Illicit Canvas: political romance and stand alone romance
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Authors: Joanna Mazurkiewicz
Illicit Canvas
by
Joanna Mazurkiewicz
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Copyright © 2015 by Joanna Mazurkiewicz
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Joanna Mazurkiewicz. The right of Joanna Mazurkiewicz to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author/publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, journal or blog.
Table of content
I can feel the sun on my skin. It’s warm and pleasing, soft like feathers, sending strong rays of heat down my cheeks. I’m enjoying the feeling, wondering if I could stay here all day long, but then it ends abruptly, so I open my eyes, seeing someone blocking it.
“I bought a drink—iced tea,” Colin says with that cheerful smile on his face. I grab the bottle and put it into my bag, away from the sun.
“Thanks.”
He sits down and puts his arm around me. I close my eyes again, getting back to that moment of bliss before he interrupted me.
“Are you busy on Sunday in about a fortnight?”
I guess that I’ll have to forget about the pleasing warm rays of sunshine and concentrate on conversation. Colin is my boyfriend. We have been seeing each other for over two weeks since the semester began. This whole thing is so new, it feels strange to call him my boyfriend. For all I know, he might be a serial killer.
“No, I’m free. Why? Do you want to go somewhere?” I ask casually, wrapping my arms around my knees. I moved to Brussels exactly three weeks ago to study. My mother has just gotten engaged and she is putting her life back together after her second divorce. Mum wasn’t overly happy with my decision; she thinks that I’m way too young to be living away from home. There are some things that we don’t talk about. She doesn’t trust me and looking at my past, I guess that’s understandable. It’s been three long years.
I look back at Colin, who’s scrolling through his Facebook app, frowning, and I wonder—how did I end up with him? I learned that men like when you don’t notice how nervous or uncomfortable they really are. I was here only a week when Colin approached me and started talking to me in English. I instantly felt relaxed being around him, and he was so open and friendly.
I also thought that he was kind of cute, with his short brown hair, pale grey eyes and cheerful smile. We hit it off straight away and then he asked for my number and this whole of thing went from there.
“My mum will be over from the States. I thought you could meet her,” Colin blurts out, pulling me away from my deep thoughts. I smile again, because that’s what I do when things get awkward. My relationship with Colin is very new and I don’t know what to expect. We haven’t slept together yet, and he already wants me to meet his parents? Maybe he doesn’t get it that these things take time, that right now we are only having fun.
“Your mother? Really? I thought that she was busy with work.”
“Yeah, she was, but Duncan, my stepfather, has to fly over to Spain to bring some important client. Anyway, I told her that I’ve been seeing you for a bit, so now she wants to meet you.”
“Okay, I don’t see a problem with that,” I say automatically and spread out on the blanket, trying to enjoy more sun. It’s just one of those things. My friends always told me that I’m too laid back. I’m not sure why, but I don’t like conflict or arguments. Maybe that’s one of the other reasons why I moved away: to be more decisive.
I have very long, black, straight hair that annoys the hell out of me sometimes. Mum says that my nose is small and my skin pale because my grandmother was Irish. I’m slim like her and I have pointed ears; that’s why I was given the name of the elf princess from Tolkien’s books: Arwen. All my boyfriends have told me that I have beautiful eyes. They are cobalt blue with long eyelashes, which I love. Sometimes other girls look at me strangely. Maybe it’s because of my quirky style. I’m into vintage clothing and lots of layers.
“She will love you, so don’t stress. My mother is very open-minded,” Colin assures me and then leans over kissing me. He is a good kisser and I enjoy the sensation, but I just don’t think this relationship will ever be as intense as I want. Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with me. There has never been anyone in my life that turned it upside down, like the romances in books or films. My friends Stacey and Valerie have these stories about their first love being the best thing that ever happened to them, but not me.
I meet guys, we date, have fun and then we break up. That’s how this normally works. In comparison to my exes, Colin is funny; he makes me laugh and respects me. At first I thought that he just wanted to be friends, hang out, drink coffee together, stuff like that. But a week later he kissed me and said, “You’re beautiful and make me feel alive.”
All right, so what, his declaration was lame and maybe a bit over the top, but I didn’t know anyone else on the campus. I have a roommate, but she only moved in a week ago. Colin was there, so it was just easier, because we got on. In the past week we did some kissing and touching, but nothing more than that. He says that he wants me to be ready and we don’t need to rush into anything. We aren’t teenagers and I like sex, but with him it’s different. He just seems more like a mate than a boyfriend. On the other hand, he seems to think that I’m not like all the girls that he’s been with before.
“I’m not stressing, Colin. It’s fine.”
“Great. I’ll come over with dinner later after classes,” he adds, getting up. I have another twenty minutes and I don’t want to move from this spot. I think it’s a good idea that Colin and I hang out with my roommate tonight. She and I haven’t had a chance to bond properly yet.
“Okay, see you, handsome,” I tell him, blowing him a kiss. I watch as he strolls towards one of the university buildings, then lie back down hoping to enjoy the last moments of this glorious weather.
My phone rings and I sigh, looking at the screen. For a split second I wonder if it’s my mother. She calls every two days or texts, probably to check if I’m still alive and well. I get that she’s worried. The past carries scars.
It’s an unknown number, so I choose not to pick up. No one knows my number here in Belgium. It’s probably some kind of marketing call. I waste another ten minutes in the sun and then head to my history class. I’m doing a bachelor’s degree in fine art.
Ten minutes later, outside the class, a bunch of girls surrounding the door are talking loudly in French. Both my parents are British, but I was born in France. I’m fluent in both languages.
“Que se passe-t-il?” I ask.
“They cancelled the class. Apparently the professor is sick.”
“Yeah, they said that they tried to call, but I checked my phone and have no messages.”
Right, so now I understand the unknown number from earlier on. I would have expected an email or a text. I walk away knowing that now I have another three hours to kill before the next class.
Brussels is the perfect place to explore all the galleries and start looking for that painting that Dad used to carry with him all the time. I have a feeling that if I track down the painting I’ll also find him. I don’t believe that he stopped creating art. He loved to paint.
My father left when I was ten years old. We had this incredible artistic and loving bond. From an early age Dad began showing me his paintings, explaining what inspired him and telling me that one day I’d be like him, a known and respected artist, and we would attend exhibitions together. I always looked up to him, waiting for the door of his workshop to open so he could show me his newest piece. For as long as I can remember, Dad was always painting and he seeded this amazing passion in me from the moment I could grasp what he was doing.
When he vanished from my life, I was devastated, heartbroken and unsure about my own future. Mum refused to talk about him. She told me to forget him because he wasn’t part of our family anymore. Then, years later when I was old enough to understand, Mum said that he moved abroad and that she had lost contact. I knew that it was a lie. He simply abandoned her—because of me. At the time I was certain my lack of talent disappointed him. And I still believe that’s true.
Dad was one of the reasons I moved from France to Belgium. At eighteen I managed to track down my father’s old friend. He revealed to me that Dad was back in Belgium, doing what he always loved: painting again. I’ve called galleries, exhibitions, art studios, but no one has ever heard of him. Mum doesn’t know; I have to do this on my own. She always hated when I asked about him. I just need to look him in the eye and understand what went wrong.
After my class cancellation, I go the bathroom to reapply some makeup and put some colour on my cheeks. I imagine that I’m preparing for a date with an unknown artist. The excitement grows, filling me up with fresh energy. I’ve never shown my work to anyone, apart from the coursework. As long as I can paint I don’t need to eat. Art is like my food and water.
This sunny weather brings people out, and after Googling the nearest gallery, it takes me over fifteen minutes to find it. It’s one of those old buildings, with high pillars and gargoyles guarding the entrance on each side. I take a moment to look around me, taking in this new environment and its surroundings—assessing it.
Old paintings inspire my creativity, evolving ideas, becoming the muse. I always paint like mad when I come home, but today I’m exploring completely new territory. I have been so busy with Fresher’s Week and getting used to the university that I haven’t had a chance to do this since I left home.
I take a deep breath and walk inside, climbing the stairs. Inside it’s cooler and darker. I pay for the ticket and a nice old lady points me to where the exhibition starts. I smile, closing my eyes and inhaling that fresh cold air deep into my lungs. I guess I might look a bit strange, standing in the middle of the gallery with my eyes closed, so I quickly regain my composure and head over to check out the artist. It’s Constantin Meunier and all his paintings from 1831-1905. I read about him before I came to Belgium; he is best known for introducing portraits of industrial workers in art.
The exhibition is divided into nine sections; each of them represents the different years and stages of the artist’s life. I walk into the first room, glad that no one is there, and begin admiring the darker, more complex paintings. My body relaxes and thoughts start flowing as I keep walking, imagining the artist taking hours to perfect every shade of brown, yellow and black, to make sure that the human eye can see even the smallest detail. My work is nowhere near as good, but I use my fingers to run invisible lines, imagining that I have a brush in my hand. Memories pass through my mind, images of Dad in his workshop, unfinished paintings, water and the smell of paint.
“Calming, isn’t it? Being here and knowing that the world around us keeps moving and we are here, admiring the beauty of art.”
A voice, sexy, deep and alluring, pulls me back to reality, throwing me out of my melancholic state. I stiffen my back, feeling a shiver that suddenly travels down my spine. I squeeze the leaflet in my hand and turn around slowly.
There is a man standing not far from me, a man that I have never seen before. He isn’t even looking at me. He’s admiring the same painting that I was just looking at. I part my lips, trying to assess his age. He is older, much older than me, wearing a sharp black suit. Judging from the patches of grey at his temples, he must be at least in his late thirties, maybe early forties. It doesn’t matter that I can’t tell; what matters is that he interrupted my reverie, broke the silence and the flow of emotions that I normally experience.
He looks at me and I feel it again, an electricity that runs through my body, pulling the strings of any self-control away bit by bit, inch by inch, like an invisible hand that caresses my skin, barely touching it. My heart starts beating faster from his striking amber eyes, filled with rays of gold and looking straight at me.
“I’m sorry?” I ask, whispering like I have a sore throat. The man doesn’t move or look away but continues to stare at me with the same unnerving intensity. His cheekbones are fine, reminding me of a statue of Michelangelo’s that I saw in Paris a couple of years ago. The deep lines on his forehead tell me that he frowns a lot or he might have a very stressful job. His hair is dark, slightly too long and those lips, full and perfect. Oh my … I swallow hard, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
The stranger smiles and my heart stutters uncontrollably.
“I just said that being here is very calming. It’s good to get away sometimes.”
The same deep and alluring voice sparks something warm inside my core, igniting it. I don’t know what to do or how to respond. All of a sudden my mind goes blank. The smile doesn’t vanish from his handsome face. After a moment I realise that I must look like a complete idiot, staring at him and not saying anything at all.
“Yes, I love art; it’s like my own world … my escape,” I say in a small voice. The man looks back at the painting, not losing that awesome smile. It’s been twenty seconds or so and I’m feeling warm. That doesn’t happen—correction, that never happens. This stranger … he must be like ten or twenty years older than me. I shouldn’t be feeling like this at all.
“I work in this area, so I’m here often, more often that I should be,” he adds casually, trying to hide the smile. My eyes move down to his badge, but it’s turned upside down, so I can’t read who he works for. His shirt and tie look expensive. My Mum’s fiancé is loaded and I recognise well-designed, high-end clothes. I want him to go away and stop talking to me when the air near us thickens. My breathing shortens, becoming heavier and more laboured as he takes a step towards me.
“So do you like Constantin Meunier? The artist?” I ask, curious, not doing a very good job of masking my high-pitched voice.