This piece was in response to a challenge that required a crime to be committed and ‘regret’ to be featured. Enjoy.
MELODY’S TRINKETS
I smell her perfume, piquant and expensive, before I hear her voice; distinctive, memorable, still husky and slightly breathless. An image of our parting; the passion and my betrayal, wraps a band around my chest. She is speaking behind me, mingling with my guests. How did she get in? It’s the opening night of the current exhibition and invitation only. The champagne is flowing and I’m hoping it will open the wallets of the collectors who have come, dressed to impress their peers.
I murmur an excuse to the group I am speaking with and turn, determined to face my past.
“Hello, Simon,” she says, as if she’s run up a flight of stairs to greet me. Her asthma is still plaguing her.
She’s as beautiful as ever. Her chestnut locks fall artfully to her shoulders held behind a diadem that sparkles under the gallery lights. A casual hair style that has probably cost her a fortune to be arranged just so. Sheathed in apple-green the silk dress drapes her breasts and hips. She balances on stilettos barely held on her ankles by silver straps. The heels are probably damaging the wooden floor.
I inhale, trying to slow my heartbeat. “Hello, Melody. What a surprise. Are you into collecting art now?”
“You know I love beautiful things, Simon. Remember? After all, I had you in my collection – for a while.”
I cup her elbow and maneuver us through the crowd to stand in front of one of the smaller pieces. “This artist is up-and-coming. His work will be worth many times today’s value in ten years’ time. Can I interest you in it?”
She tucks her hand around my arm and murmurs, “I’m more interested in you. Is this your gallery?” She looks around, inclines her head, “Impressive.”
“I told you I was studying for an arts degree with the aim to owning my own gallery.”
She nods. “So you did, between sharing my bed and stealing my diamond bracelet.” She releases my arm and turns a full circle, surveying the room, then hisses, “Simon, what did you do with my diamonds?”
“I sold them to fund the last year of my degree.” Her eyebrows rise and she shakes her head and tuts. I continue, “They were sacrificed for a good cause and although you might have mourned their loss, I presume they were well insured.”
She grasps my hand and studies my palm. “You have a long lifeline,” she says, holding my gaze, her pupils are deep pools rimmed with gold flecks in caramel, and I wonder if she has been indulging in lines of white powder. “Daddy was furious. I told him I’d lost them somewhere between the nightclub, the taxi and my apartment. I could hardly tell him a waiter stole them, could I?”
“I worked as a waiter to fund my studies. I’m sure I told you that as well.”
“You probably did, darling, but who remembers mundane things like that when one is deep in the tumbling waves of passion.” She runs her fingernail, red and hard, along my lifeline then moves it to make a quick slash across my wrist, leaving a line of indented skin like a ‘cut here’ message.
“Are you going to make a scene?” I smile, hiding a nervous tic that pulses under my eye.
Fencing the stolen diamonds hadn’t been easy. The desecration of the bracelet; breaking it into pieces and selling it stone by unrecognizable stone, squeezing out every last cent of value, even down to the ruined silver settings. Memories flood in, breaking my thought pattern. Her grip crushes my knuckles, bringing me back to the present. Can I manage her mercurial temper? I remember her reckless moods. Wealth does this to some people. Puts them above the norms of good behaviour.
She drops my hand, and reaches to my shoulder, tracing a vein in my neck. “I could,” she whispers, “announce loudly to your lovely guests,” she indicates the crowd with a casual sweep of her extended finger, “that you are a thief and a liar. That you stole something precious from me.”
“You could do that – and I will smile, look bashful, and proclaim loudly that I have to admit I stole your maidenhood.”
She tosses her head and laughs. “You would do that, you devil, but would they believe you?” She knows if she dares to, I will respond.
“At least it would divert their minds from your accusation; the men especially. As to what the women think, they don’t hold the purse strings at these events. Tonight, is all about drinking good wine and selling the works of my chosen artists.”
As if dancing we move on to another painting, an oil abstract. I can’t decide what the artist is depicting but the colours balance and it has eye-appeal. Sometimes you have to include pieces to please, rather than for their artistic worthiness. “What about this piece? Surely you could afford it. It’s a mere trinket out of your trust fund’s annual disbursement.”
“Too garish. Not my style at all.” She wanders to the next painting. I look around, torn between keeping her under control and wanting to count the sold stickers. Katherine brushes past me, casting a quick grin as she places a red dot on the details of the painting we have just left. I hope there are other sales. A young couple now stand, beaming with ownership, in front of it.
Melody has moved on and I hurry to her side as she engages with an elderly gentleman. A silver fox, immaculately dressed despite his bent frame and his dependence on a walking stick. Not someone I recognise.
“Daddy,” she says, “have you met Simon? Simon, this is my father.”
“How do you do, sir.” I shake his hand. It’s claw-like with lose skin but his grip is firm. Not a man to be trifled with and I wonder if Melody is about to denounce me.
“Simon and I met a few years ago. He was studying art at the time and I became one of his after-hour assignments.”
“Quite rightly so. You’ve always been beautiful.” He pats her arm. “Do you like this daub?” he asks, and she cocks her head, and studies the large canvas. “A bit loud. I like a tree to be a tree and not to have to wonder about it. Let’s look at the others.”
They wander off and I leave them to it. She won’t make a scene, not in front of her father. He’s already collected the insurance money and she will have to explain her deceit. The muscles in my back ease. I paste a smile on and turn to mingle.
Katherine sidles up and hands me a wine. “Things are moving,” she murmurs.
The champagne fizzes over my tongue leaving gooseberry notes. “Nice choice.” She smiles. Katherine is the sommelier. I am the art critic.
I nod ‘good evening’ to a passing couple, raising my glass as a toast to them. They return the compliment and move on, consulting their catalogue. Quiet conversation flows around us.
“Who was that you were talking to?” my wife asks.
“An old love.”
“Really? You must have mixed in some refined air when you were younger.”
“You know I worked as a waiter for several years. Waiters get to mingle in some very fine houses. I considered it part of my art education.”
“Any regrets? Did you find it hard returning to your artist’s garret from the grand mansions?” She is teasing me.
“I spent many a night in luxury. It was a perk of the job.” I slip my arm around her waist and give her a gentle hug. “Must keep moving,” and we part.
Her question rankles. Do I have any regrets? Yes, I remember the jewelry, discarded in a heap in and around an old-fashioned chocolate box. Melody’s casual disregard for its care and security. No velvet cushions for her trinkets. Sapphire and diamond rings, a ruby and pearl choker, gold bracelets, silver bracelets and an emerald pendant, all tossed one on top of the other. On the table beside them, the diamond bracelet – glittering in the candlelight, calling to me even as I made love to her. Her languid stretch as she fell asleep, satisfied. If she’d been a cat, she would have purred that night.
I slipped away, into the mauve dawn, the bracelet in my pocket. She didn’t know where I lived, or where I studied. I was a piece of arm-candy just a phone call away. I discarded that phone number to prevent her calling and gave up waiting on tables. Life became study, and study garnered success.
Do I have any regrets? Yes, I wish I’d stolen more.
**********
My latest novel will be on sale on Amazon from the 31st March, published by Range Road Press. A taste of rural New Zealand that features wind phone conversations.
Preorder on the link below, or get your e-book any time after the end of March. You can order a paperback copy to be posted to you (postage will be extra from Amazon)
Here is the link: ‘On the Wind’ https://geni.us/qFiwy
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