"That should be a crime, then. May I post photos of this?" she asked. "On my social media accounts?"

"It's your painting, Kirsty..."

"It isn't. I'm just paying for it. It's your painting, Vivienne. And no matter how much time goes past, that won't change. God, I envy you."

"What? Me? Why?"

"Are you serious? Look at this! Look at it! You did this, with your hands and your mind! I would give anything to have a talent like this. Something that would leave a bit of me behind after..."

She paused as she seemed to struggle with something.

I didn't know what to do, what to say.

And then the moment passed; she sighed and straightened her shoulders.

"I'm sorry. Me and my melodrama - I'm embarrassing both of us. So. How much do I owe you?"

"You paid for all the materials. It wasn't... it wasn't a chore to paint it. I enjoyed it. It was a healthy change for me. How does... two hundred pounds sound?" I said, hardly daring to hope.

"That sounds unfair."

"Oh... I mean... I could do... a hundred and... fifty?"

I waited, face flaming. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course I wasn't worth that...

"Unacceptable," she declared. "I can only do eight hundred, and if you argue that figure's only going to go up."

"Eight... what... what on earth..." I stuttered, staggered.

"Vivienne - here's the cold, harsh truth. If I'd gone to an established artist for this, I'd be paying twice that - or more. This way I get this... this masterpiece... for far less than I rightly should, while enjoying the very pleasant feeling that I'm helping you in some small way. I detest the term white knight... but that seems to be my assigned part to play here."

"That's insane, I can't let you..." I began to protest.

"Nine hundred."

"Please, Kirsty, oh my God, I'm begging... I can't..."

"One thousand," she said, grinning with apparent delight. "You're really terrible at negotiating."

"Please!" I beseeched her, frantic and close to tears. "Please, I'm not worth that! Oh my God, please, Kirsty!"

She eyed me, and the grin disappeared as she seemed to realise how close I was to breaking. "Fine. I'll be kind this one time. You get this one get-out-of-jail free card, Vivienne. One thousand pounds, but to make up for the frankly obscene discount I get to put photos on social media and name drop you under your real name so that you're drowning in commissions and praise. And... well, I'll also ask one more favour. But I'll go into that once we're done here."

I stared at her, caught between the mad desire to cry or laugh or faint or, possibly, all three at once.

One thousand pounds.

One thousand pounds.

"Kirsty..." I managed, half-sobbing.

Her eyebrow arched up. "Do you really want to test me further? I'm a brutal bargainer. I always win. Nobody ever tries a second time."

I shivered and, somehow, got control of myself again.

"Okay. Okay. Oh my God. Okay. You win. I surrender... but... but only if you tell me the favour you want. Please. Please... just tell me. Whatever it is, I'll do it. Whatever it is..."

"No, I'm quite firm on that. Later. First you have to accept my terms - or I'm going to double your fee again."

"You're bonkers..."

"Oh, I admit to being quite loopy," she agreed. "I find it... helps. So... are we in accord?"

"I can't stop you, can I? You're going to do this whether I want you to or not."

"You're right," she admitted. She sighed. "It's the really horrible thing about relationships, see - I hold the power here, and so I can be capricious because I'm in control - because now I hold this whole thing over you."

Then she laughed brightly, as if it was all some strange joke.

"So let me solve that problem for us - right now, in fact."

She picked up her phone, and did something, and my own handset tinkled merrily. I pulled it out and stared down at the notification from my banking app that I was a thousand pounds better off than I'd been that morning.

"Now there's nothing between us again. All my power over you is gone. Poof, just like that. Oh no. How sad. How... wonderfully liberating for us both."

"Kirsty..." I whispered, blinking back the tears. "Oh my God, why?"

"Because I can. Because I want to. Because I can see that, despite this facade of bravado, you're... you're exhausted and... and malnourished and, pretty obviously, living on what scraps you can find. Because a girl as gorgeous as you are shouldn't be nearly as thin as you are. Because you need the help right now. Because I cannot, cannot walk by on the other side of the road when it comes to you. And, perhaps most selfishly, because I want you to feel like you can say no to me without fear or... discomfort... when I ask you my favour."

"What... what is it?" I said, mind whirling wildly with half-formed suspicions. "What do you need me to do? I'll do anything. I'll do anything you want me to. You can do what you want to me..."

"No! Oh my God, no," she repeated, clearly horrified. "It's nothing at all like that, Vivienne. I would never ask for something like that. Never!"

She stared at me, then shook her head, still upset. "I... I just want you to have dinner with me," she said at last, the last bit coming out in a rush as if she'd been afraid to say it.

"I'm... what?"

Once more she managed to leave me at a loss for words.

She took a deep breath and sighed it out.

"Look at me. Look around you. Observe the phenomenally-successful executive in her natural environment. Does anything strike you as odd? Is anything out of place, perhaps? Or... or could it be that it's what's not obvious that gives me away?"

"Um... I..." I flailed.

"Where are the photos of my doting husband, of my polite and well-mannered children? Where are the marks and signs of my family? Where is the mark of anything at all that shows personality rather than a nice appreciation of style?"

I craned my neck.

"I don't see..."

"I'm alone, Vivienne. I'm completely alone. I have nobody at all. I turned forty a month ago - on an Airbus flying between London and Johannesburg, travelling one more leg of my perpetual trek from one five star hotel suite to the next. I was... browsing smut sites when I found you, I was looking for... for something, for anything at all to distract me from my loneliness. I found you, and... ruined your day, to some degree, because I found you pretty and interesting and I was, to be blunt, a juvenile idiot. So... here's my deck of cards. I'm laying them out in front of you because I'm tired and you're sweet and, frankly, one of the loveliest women I've ever met. I'd like your company this evening - for dinner only in case I need to state that again. Just dinner. I'm ordering Indian, or Thai, or whatever you feel like - and the only thing I would dream of asking you to do for me is to tell me whether I'm ordering for one or, hopefully, two."

Her eyes were bright, bright blue; the filigree of her hair perfectly sculpted into a white-gold French bun.

She was strong. Haughty. Powerful but benevolent...

And... brittle, I suddenly realised. There were lines under her eyes that were not the lines of a settled, content person. Her smile was warm and wonderful but I felt it likely that she didn't find much use for it in her day to day.

I felt the yawning shadow of solitude behind me. I knew a fellow refugee when I saw one. And the offer to have someone... especially someone as lovely as her... to spend even a little time with...

"Um... are you sure... I mean... I don't want to intrude..."

"It's been over a month since I had a face to face conversation with someone on a topic other than work or day to day necessities. So... yes. I'm sure. But... it's your choice. I would never expect or... or require you to do anything. Everything is always, ultimately, your choice. Everything," she repeated, softly.

My heart ached for her. I slowly lowered myself onto her pristine ivory-coloured couch.

"Thai," I said, as I surrendered. "Please. Thai would be amazing. I haven't eaten Thai since I was last home."

"And when was that, Vivienne?"

"Nearly a year."

"Why so long?"

"Money, mostly," I whispered. I took a shuddering breath, dug my nails into my thighs. "It's an expensive trip. I can't afford it... often."

She regarded me for a moment, then sighed.

"Thai, then," she gently echoed. "Do you have a preference?"

"No... not really..."

"Neither do I. Shall we try a bit of everything? If you'd like?"

"Um... yes, please..."

She smiled a little private smile at me, and for the briefest of moments her entire being softened and I saw the flash of young, lonely girl behind her high, Adamant walls.

An impulse seized me; I reached out and took her hand in mine.

Hers twitched, she took a small, startled breath as if I'd shocked her - then she closed her fingers around mine and cradled my hand for a moment before letting go.

Colour had flashed to her cheeks; my own were warm and, likely, flaming.

She coughed, looking at anything and everything but me as she fussed with the fabric of her trousers.

"Thank you, Kirsty," I said, softly, freeing the words into the awkward silence, conscious of how badly I'd unsettled her.

"No," she answered me, finally meeting my gaze. "Never," she added. "It really is my pleasure. Now... wait for a bit while I order. Or... better yet, if you like, there's a bottle of Pinot noir on the counter in the kitchen. Go and open it; there are some glasses in the cupboard by the pantry. Or there's Riesling in the fridge. I'll have a glass of the Pinot though, if you don't mind bringing me one."

"Um... sure."

And so I went, and opened the wine, and poured us both a lead-crystal glass of the rich, heady contents.

And I walked back to her, carrying the wine carefully, terrified to spill a drop anywhere within the immaculate surrounds of her sanctuary as I listened to her negotiating with her phone.

She had a warm voice, a reserved politeness, a formal but unruffled way with whoever she was talking to on the far side. Her casual familiarity implied that she was a regular.

She had nobody to cook for her; I felt a deep pang of sympathy. Solitude sucked.

She sighed as she hung up on the call, then turned her attention back to me.

I passed her her glass; she took it with a nod and a smile.

"So... here's to your successful commission," she said softly. "It will be the first of many," she added, as if she were laying out the rules of the future in stone.

I sipped my wine and watched her, and my mind turned over and over again.

❧

Her phone chimed as I was pouring us both our third glass of wine. I was floating pleasantly on an alcohol-imbued fluffy cloud of full belly and warm toes; sometimes almost losing myself in the cadence of her wonderful, mellow words as she talked about her time in Chile and Peru.

The abrupt, tinny melody changed everything; her story trailed off into silence as she glanced at her handset.