“You remind me of a Rembrandt come to life.”
Closing her umbrella and tossing her hair, glad to be out of the afternoon drizzle, Helen glanced up, unsure at first if the man was addressing her. "What?"
He just smiled.
She’d noticed him when she first stepped in to the art museum. The man, tall, dressed in a dark coat, stood in front of that horrid still life, the one with the fruit and dead rabbits. Handsome, but...
“A Rembrandt," he repeated. "Come to life.”
And you remind me of a--what's that term they used to use in the movies?-- bullshit artist, she thought, but didn’t say it. She smiled her best smile, the one her mother wore often. Polite—and icy. Then she drifted away, aware of her heels’ click against the wood floors of the gallery. She loved high heels, felt feminine in them, even if by the end of the day, the pleasure came in sliding them off. Her mother didn’t approve of high heels. Her mother would smile at Helen’s shoes, just like that.
The chill smile. The one that didn’t warm, comfort or do any of the things a smile was supposed to do. Was she becoming like that? Like her mother? The idea made her shiver--maybe that was why, subconsciously, she'd decided to duck into the museum. Her mother would paste that chilly smile across her face whenever she was stuck in a museum. Heaven forbid she be forced to glance at nudity.
Helen sank onto a bench, conveniently situated in front of an odalisque, the slave woman’s voluptuous curves accented by the rich brocade that draped—or revealed—her form. The cream of her skin was accented with deep green and burgundy and the colours glowed in the subdued day. She was gorgeous, that long-ago woman. Who was the artist? And who was the model, that beauty from another era? The woman who lay so confidently, facing the artist—or viewer—with a gleam of challenge and satisfaction in her eye? Had that woman heard a mother’s querulous voice, unceasing complaints, like an annoying mosquito endlessly buzzing?
“Lovely, isn’t she?”
The man. He was near her again. He stood, gazing at the painting. Helen’s heart began to beat a little faster. Was he...flirting with her? She should put an end to that nonsense right away.
Why? To adhere to one of her mother's rules of conduct. Rule number eight, wasn't it?
He wasn’t flirting with her. He was just being polite. And there was nothing wrong with that, with making casual conversation. That’s what ladies did. And it was the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of a public place, after all. Surprised to hear herself speak, Helen agreed. “Lovely. Although there’s a bit too much of her for today’s taste.”
“Not for mine,” the man murmured. He looked at Helen and smiled again, as if measuring her for a canvas of her own. Another blush warmed her—right through.
The man. He was nice-looking: maybe forty, dressed in a raincoat, still damp at the shoulder from the drizzle. Dark hair, cut neatly, that looked like it would curl if it grew any longer. Regular features, except for a slightly crooked nose that knocked him out of ‘handsome’ and into ‘interesting’. There was a nice solidity to his body, too. “Andrew,” he said sticking out his hand.
His smile didn’t chill at all.
“Helen.”
Her mother stood behind him waving her hands no and silently mouthing. "He's flirting with you!"
Flirting with her? It couldn’t be. Although her hair was pretty, a rich chestnut that reached her shoulders in soft waves, and her eyes were an admired shade of blue, Helen knew she didn’t fit the ideal. She was three inches too tall, and not only that, she had hips and breasts, and lush curves that would have pleased in another era, but now only brought her misery. She adored nice clothes, though, and dressed with care. You never knew... Like today. Who knew that she’d be discussing art with a handsome stranger... Andrew. Not a stranger, not any more. They drifted to the next spot lit canvas, then the next, laughing at the pious expressions, puzzling over the abstracts. They were the exhibit’s sole audience. Even so, the Picasso brothel nudes in the corner made Helen blush. She blushed again, when Helen accepted Andrew's invitation for a drink.
She should have been nervous, but she wasn’t. She shouldn’t have been there, but she was. The lounge where they’d gone to, where they sat and drank wine and talked, was lovely, cosy and elegant. The hotel room above was the same: stylish, though small, and its windows overlooked the city.
And now she stood at the window, ready for whatever would come next. Her city looked different from up here. And she felt different up here. Helen felt as if she were starring in a movie: Tryst In The Afternoon.
“Another? As promised.” Andrew was at her side again, a glass in hand. His trench coat was draped over a chair, and beneath, he was far more pleasing: tasteful burgundy tie, crisp shirt, dark trousers. Andrew had a nice body splashed by just a hint of cologne, he smelled sharp and clean, when he’d leaned in to make a joke in her ear. He’d followed it with a compliment that had made her blush again. And squirm on the seat, surprised by heat within her even as the rain came down harder. After a glass of wine, she stopped blushing.
But when he’d suggested they move upstairs with the bottle and spend the rest of the afternoon ‘more privately, out of the weather’, she’d been stunned to hear herself agree.
Now she was in the room with him, and Helen knew she was about to do something more shocking to her mother than a glass of wine with a stranger at three in the afternoon. The voice of her mother bleated in protest. Helen told her to be silent. After today, she’d never want to hear that stern haunting voice again.
"Would you like more wine?"
“Please,” she replied. He touched her hand as she took the glass, and the touch was new.
Stop it! a voice cried.
"Shut up," Helen murmured.
"Hm?" Andrew asked.
A moment later, as if to answer him, she kissed her stranger. So far, the plunge was nothing but pleasure. His fingers were nimble and his mouth was warm and sure, and after a few kisses, her sweater slipped off. He revealed her layer by layer, stopping to kiss her in between, as if he were unwrapping something precious and fine. Beneath the sweater, Helen wore a charmeuse camisole, simply because the silky fabric felt good against her skin and it looked like a gloomy day when she’d dressed. Did it matter if she hadn’t planned on anyone seeing it? No. Because she’d felt beautiful with it on, the way the silk was cool, then warm against her skin, a soft caress that pleased her. Dressed alluringly on the inside, maybe how she felt showed on the outside.
Andrew liked the silk, bending to brush his mouth over her full breasts, gathering it up in his fists at her back, then pulling her to him for another kiss. Excited by his touch, her nipples rose against the smooth fabric, enticing him. He cupped her breast, gently squeezing.
“What sensuous curves, you have, Helen,” Andrew whispered. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
He led her to the bed, and knelt. With a quiet motion of his hands, down came her skirt, and he murmured in surprise and delight at her matching panties. His reaction made Helen look up to the ceiling and thank whatever caprice had caused her to dress up that morning. For who could have known that this afternoon, she’d be undressing here?
Then, quickly disrobing himself, his eyes never leaving her skin, Andrew knelt over her. Carefully, his mouth blotted out rational thought. The rain lashed against the hotel room windows, while he thrust into her, in slow, maddening friction that blazed like July sunshine inside her until she climaxed. So much for the grey cold rain.
After, they lay together, entwined, clinging together as if it were their hundredth time, not their first.
She smiled. "You know something? I've never been so glad to stop into an art museum in my entire life," Helen whispered. "My mother used to hate it when my father dragged the family to museums."
Andrew chuckled. “I don’t even like art. I just wanted to be out of the weather.” He paused, and trailed kisses down her neck. “Then I saw you, and you put all those canvas beauties to shame.”
Helen felt desire begin again, shivering at the touch of his mouth along her neck. She moaned softly, as if to speak, but before she could reply, he spoke again.
“So, we’ve explored art. Tomorrow night—the opera?”
