Chiaroscuro Chapter 2 Part 1
Chapter 2 Part 1 has arrived.
Dearest Cultured Reader,
Get ready to dive into the latest chapter of our tale, where the ever-aspiring Emery Steele finds herself at the chic restaurant, BC. Join Emery as she struts her stuff in a little black dress, ready to charm the enigmatic Cliff Hersain and secure her place in the art world. But watch out! The air is thick with intrigue and the scent of ambition as our heroine maneuvers through a room filled with velvet chairs, mahogany accents, and more than a few watchful eyes.
As you savour the chapter, enjoy the playful banter, the glances that could kill, and the whispered secrets in posh powder rooms. Will Emery’s charm and wit win the day, or will the hidden complexities of her past and the enigmatic Cliff throw a wrench in her plans?
Grab a glass of Chardonnay, dear reader, and get ready for a deliciously dramatic escapade!
Also - I have a treat for my new readers. I will be opening up the first chapter for free next week. Stay tuned.
***
CW: This chapter contains descriptions of drug use.
Chapter 2
Emery had taken the bus from her studio apartment in Paddington and then walked the two blocks to the restaurant. The evening was mild for early summer, but she didn’t mind the fresh air on her exposed skin. In fact, she needed the constant stroke of the breeze to stop her mind from wandering. She had to impress Cliff tonight. The money from her mother’s trust was close to drying up and if she didn’t secure gallery representation soon, she’d have to find a job in hospitality. Like the other creatives in the city.
She looked up at the gold embossed letters ‘BC’ that hung from an awning above the busy end of Elizabeth Street. The restaurant was housed in what looked like an old temple. Thick ionic columns flanked the large glass entrance and sandstone blocks decorated the façade.
She pushed the brass handle and the door swung open. Jazz music played softly through the quiet, darkened space. Ambient lighting cast a golden glow on the mahogany furniture and deep burgundy drapery. The scent of garlic and something sweet wafted through the air, mingling with notes of herbs, butter and pan-fried meat.
‘Hi, welcome to BC. Do you have a reservation?’ A shiny, youthful face peered up her. A thin pink line in the place of her mouth.
Emery smiled, peering through the room behind the hostess. Most of the tables were already full. She saw Cliff Hersain’s balding head and he stood up swiftly and greeted her with a broad smile and a twinkle in his eye.
‘Yes – he’s right there,’ she pointed towards Cliff.
‘Ah, you’re with Mr Hersain,’ she smiled through a furrowed brow, ‘I’ll show you to your table.’ The hostess turned on her heel and Emery followed, manoeuvring her way through the room of red velvet chairs and white clothed tables.
Ballooned sleeves and smooth, blow-dried hair bobbed as laughter flittered from a nearby table and then stopped as a table of elegantly dressed women peered up at her. Quilted monogrammed handbags strung from atop their chairs, and a floral, sickly-sweet smell emanated from their table. She pulled down at her little black dress, hoping to cover her upper thighs and immediately she regretted her choice of outfit. She was vastly underdressed. The women went silent as she walked past, and she nodded her head to the floor. As she moved past them, the group of hyenas resumed their chatting and laughing.
The hostess guided Emery to a secluded table near a fireplace and under a large gilt framed painting. She settled on the work for a moment, her eyes sweeping across its subjects. Two black and white dogs rummaged through a field in the foreground, while a bearded man sat in the background – his large hunting gun cocked. The spotlight that hung above the work reflected the shiny varnish back at her. Oil. Tempera. The surface was slightly cracked, giving it an aged appearance.
‘Emery, it’s a pleasure to see you again,’ Cliff said. His voice, smooth and deep like whiskey.
‘Thank you, Cliff,’ she disconnected from the painting and set her eyes on him. A ‘It’s a pleasure to be here,’ she replied, forcing a smile as she settled into her seat. She still couldn’t believe this was happening. Cliff Hersain had asked her to dinner. Cliff Hersain was interested in her work. Her father’s words knocked at her mind; your mother knew him.
A tall, caramel-skinned man approached, clasping a bottle of wine in his hands. Its label was faded and tearing away at the edges. He leaned across Emery and poured them each a glass of wine. A tiny tattoo of a lion perched on three blades of grass was revealed on the inside of the waiter’s wrist.
‘Chardonnay, from Reims,’ the waiter said in a deep, musky voice.
Emery sipped slowly, feeling the rich flavours dance on her tongue. Cliff, however, downed his glass with ease, signalling to the waiter with a flick of his wrist for another glass almost immediately.
‘So, tell me about your pink series,’ Cliff began, leaning forward, his blue eyes sparkling with intensity. ‘What drives you to create your works, Miss Steele?’
There it was. He wanted the truth. Emery felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She had remained purposely evasive about the true meaning behind her work. Preferring to let the art speak for itself. Confronting what had happened to her was not in the game plan for tonight. Or ever, for that matter. She needed representation and she needed Cliff to love her work, and more importantly, to want to invest in her.
‘I find inspiration in the complexities of human emotions,’ she said vaguely, hoping to steer the conversation away from deeper scrutiny.
Cliff’s eyes narrowed slightly as if sensing her reluctance. ‘Interesting. Your work suggests there’s more to it than just emotion. There’s a raw intensity, a story that’s begging to be told.’ He took another gulp of wine.
Emery forced a laugh, trying to mask her discomfort. ‘I suppose every artist has their secrets.’
‘Enigmatic. I love a mystery. Beckons to be solved, don’t you think?’ He took a swig of his wine and motioned for the waiter. The sound of liquid being poured, and she looked down to see her glass full of yellowed wine. So, he was going to try and prod the truth from her with inebriety. Well, if he was to be her gallerist, then maybe she should confide in him. Surely, he’d look after her and tell her story in a respectful way. She picked up the glass and took a sip. The soft, buttery liquid quenched her drying mouth, and she took another, enjoying the flavour. Maybe tonight the truth would finally be pulled from her.
***
She cast her mind back to the night of Michael Hale’s studio party. Michael was one of Rupert Street’s artists, and since Quentin had been working at Street and Co, he’d been invited to all the best art parties. Emery recalled walking into the studio on Oxford Street –greeted by a haze of thick, pungent smoke. The tunes of indie music mingled with loud voices, only exacerbated by the vast, hollow walls of the concrete warehouse. She hadn’t known what to expect at a studio party – a place where an artist usually created their work – but there was no painting happening at this studio. Most of the thirty or so people who were packed into the warehouse were strewn over random bits of mismatched furniture. One girl was doing some type of interpretive dance in the corner on her own, while others looked on. A group of black-clothed people stood in the opposite corner, laughing and sipping on champagne. Seeing Quentin’s slicked black hair and thin, leather-painted legs, she recalled joining the group and being introduced to Steven Roller. The infamous ‘bad boy’ street artist, who had helped pioneer the street art movement.
Roller, as he was affectionately known, had been living in New York for the last few years and had already exhibited his work in London, New York and Los Angeles. Emery had seen his name tagged across laneways and expressways all over the country. He was a big deal. For some reason, Roller had taken an interest in her and the two had spent the evening chatting about their work, his career, music, travel – Emery felt the flood of warmth fill her belly as she recalled how special he’d made her feel. This highly successful artist was speaking to her. This bad boy artist whose beautiful, tanned face and deep brown eyes had continued to fill her glass with champagne. She tried to recall the rest of the evening, but as always, if she pressed her mind too far, a grey curtain stopped her from seeing the finer details. Thank heavens for the Rohypnol. She didn’t know if she wanted to remember what had happened in detail.
***
‘Cliff, darling,’ a deep, female voice beckoned from behind her, breaking her rendezvous with the past.
Cliff’s eyes focused in, his pupils dilated, and his smile widening like a Cheshire cat. Emery turned the top half of her body towards the voice to see a tall, thin young woman with impossibly shiny auburn hair and glittering jewels decorating her décolletage. She smiled a perfect white smile. Family money.
Emery’s stomach flipped. She was one of the ballooned-sleeved hyenas with the expensive handbags draped over their chairs that had stared at her as she’d walked in.
‘Natalie, hi,’ Cliff said, standing up from his chair and moving towards the flawless skin, and sparkling jewels and kissing her on the cheek.
‘Natalie, this is Emery Steele. A recent graduate of SAS. I’m looking to expand my stable of artists with fresh talent,’ Cliff said, smiling, his eyes glistening like two wide moons.
Emery peered up at the ballooned sleeves that looked, on closer inspection, to be sheer and showing off her black lace bra. She didn’t know whether to stay seated or stand up, and before she could decide, Natalie’s hand was thrust at her.
‘Hi, I’m Natalie Wirth. I work at Street at Co. You’re Quentin’s friend, aren’t’ you?’ Her eyes narrowed.
Natalie. Wirth. This was Natalie Wirth.
Emery nodded her head and grabbed the perfectly manicured hand of Natalie Wirth and tried to shake it, but Natalie’s hand stayed floppy and still like a wet fish.
‘Hi – erm, I’m Emery. Yes, Quentin and I went to art school together. Although he was the year above me.’ She smiled, not recalling the babble she’d just spewed forth.
‘Natalie, you’re killing me. When will you think about my offer?’ Cliff interrupted. ‘Surely Rupert, the old boy can’t give you what I’m offering.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Didn’t you hear, you’re looking at the new Gallery Manager of Street and Co.’
Cliff soft clapped and titled his head with squinted eyes. ‘Don’t shit where you sleep, Nat. You know these things always come back to bite.’
‘What ever do you mean, Mr Hersain?’ She jested.
‘Give my regards to Hazel,’ he winked at her and laughed.
‘Very funny,’ she narrowed her eyes. ‘Nice to meet you, Emery. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you around. Just watch out for this one.’ She nodded her head towards Cliff and sauntered back to the table of hyenas.
Hazel. Who was Hazel? Why were these two speaking in code? This world was confusing. She needed a breather.
‘Now, where were we?’ He looked down at his empty glass and back up behind Emery, no doubt searching for the waiter.
‘I need to go to the Ladies,’ Emery stood up and pulled down at her dress, looking at Cliff whose eyes darted down her legs and met her eyes. She had his attention at least.
The same waiter appeared and pointed to the back of the restaurant. ‘The lavatory is this way, Miss.’
‘Thank you, she nodded,’ and took one step in the direction of where the waiter had advised. The edges of the room on her periphery softened like the haze of a dream. One foot in front of the other. She tried to recall how many glasses of wine she’d had. Yes, only two. They hadn’t eaten yet. No wonder she was feeling tipsy.
She pushed open a brass handled door and saw the shiny, silky hair of Natalie Wirth. Natalie gave an almighty sniff of her nose and shook her head, turning to look at Emery.
‘Emery! Hi,’ Natalie’s bug eyes zeroed in on her. ‘Do you want some coke?’ She said, wiping at her nose and sniffing again.
What the hell? Natalie. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘I just need to use the bathroom.’ She tried to push past Natalie who was now staring at herself in the mirror and applying red lipstick to match her red nails. ‘Are you sure? Have some fun!’ Natalie held a rolled up note out in front of her.
She froze between the ajar cubicle door and was just about to shut it when a surge of something pulsed through her. Adrenaline. Excitement. Possibility. It wasn’t like she could afford to buy it herself. Maybe it would give her the confidence she needed to persuade Cliff to represent her.
She smiled at Natalie and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Sure.’
‘Yes! I knew you were fun,’ Natalie ushered them into a toilet cubicle, pulling at Emery’s shoulder. ‘Quentin has told me so many stories of you guys at Uni together. I love him. I don’t know what I’d do without him at the gallery.’
‘Seems you’re doing just fine to me,’ Emery said. Thinking back to her conversation with Cliff earlier. ‘Gallery Manager, I hear?’
‘Ugh trust me –’ Natalie flipped open her black quilted bag and set about pouring white powder from a small clear bag onto her phone, which was resting on the top of the toilet roll holder. ‘It is not easy to be a woman in the arts, Em. Can I call you Em?’
‘Sure –’
‘It’s just a title. Gallery Manager. I don’t have any say over anything. Rupert pulls all the strings. He won’t even let me put my name to the writing I do. I was awarded best original thesis in my master’s degree for pete’s sake. And that wife of his. Hazel. She’s a witch. The place is toxic, honestly. I’m just biding my time until something better comes up. But don’t tell Quentin that. Or Cliff for that matter. Cliff has been trying to poach me for months, but he’s the last person I want to work for –’
Natalie rolled a note, went about sniffing up the little white line and then handed it to Emery. Emery looked down at the phone, and didn’t give what she was doing a second thought before she hoovered the white dust up with the pineapple that Natalie handed her.
Hazel. So, that’s who they were talking about at the table earlier. Rupert’s wife. Quentin had never mentioned anything untoward about Street and Co before. She made a mental note to ask him about it.
‘Good, isn’t it?’ Natalie said, packing her assortment of things away into her quilted handbag, closing the flap and unlocking the cubicle door.
Emery nodded her head, following Natalie out to the wash basin and mirrors.
‘Whatever you do,’ Natalie said, applying more red lipstick to her already stained lips, ‘do not sleep with Cliff. He’s a predator – everyone in the industry knows it and it’s why I will never work for him. Don’t be the next Olivia Madden.’
Olivia Madden. Who the hell was Olivia Madden?
‘Okay, yes. I promise,’ she nodded her head, almost scoffing at Natalie.
‘Good. I’ll see you around. Pop by the gallery some time and say hi.’
Natalie turned on her heel and pushed open the door. Emery caught her reflection in the mirror and inched closer. She fluffed up her hair and gave it a shake – encouraging the brown waves to thicken up. Then she scooped up her breasts so that they looked perkier from within the tight black material of her dress. She finished by flaring her nostrils, making sure there was no evidence of what she’d just done with Natalie. Then she smiled at herself. She may not be as beautiful or as connected as Natalie, but she was going to get Cliff Hersain to sign her one way or another. Even if that meant doing exactly what Natalie had told her not to.
Chapter 2 Part 2 arrives next week. Prepare yourselves, it’s getting hot in here.
© Joey Hespe, 2024.
*Disclaimer: The characters and events depicted in this story are fictional and do not intend to represent any single person or company.