12 comments/ 6174 views/ 2 favorites Artscape By: Cromagnonman Sophie and I have a great life. We compliment each other in every way, and are the envy of our circle of friends, who can't believe that two so dissimilar personalities can co-exist in a harmonious relationship such as ours. Sophie is an artist of some note, having had works accepted into the Archibald (The most prestigious portrait prize in Australian art) for the past five years. While she hadn't actually won the major prize, her works were very well received and chosen for display. I am a writer, also of some note, having progressed from the ranks of a hack Journalist to a serious writer of fiction. My detractors have said that this was not a major culture shift for me. My works have made the best seller lists on a regular basis, and while they have never been nominated for the Booker or any other Literary prize, they have provided me with a comfortable enough income to the point where I no longer have to prostitute my literary talents to please the media tyrants. What made our relationship work so well was that we had, from the very beginning, both accepted that our talents needed space and alone time. That's not to say that we didn't intrude from time to time to look at each other's work in progress and comment on them, it's just that we realised that the creative energies sometimes needed a time free of distraction. There were even times when we shared our distraction free time, walking along the beach near our home, with no physical link binding us together, just our spiritual and creative links being fed and nurtured in that individual and collective solitude. That we got together in the first place was something that you would more likely expect to read in a work of romantic fiction. It should never have happened, but was meant to be. I drove up to the front of the main building at Montpellier, an 'Artiste's Community' run by Giles Featherstonehaugh, (pronounced 'fash-en-oo', don't ask me how you can get from one to the other) a self-styled arts promoter and entrepreneur. It was famous for being the temporary home to many of this country's artists, authors and poets during the summer months when the cities sweltered. It was positioned on a headland overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and was cooled by the sea breezes that blew in every afternoon. It was an idyllic setting, and its fame had reached the point where one had to be invited to attend. I hadn't been invited because of my literary talents, my Editor had wangled an invite on the basis of me writing a 'puff piece' promoting the community as the pinnacle of artistic life. The artists etc. knew that they had made it when the richly embossed envelope containing the invite slid through the slot in each of their letter boxes. "This has got to be a hot-bed of drunken debauchery," He, my Editor said. "Find out what you can, sniff around and wriggle out what actually goes on there. Rumour has it that Giles only invites young and pretty women as his female guests, women that the men there would greatly desire, and that he test-drives them personally before letting them loose on the paying customers. If these rumours are to be believed, this place is nothing more than a high priced, high class, artistic brothel." These words were resonating in my mind as I walked into the cool foyer to be greeted by Mandy, the very pretty 'receptioniste de jour'. "Good morning sir, welcome to Montpellier, what is your name? "Michael Grantham." "Ah yes, we have you in bungalow 27. I will let Giles know that you have arrived." She picked up a phone and minutes later Giles wafted in followed by a heavy dose of 'Obsession'. To say that he was flamboyantly attired would be understating the situation. His brightly printed caftan in tropical hues flowed around him like a cloud. Around his neck was a red bandana, on his feet hirachi sandals and on his head a top hat painted in bright colours and sporting a long stemmed red rose that sprouted from the hat band. "My good man, how nice to see you, welcome, welcome. Let me show you to your bungalow, come, come, mustn't dally old chap, we have a gathering of the masses, perfect timing for the intro." He turned and strode towards the side door and a long covered walkway. I had no option but to follow him. "Over there is the swimming pool, attire optional by the way. Down there is the Common room and Dining hall, and down here is your bungalow." He glanced at the key to see which number it was, and lengthened his stride. Reaching number 27, he opened the door and led me in. "The bedroom is through there." He said, pointing to a doorway. "The bathroom is at the end of the corridor, and the kitchenette is in the corner over there. There are supplies for cups of tea, you have a choice of green or herbal, no coffee allowed, and there is no alcohol in the fridge, only bottled water and juices. We do have organic wine with our meals, but spirits are strictly forbidden, as are drugs of any sort." "Looks great. It'll do me good to get away from the rat race and the temptation to drink too much coffee." "Dump your stuff and follow me. I'll introduce you to those here. You may know some, but there are a few up and coming artists that are not widely known, yet. But they will be, otherwise they would not be here." I dumped my bag on the bed and scurried after him. We reached the Common Room to be confronted by a rather heated discussion in progress. "I tell you that this modern art is a cop out." "That's McKinley Laird, a traditional portrait artist who's works closely imitate a photographic portrait." Giles whispered to me. "Take Jackson Pole-axe." McKinley's deliberate mispronunciation of the name did not pass un-noticed. "His work looks as if he just stands back and throws paint at the canvas, there is no structure, no rhyme or reason to it. A total mish-mash that can be interpreted in a squillion different ways. The money that the National Gallery spent on 'Blue Poles' would have been better spent supporting the local arts community." "People." Giles called the meeting to order. "I would like you to meet Michael Grantham, he has joined us for the next month. While he is here he will be undertaking two important works for me. One is to write a piece on us as a community of artists that will tell the world around us about the excellent concept that we are developing here. Secondly, he is writing his 'magnum opus' under my patronage. I have been advised by his agent that he needs to get right away from the pressures of his world and concentrate on this work. The potential is there, he just needs the space and time to realise that potential. So one and all, you are to make him welcome. Now let me see, who shall I appoint as his mentor?" He glanced around the room. "Ah yes, Sophie, you will be perfect in this role. Don't just stand there child, come, come, and introduce yourself." From the look that she gave him, it was obvious to me, if not everyone else, that this was a task that she had no intention of carrying out. She walked over to me, her hand held out. "I'm Sophie Cantrall, your chosen mentor." If the look hadn't been enough to make her feelings obvious, the coolness of her tone certainly was. I took her hand and was just about to tell her that I was about as happy with this arrangement as she, when Giles' voice cut through the air. "What kind of welcome is that? Kiss the man Sophie, and that's an order!" He was close to anger, being used to having his orders obeyed with such a lack of enthusiasm was foreign to him. Or was there something else behind this? I have to admit that he covered his tracks well. No sooner had his order been issued, than he burst into loud and prolonged laughter. "We will have friendship in this place or you can all bugger off!" Apparently this statement was made on a regular basis over the summer, and no-one took any notice of it. This was all a part of the show that he put on for the paying guests. As Sophie's lips left mine I whispered to her. "I'm not happy with this. Don't get me wrong, of all the women here, I would have chosen you if asked, but only if you agreed. Let's go outside and discuss this, and see if we can come to an arrangement that will satisfy his Lordship, and that we can live with." "We'll have to make it look good." She took my hand and we headed for the door. "That's it, off with you and get to know each other!" This was followed again by his raucous laughter. I detected a note of displeasure in his attitude to us leaving. "From the paint on your hands, I would hazard a guess that you're an artist." I said by way of introducing myself. "What do you paint, landscapes, portraits, abstracts?" "Portraits mainly, that's where the big bickies are, if you're good enough that is. All that you need to do is to find someone whose wallet is as big as his ego. I have several commissions waiting for me when I get home." "Is that why you feel that it's beneath your dignity to be forced to waste your time associating with a literary hack like me?" "No!" She looked directly into my eyes. "No." Her voice moderated itself. "It's just that I don't like the way that Giles was ordering me around, as if I was his chattel, to do with what he willed. And I don't believe that you are a literary hack at all. I read your articles in the papers, and I find them thought provoking and often amusing. But I also feel that you are being shackled by editorial bias on many occasions. If the main purpose for you being here is to break free from those shackles, then I say go for it. If there is another reason for you being here, like to get the dirt on Giles, and his harem that he hires out to other men here, I'm not going to stand in your way. If you must know, he and I have had a disagreement about that. I rejected his advances and told him that I was here to recharge my artistic batteries, not to go to bed with him or any of his 'friends'. He is not happy with me, which is why he ordered me to be your mentor. He is trying to force me to leave." "I have a proposition for you." "Oh yes, and what might that be?" "Only if you're up for it mind you. How would you like to take the piss out of this mob of pretentious artists and writers?" "You've been here for what, half an hour, and you've already picked up on that. What exactly do you have in mind?" "I'll make some comment tonight on a topic that's under discussion, and I want you to jump in and 'expose' me as a Journalist and not a proper writer. Hopefully someone will make some comment about poetry. When you challenge me, I'll come out with something that I wrote that is a bit of amusing doggerel. You of course will challenge me to come up with something deep and meaningful, not something that an advertising copywriter or a greeting card writer would write. I will come out with a piece of pretentious bullshit, that hopefully the others will be drawn to comment on. You will continue to badger me in the hope that Giles will have to step in and separate us. My feeling is that, when he calms us down, he will order us to kiss and make up, which, if you agree that you can oblige without throwing up, we will comply with, enthusiastically, very enthusiastically. That will probably piss him off no end." "I think that I can stretch my acting abilities to that. You think that these people are a mob of pretentious phonies, don't you?" "Present company excepted, yes. That guy that was waffling on, McKinley Laird, (a phony name if ever I heard it), about Jackson Pollack is a case in point, he was parroting someone else's opinion and making out that it was his own." "How do you know that?" "Because my father, who was an art critic for one of the major city papers, wrote that at the time that that painting was purchased. Not those exact words but near enough. He can't be had up for plagiarism, but his argument was not an original thought on his part." "But how is all that going to make Giles happy?" "It's not, and it's not meant to, but the lead up will. We will walk back in there as if we had been making love and have decided that we are going to be more than the best of friends. He will, on the surface at least, be happy that his plan to force you into a sexual relationship has been a success. But, having been rejected by you, he will get jealous of me having succeeded where he failed. When we have our little dust-up this evening, he will be happy that our affair didn't last the distance. Then we will play our trump card. I will come up with a poem that I wrote that takes the piss out of pretentious poets. In the mean time, what I said about you being the one that I'd choose if I had the opportunity still stands. Not because you're by far and away the best looking woman there, but there was something in your expression, when McKinley was crapping on, that told me that you think about as much of this mob as I do." "You're very right there. Everyone told me when I got the invitation that I should somehow feel privileged to get it, and it would do my career the world of good, and that if I didn't come here Giles would crucify me. One simply does not refuse a Giles summons. That brings me to another point. Exactly why are you here? And don't give me that crap about coming here to write a puff piece. You are here to dig the dirt, aren't you?" "Are you going to blow the whistle?" "No, in fact if you want some help you can count me in." "Okay, I'll tell all later, but for now I think that we've had enough time to do what has been expected of us, shall we go back and face the innuendos of the masses?" "Wait a minute, we can't go in there looking as if we've done nothing." Sophie mussed up my hair, kissed me more passionately than I expected, making sure that her lipstick (yes she was wearing some makeup) was smeared around my mouth. She then pulled my shirt out of my trousers at the back and left the shirt-tail hanging. "There, you look the part." "What about you, you can't go in there looking like a fashion model, we have to mess your appearance about a bit, don't you think?" I undid her blouse a few buttons and then did it up missing one button in the process. I twisted the waistband of her skirt a little, undid the clasp that held her hair in place, and she shook it out. "What are you like at sheepish grins?" "I think that I can manage." "Good, let us return to the gathering." "Ah, the lovers return!" Giles stood and clapped as we entered the common room. "I wasn't expecting you to come back so soon." "If we'd stayed away any longer we would have been totally exhausted and not been able to participate in this gathering." Sophie told them. "Michael needed to take a break after his magnificent efforts." She hugged me and looked longingly into my eyes, a smile of satisfaction spread across her face. "You were the one that wanted to stop." I told her. "I could have lasted another minute at least." I kissed her. I held her chair out for her, and slid it under her as she sat, leaning over, I kissed her again. Giles was not amused at our show of affection. When the gathering broke for lunch. Sophie and I sat together at the long refectory table. Giles was at the head, behaving for all the world like a feudal Baron, giving orders to the waiting staff, pontificating over the organic wine from his own vineyards. I didn't think it politic to mention that I thought it was crap, it had all the qualities on the palate of a cheap vinegar, but everyone drank it and those who wanted to suck up to him proclaimed it an excellent vintage, "God, this stuff is ghastly." Sophie whispered to me. "I'll have no problem getting this one glass to last the whole meal, in fact there'll be some left in the glass." "It is pretty bad, only someone with no tastebuds could think it drinkable." I whispered in return. After lunch we all broke up and went our separate ways, except for Sophie and I. "Would you like to se the portrait that I'm working on?" She asked as we walked past Giles. "Can I? I didn't think artists allowed anyone to see works in progress." "We don't like the subject seeing it, simply because the prep work looks a mess until the details are applied." Hand in hand we went off to the studio space that she was working in. There was a drop sheet over the easel to keep any dust or bugs off. When she removed it I saw, even though it was only the background and base coats, that it would eventually be a portrait of our esteemed host. "I'm having problems not turning this into a caricature." "If you need the money you'll have to curb your natural urges." "How would you like me to do you?" "What do you mean when you say 'do' me?" "Paint your portrait. The other can come later, I hope." Her smile was as lascivious as I have ever seen, her meaning clear. "I say yes to both, not necessarily in that order, after all, we are supposed to be madly in lust." The look that I gave her was equally lascivious. Sophie picked up a sketch pad and within minutes had produced a rough, very rough, sketch of a naked me with a raging hard-on at least twice the size of my real one. "Dream on." I said, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's not that big, not quite that big." "I'll just have to find out for myself, won't I?" "If I didn't know better, I'd think that you are enjoying this." "I am. I came here because I had been summoned by Giles, and as I said before, one just doesn't ignore a Giles summons. I came determined to do what I could to enjoy myself and stay well clear of Giles and anyone else who had ideas of getting into my pants. What I didn't anticipate was meeting someone who seemed to have the same ideas about Giles as I do, and wants to stir the pot a little, and who I fancy, and would allow to make love to me if he wanted to." "That's very forward of you, and yes, I want to. I have been told of the reputation of these gatherings and how they inevitably end up as an orgy. That by the way is the real reason that I am here, to expose what goes on here. I noticed you as soon as I entered the Common Room and resolved to concentrate my efforts on you, especially as Giles seemed to take great delight in shoving us together. I gathered from that that you had rebuffed him, and he was going to make you suffer for that by forcing you to be my mentor, knowing that I am the least in terms of artistic or literary accomplishments. What he said about me writing under his patronage was so much bullshit, designed to make him look good. Everything about this place is designed to make him look good. What I am trying to get my head around is, how does he finance these little gatherings?" "I think that I might be able to help you out there. He has some very wealthy contacts who take delight in endowing the arts with loads of cash that they can write off on their income tax. Up and coming artists are invited to attend free of charge. While they are here they are introduced to these wealthy patrons who commission art works from these artists. These commissions, if the artist is good enough, will make them very wealthy. When they are subsequently invited to these gatherings, they are charged for the privilege of attending on the basis that they can now afford it. Over the next few weeks, as the time passes, you will be introduced to these wealthy patrons on the chance that one of them will commission a project." "What would one of them possibly want of me?" "You will be presented as a well credentialed investigative Journalist who wants to branch out into 'proper literary endeavours', say a biography of a wealthy family, sanitised of course. We couldn't have closets opened to reveal any skeletons now could we?" "How can I demonstrate my literary abilities?" "By making erudite comments in any literary discussion. How are you at poetry?" "Hate it actually, why? I don't really, since I realised that the stuff that was rammed down my throat at school, mostly 19th Century English, isn't the only poetry written, I have come to enjoy some of it." Artscape "One of the guests, Nigel Stevens, is a poet of note who has had several books of poetry published, no mean feat if I might say so." "Yeah I know him, I find his work a pretentious antipodean take on the work of some of the romantic English poets." "Well, when he has the floor, tell him that. That should get the ball rolling, as long as you can follow it up with a constructive comment. Can you manage that?" "Just you watch me. That gives me an idea." "What is it?" "What do you think Giles will say if our relationship runs hot and cold?" "It will confuse him I would imagine." "Good. When I comment on Nigel's poetry I will come up with a poem of my own, it's just a piece of amusing doggerel, you will leap to Nigel's defence and tell me that my poem is so much crap. I will get all huffy and spout another poem that is deep and meaningful. You will proclaim it an insightful work and declare me a genius. This will drag Nigel into the argument, and probably Giles. I will then come up with a poem that basically tells them all that I can't see the point in poetry.." "You have such works?" "Yes. I think that you should read them so that you can make suitable comments." "Is this a ploy to get me into your bungalow?" "No. I was hoping that you would invite me to yours." "I suppose that I could do that. But either way, would we get any work done? "Of course, but it won't take long." We called into my bungalow on our way to hers. I took a folder from my bag that had some of my writing in it. It took us a while to leave mine for hers. We were somewhat dishevelled following our interlude, although we never got to the intercourse stage, that would come later. I went to her kitchenette and made us a cup of herbal tea while she read through the poems that I had selected for our purpose. She chuckled over some lines as the brew brewed. "I see what you mean, amusing doggerel followed by observational and meaningful, followed by a needle to a balloon, this could be interesting." Interesting it was, and better than we had hoped. Giles was dragged into our conversation earlier than anticipated. We had been invited to dine at Giles' table, along with Nigel. I got the impression that Giles was going to drag me into a discussion on poetry just so that he could put me down, and by extension Sophie who continued to not only dodge his advances, but ignore him totally. We whispered to each other and kissed on many occasions, something that did not go un-noticed by our host. Nigel had just finished reciting his latest poem, to the enthusiastic applause of those others at the table. "What do you think of this Sophie?" When Sophie failed to respond on cue, Giles tapped his glass with a knife. "Do pay attention Sophie." She looked at him. "I asked you what you thought of Nigel's poem." "Oh I'm sorry, I was distracted." She kissed me again to identify me as the distraction. "It's not much use asking me about poetry, I know nothing of it." This was Giles' cue to focus on me. "How about you Michael? What do you think of it?" "I too was somewhat distracted and it was just so much background noise, but from what little I heard of it, I would say that it was typical of his over-blown and poor imitation of the works of those he holds so dear to his heart, the English romantic poets. Rhyming words and metre are not the only ingredients of good poetry." "And I suppose that you can back up your argument?" Giles said. "If you wish. This is something that I wrote on one of my many drives in the country. It has words that rhyme, it has structure, all the elements that Nigel holds dear, but it's not good poetry. It's called An Ode to Mister Birdseye." Thirty million years ago, or was it thirty three, Mr Birdseye marketed the three minute pea. It came to me one day, midst nowhere, Driving through the middle of nothing, There stood one solitary tree, On its own a tree. I had been in the car forever, no relief, No stop, when I spied that lonely tree. Salvation, I cried, relief at last and no Other car in sight, not a soul to see. I stood there unseen, for there was no-one To see behind that tree. The road that for so long had been free Of other cars, slowly filled from either side, With a hundred thousand cars, all driving by, Slowly, so that all inside could see, Me having, in full view of all, a birds-eye, A bladder easing, blissful, three minute pee." "It's doggerel I know, but it has the elements, it tells a story, paints a picture of a life event, and it rhymes in places." "It is drivel." Giles said. "The kind of thing a high school kid would write for an assignment, not the work of a serious poet." "I agree with you." That surprised him. "What do you think of this Sophie?" Giles asked her, waiting to see if she was to support me or oppose me. She looked at me as if to beg my forgiveness even before she spoke. "In my honest opinion, I think that it's so much rubbish. Not something that I can accept as a serious work at all." She looked at me, a coldness came over her gaze as if she was having second thoughts about us. "Again I agree, it's not serious, but then not all poetry is. Take for instance the work of Ogden Nash, he was famous for not being serious. If you want serious, how about this one. I wrote this just before last Christmas as I walked through a shopping mall. I was feeling a tad depressed over the ending of what I had hoped would be a lasting relationship with a beautiful and, as I was to find out, self absorbed woman." "Alone, alone, alone Not lonely, just alone. I look around me at the sea Of lonely faces looking at me. Looking at me. but not seeing. Seeing only themselves. Them greedy bloody selves. The cash registers of their minds Totalling the value of affection. Why have we created this Society that teaches our children That self comes first. First and foremost, First and last, First and in between. If you do not give me what I want I'll not love you any more. Give, give, 'til there's no more To give, then give some more. How can you say you loved me, When that love has betrayed The one true love of your life. How can you reconcile Your faithlessness to yourself, Your adultery with another, Any other. I can live with myself, alone Not lonely, but live I can." "Wow! Your hurt really comes out in that." Sophie said, "She must have hurt you badly for you to be so angry." She kissed me. "I could never hurt anyone like she hurt you. For me to enter into a relationship with a man, I would have to be certain of not only my own feelings towards him, but his feelings towards me. Casual couplings are not my scene at all." She glared at Giles as she said this. Again she kissed me, her arms around my neck. "Of you and, with you, I am sure." "Stop this!" Giles stood, glaring at us. "I didn't invite you here to have it off with this media hack." "Then why did you invite me?" Sophie smiled sweetly at him, "did you think that I would go to bed with you, you Lothario." I liked that word, Lothario, it described him to a 'T'. "People, let us not have any fighting here." I said "As you may or may not know, I am a serious, at times, writer of prose. I have for you a poem that demonstrates my feelings for the poetic arts. It is called an Ode to Poetry." How I wish I had the turn Of poetic phrase, to wax Lyrical about an urn, Or describe the utter thrill, Of trampling through a sea, Of yellow, waving daffodils. Or the earth shaking thunder, Of yet another military blunder. But these are things I don't see, When I look round about me. I see instead a sunburnt sky, And fields of grasses arid, dry Parched lands on every hand, For I live in a different land, From those poets, foisted on me, That made me despise their poetry. There was movement at the station, The train was coming in, It brought no great elation, Nothing inspiring was within, This mundane world around me, It inspired me not at all, There was nothing to astound me, My rhyme has hit a wall. So I guess that I'll be one of those, Who will find his muse in prose. I think it quite absurd, To have to find a word, That sounds just the same, As the very word that came, At the end of the previous line, When a non-rhyming word works just fine." "It is bad enough having to find the right word in your writing, but to have to rhyme it with something else is just so much pretension. I can wax just as lyrical in prose as any Poet can in verse." "Prove it!" Giles challenged me. "Okay, try this on for size." I looked at Sophie. "Two gentle zephyrs caressed my cheeks as her breath eased from her nostrils. Her lips close to mine paused as her tongue gave them a final sheen, just before they were joined with mine. A bolt of electricity shot through me at her touch, a contented sigh escaped her lips as they met mine. Her hand alighted softly on my cheek, a gentle request for me to stay where I was. Behind closed lids my eyes remembered her blue eyes, half closed, half opened, seeing all and seeing nothing, Glistening drops of happiness paused briefly on her lower lids before coursing down her cheek, to rest in the corner of my mouth, their saltiness sharp on my tongue. 'I love you.' I whispered, my voice heard only by her. 'I love you.' She sighed in reply, her voice soft as mine. 'Hold me, please hold me." She begged me. Her free arm snaked around my neck and she drew me closer, her body pressed against mine, her hips thrust against mine, against my loins, my loins wakened from their slumber, my manhood stirring, ready for what was to come, ready to proclaim my love for my love. 'I love you.'' I whispered to her. 'I love you,' my cock told her body. She said nothing in reply. Her body replied, actions speak louder than words." Sophie came to me, the look on her face could mean only one thing. Her arms were around my neck, her body pressed close to mine, her lips on mine. "I love you." Enough said. Giles was not a happy camper. He stood, glared at the two of us and stormed out of the room. "So you don't like poetry or poets." Nigel asked me. "Did I say that?" I sounded shocked. "Generally speaking, I don't have a problem with Poets and poetry. I do have a problem with Poets who think that Keats, Wordsworth and their like are the only true Poets, and to be good themselves," I looked straight at Nigel, "they have to be imitated. Like all artistic endeavours there are styles and there are styles. Take for instance, McKinley here, who thinks that a portrait has to be as close to a photograph as possible, while other Portrait Artists, like Sophie here, use a more interpretive style that allows the sitter's personality to shine from the canvas. McKinley's style is mono-dimensional, while Sophie's has two, sometimes three dimensions to them. The same goes for poetry, the traditional, if done badly, and many of them are, are mono-dimensional, they lack personality." "I'm sure that there are not many people who agree with you." McKinley stated. "Maybe not, but I know of one artist who did. William Dobell, who caused a stir by winning the Archibald in 1943 with his portrait of Joshua Smith, said that, I might not get this exactly right, but the gist of what he said was this; So long as people expect paintings to be simply coloured photographs they get no individuality, and in the case of portraits, no characterisation. The real artist is trying to depict his subject's character, and to stress the caricature, but at least it is art which is alive.' And I agree with that, it is more alive that a stiff posed likeness of some dignitary, complete with medals, that is seldom the real character of the person. And what I have seen of Sophie's work, she has the ability to portray the character of her subject." I used the words 'portray' and 'character' deliberately to re-inforce my argument. "I might have known that you would stick up for her. I doubt that your reasons for so doing are any more than carnal." "Thank you for that McKinley," Sophie said, "you have just confirmed to me that the sole reason that I was invited here was carnal. You pay good money to come here on the understanding that there will be young, and suitably willing to please young, women here for your delectation. For your information, I am not interested in allowing you, or Giles, wherever he is, access to me, or my body." "But you and Michael here have. . . " "Have what?" "Had sex." "No. For your information, while I like Michael, even if he liked me, that is not enough for me to let him make love to me." "I don't believe that, when you came back in at lunch it was obvious what you had been doing." "Looks can be deceiving. Tell him Michael." "Sophie and I decided that we would try to fool you into thinking that we had made love. It is obvious that we were successful. If you really must know, we have not had sex." "But Giles told us . . . " McKinley stopped, realising that he had almost said too much. "I know what Giles would have told you. That is his big selling point, and why he can charge you guys so much to stay here, it is the unlimited supply of young, nubile women at your beck and call. That is what this meat market is all about, providing you with temporary muses to take your minds off the fact that you're not getting any at home." "Before you leap to Giles' defence," Sophie cut in, "The argument that I was having with Giles yesterday was all about me not wanting to be yet another trophy to hang on his wall. I did not see that it would enhance my career one iota if I gave in to him." Somehow I got the impression that there was about to be a revolution of sorts. The other women at our table looked at each other, looked at Sophie and smiled. The gathering broke up shortly after that and we all went to our own bungalows. Sophie and I walked together, conscious of Giles' watchful eye peering through the gap in his curtain. "What are you doing in the morning?" I asked Sophie. "Well, I was going for a walk, why?" "I was just about to suggest that very thing. There's a track leading down to the beach. I just love to walk along the beach when I need to think." She grabbed my hand and skipped around to face me. "So do I. Especially when it's blowing a gale. The salt spray in my face, the sound of the pounding waves, it sort of cleanses my mind and I can see more clearly." She stopped walking backwards and we met, our arms around each other. It wasn't much of a kiss as time goes, but it made up for the speed with its passion. "We had better stop. Tomorrow morning we can walk the beach and sort this through, whether we want to take our relationship to the next level, or forget about each other and go our separate ways." "I know how I feel, but we need to look at all angles, like what is our motivation, is it that we are falling in love, or is it just to stick it up Giles?" "We'll see what tomorrow brings. Goodnight my . . . dammit, what the heck. Goodnight my darling." With that she kissed me again, and skipped down the path to her bungalow. Giles made sure that we sat at different ends of table for breakfast. Sophie was seated next to him and he tried to engage her in conversation for the whole meal. I could see that her answers were short and perfunctory, as if she couldn't wait to be free of him. She excused herself from his presence as soon as she had finished her cup of herbal tea. "Giles, I must leave you to your breakfast, I have work to do, but the inspiration is somehow lacking. I am going for a walk on the beach, alone." I made my excuses to my breakfast companions and left a minute or so later. I saw Giles glance in my direction out of the corner of my eyes, but didn't look directly at him. Back in my bungalow I changed into shorts and a tee shirt. A straw hat and sandals along with zinc cream on my nose to prevent sunburn, completed my ensemble. Sophie was waiting for me at the foot of the track, dressed in a batik print top that was almost see-through, it was obvious that she wore no bra, and a pair of denim shorts that had been cut from an old pair of jeans. She wore no make-up and looked naturally beautiful. I led her into the bushes and kissed her with as much passion as I dared. "That is to help you think. Now, we have two options here. The first is that we can discuss our situation as we walk. The second is that we can walk without speaking to each other, and try to clear our minds of any extraneous thoughts. I find the alone time on occasions such as this, to be more beneficial." "God Michael, this is too perfect. I can walk along a crowded beach and be alone, shut off from the world around me. I need that to think." It was her turn to kiss me. "That will have to keep us going for a while, until clarity presents itself." "I agree." We walked side by side, not touching physically, but spiritually we were closely joined, and this feeling got stronger as the minutes ticked away. I don't know how much later it was, I wasn't wearing a watch, before we both stopped. There was a mischievous look on Sophie's face. With a deft motion her top swished over her head and hit the sand, to be followed in quick succession by her shorts, leaving only a pair of brief panties. "Last one in's a rotten egg." She yelled as she ran for the surf. My shirt and shorts hit the sand and I was down to just my budgie smugglers (Speedo bathers). I ran after her and dived into a wave, surfacing beside her. As I came up for air she pushed my head under and I swallowed a bit of water. While I was under the water I grabbed her panties and tugged them down, emerging spluttering but triumphant, her panties raised above my head. "Two can play at that game." Before I could react she had my bathers down to my knees. That was as far as she went because her attention was moved to my cock, which wasn't all that impressive in the cold water, but with a little encouragement from her hand, it rose to the occasion. "My what have we here?" She asked, pulling my bathers the rest of the way down my legs. "If you must know, it is my cock, and if you keep doing that I will not be held responsible for my actions." If I thought that she would desist, I was badly mistaken. We had drifted onto a sandbar some twenty metres from the beach and I was able to stand. Her feet were still a couple of centimetres from the sand, so I pulled her to me. As we came together she opened her legs and my cock was between them, not yet in her pussy, but the way that we were going it wouldn't be long. Her arms around my neck, and my bathers forgotten and drifting in the sea, she kissed me, fiercely, passionately. "I love you. There I've said it. I love you so very much and what are we going to do about that?" "Get married?" "Be serious. We've known each other a couple of days and you want to get married?" "Yes, I want to get married, and the sooner the better. I don't want to wait, I don't want to allow someone else the opportunity to sweep you off your feet, and steal you from me." "You are serious, aren't you?" "Never been more serious. What do you say?" "You can't expect a girl to give you an answer right away. I need some time to think." She looked at me for several minutes, during which time I wished that I could read minds. I concentrated my mind on willing her to say yes. "That's enough time," She said suddenly as she smiled at me and my heart missed a beat, "I say yes. Let's get married!" She kissed me. Our perfect moment was spoiled by a rogue wave that broke over us, dumping us onto the sand. Laughing and spluttering we held each other until we had regained our breath before kissing again. We were oblivious of the waves washing over us as we joined as one for the first time. This moment could have been spoiled if it weren't for the fact that my cock had embedded itself inside her before the water had a chance to wash her juices from the entrance to her pussy, it slid comfortably in and out of her. Once I was inside her the waves couldn't spoil our first moment. Artscape We emerged from the ocean, Sophie paused to wash the remnants of our lovemaking from between her legs, and strolled back along the beach carrying our clothes, not caring to hide our nakedness. "What do you think Giles would say if he could see us now?" Sophie asked. "It wouldn't surprise me if he wasn't watching everything that we've been doing." "Lunch should prove interesting then." Being novices at this sort of thing, we spent the time before lunch making arrangements for our wedding. We first rang a Celebrant to find out what we needed to do to get the necessary licence and to arrange for the ceremony. She was a very helpful lady and, apart from signing the forms and paying for it, she did all the work, even to arranging for witnesses. She took down the details and we drove into town to do our bit. The ceremony was set for the following week. We would have to act as if nothing was happening until we were married. Lunch did prove to be interesting for a couple of reasons. There were rumblings amongst the men who had discovered that the promised young ladies were not forthcoming with their services. A deputation had approached Giles to find out what had happened. Then there was an interesting discussion with Giles. "What were you two doing on the beach this morning?" He asked us. "We were strolling along the beach to recharge our creative batteries." "You were doing more than that, I saw you." "I was doing what you asked me to do, I was mentoring Michael. You made it perfectly clear what you wanted me to do, I was following instructions." "By the look of things you were getting carried away, going over and above the call of duty." "Just doing my job to the best of my ability. Do you have a problem with that?" "Of course not, although I think that you could be a little less enthusiastic." "Make up your mind." The other women there were looking at Sophie, trying to work out how it was that the very person who had stated quite clearly that she was not going to comply with Giles' orders, and now she had been exposed doing that very same thing. "I feel that I need to clarify my position here. I know that I stated my opposition to what Giles had established here was to be standard practise, what I hadn't counted on was to meet someone that I felt so much empathy with. We like the same things, we have the same methods of recharging our creative batteries, it is almost as if we were somehow related, although I know that's not the case. If Michael was any of the other men here he would have stood no chance of getting to know me as well as he now does." I was summoned into Giles' office after lunch. "Your project for me, how is it progressing?" "Slow to begin, but it is gathering momentum. I have a story line sketched in, now all that I need to do is to flesh out the details." "When can I see something?" "When I have it in a state fit for review." "I want to see something by the end of next week, otherwise I might have to review your tenure here. Is that clear?" "Perfectly." Sophie was the next to be summoned. "What are you doing?" "What you asked me to do, mentor Michael." "Don't get smart with me young lady. I invited you here for the purpose of presenting you, and others, to influential people who could move your careers forward. That is the main purpose of this gathering. Because you are a non-paying participant in this, I expect you to carry out certain chores to help me in my endeavours, and that is to be able to provide a service for these influential people. You don't realise how difficult it is to find enough suitably wealthy people for all of the up and coming artists that I Have brought together here. There has to be a substantial carrot dangled in front of them." "So, what you are asking me to do is to forget all about the values that have guided me through my life to date, and prostitute myself for your benefit?" "Now that you have grasped the situation, yes." "I need some time to think about this." "Then don't take too long, I have several men specifically asking to be introduced to you." "Well then, you'll be able to charge them even more for my services, won't you?" "Your attitude is beginning to irk me." "Not my problem. Is that all?" "Begone." Sophie was dismissed. I spent most of the afternoon fleshing out my storyline and thinking about next week. I didn't see Sophie until dinner. Giles attempted to manipulate the seating arrangements so that She and I sat as far from each other as possible. It mattered not that we were far apart, I sensed that she was bothered by something and manoeuvred myself so that I could speak with her. This did not sit well with Giles. "Something is bothering you." "You could say that. I was summoned before his majesty and informed that I was here for, and at, his pleasure, and that I am to encourage the paying customers to part with their ready cash." "And how are you to do that?" 'I'll leave that up to your imagination. I also get the impression that he may make another attempt to have sex with me." "I'll come to your room and we'll set up a trap to catch him out if he tries anything with you." "What do you have in mind?" "A spot of blackmail might be in order." What I had planned wasn't so much to extract money from him, but to force him to change his operations. I quietly tapped on Sophie's door and she turned off her light before she let me in so that there was no silhouette of me as I entered, just in case someone was watching. I set up a tripod and screwed a camera to it. The camera had a remote shutter release with a long cable so that I could hide in the closet and release the shutter without being in the room itself. I was hoping that he would think that his movement past a point actuated the shutter. We sat and discussed our plans for next week before turning out the lights and me slipping into the wardrobe. Some fifteen minutes later I heard the noise of a key being inserted into her lock and a slight creak as the door opened and closed. I didn't see him enter Sophie's bedroom, but I smelled his aftershave, he had really gotten a little over-zealous with it. It almost made me sneeze. I heard the rustle as he removed an item of clothing and dropped it to the floor. Her bedsprings creaked as he climbed into her bed. "Who's that and what the fuck are you doing in my bed?" Sophie screamed. That was my cue to release the shutter. "What the?" Sophie switched on her bedside lamp. It wasn't Giles but one of the wealthy patrons of the arts who was in her bed. I stepped out of the closet. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" I asked him. "I was told that a surprise was waiting for me in this room. I must say this is not the surprise I expected." "How did you get in here, the door was locked." Sophie asked him. "Giles gave me a key. This is so embarrassing." "You could say that again. You were not who we were expecting." "Who were you expecting?" "Why Giles himself. It's unexpected that he would send you to a woman that he had not yet been able to bed." "But he told me that he had, and gave me a very vivid description of what pleasures I could expect. I have to admit to being surprised, but not in the way that I was led to believe." "So Giles told you that Sophie was waiting here for you to come calling, is that it?" "Yes, I drew her name from the hat, to the envy of the other participants. They were envious of me." "Look mate, before we go any further, I suggest that you climb back into that caftan that he gave you to wear. It's hard to keep a straight face looking at your cock dangling there." His face reddened as he hurriedly threw the caftan over his head. "That's better. Now I have to discuss your situation. Your being here will cause you some embarrassment with your wife and friends, not to mention the general public that thrive on this sort of scandal." "What? Oh no, I recognise you now, your that Michael Grantham, the Journalist. Oh my God." He wilted before our eyes. "There is a way out of this for you." "How much is this going to cost me?" "Nothing mate, just a little of your time and some information." "And if I do this for you, you won't mention my name?" "No, but if you wife reads the story and knows that you were here she'll arrive at the obvious conclusion, so I suggest that you come up with an alternative venue for your time out. I can give you the name of a hotel that can give you a receipt backdated to when you got here and covering your time here. They do this for business types who wan to pad their travel accounts." "I'll do it. What do you want to know?" "For starters, I'll tell you what we already know, and all you have to do is to confirm the validity of our information. Will you do that?" "Yes." "Okay. Giles Featherstonehaugh visits various art schools looking for suitable young ladies who are desperate to make it in the art world, but who have limited financial resources. He offers them the opportunity to come here for the Summer to meet wealthy art patrons who will be able to give their careers a kick start. How am I doing so far?" "That's my understanding, yes." "He has the names of art patrons who have the wealth to pay for the stay, and who are looking for a convenient tax write-off. They also have to have either an un-satisfactory home life, or a flexible one in which the partner doesn't mind a casual dalliance." "That is just about it, yes." "He arranges for all parties to descend on this 'Artistes' Community' and sets up appropriate introductions. What he doesn't tell any of the participants, is that he sees it as his divine right to bed each of the young ladies, before allowing his patrons access." "I wasn't aware of that, but go on." "Sophie repelled his advances and he was a tad put out by that, so he arranged that she should mentor yours truly, reasoning that as soon as she was aware of who I was she would leave, thus saving his ego from the constant reminder of that rejection. What he hasn't counted on is that Sophie and I have both decided that his operation is very wrong in that it exploits the vulnerability of financially strapped young female students. We aim to rectify this situation." "I see. I wish you luck and thank you for telling me this. I will pack my bags and leave tonight." "That will leave us in a difficult situation, but one that we can handle." We had no sooner sat down for the standard breakfast fare of muesli and fresh fruit followed by herbal tea, when Giles came into the Dining Hall. "Has anyone seen Roger?" "Which one is Roger?" I asked. He looked at Sophie. "I arranged for him to call on you last night, did you see him?" "I heard someone trying to get into my room. He was using a key and, when I looked through the curtains, I saw that it was a man wearing one of your lurid caftans, so I thought that it was you, so I yelled for for you, him, to go away and leave me alone. It wasn't you at all, was it?" "No." "Did you lend him one of your caftans and give him a key to my room?" "No!" "Then how do you explain him wearing a caftan and trying to open the door with a key which worked in the lock by the way. There was a chair propped under the handle of the door that prevented it from opening." Sophie's tone was accusatory. Giles cast an angry glance around the room and stormed off. There was a buzz around the room as each of the guests tried to come to terms with this turn of events. Over the next few days several of the girls found an excuse to leave. Some of the art patrons were 'called back to the city' on urgent business, and had to take their leave of their host. Giles was becoming less happy by the day, especially when the buzz in town was that there was something not quite right about his operation. We didn't help by disappearing for two days. "Where have you two been?" He asked us angrily on our return. "We had urgent business in town." "And you didn't think to advise me, or anyone else, of your leaving?" "No. It was our secret. We went off to get married." "What? Are you blithering idiots? You two have known each other for less than a week and you go and get married." His incredulity stood out like dog's balls. "I don't see that as a problem." Sophie said. "We love each other, and know that we are meant to be together, so why should we wait?" She looked at me with those adoring and adorable eyes of hers. "The last two nights were heavenly." "Look at you! You are a beautiful and very talented young artist, and he's a second rate hack Journalist. Your incompatibility is beyond question. I give your marriage a month tops. You are throwing your life away for what? A life of misery married to a has been before he even is." "Thanks for that vote of confidence, mate. If anyone is going to be a has been it is you." "Are you threatening me?" "You betcha, mate." "But why? What have you got against me?" "Cast your mind back three years to your summer retreat. Do you remember a young artist by the name of Naomi Rourke?" "I can't be expected to remember all of them, why should I?" "I'm certain that you remember her. She called to see you about three months after she was here to inform you that she was pregnant, and that you were the father of the impending infant." Giles glared at me. That was answer enough. "You of course denied responsibility and challenged her to prove that you were the one, from the several that she had sex with, that could be the father. She told you that you were the only one that she had been with." Another glare as the memory of their conversation came back to him. "She asked you to help finance her termination, and you refused." "So, why should I pay for something that is illegal?" "It was either that or you would have to pay her child support for the next eighteen years. It was the cheaper of the two options, and her preferred one, she wanted no more to do with you." "This is all very fanciful, but do you have any proof of this?" "Only this." I handed him a sheet of paper. "What is this?" "Read it. It's her suicide note in which she lays out your conversation and her shame at letting her parents down." "Where did you get this?" "From her father. While he had no proof of any of this, DNA testing wasn't possible back then, and she was cremated, so it's too late to do anything about it now. There was no way that they could go to the police and for the police to get enough evidence to prosecute, so there it stands, or stood until now." "So, what are you going to do about it, what can you do about it?" "A lot. As far as you knew, I am here to write a 'puff piece' about how wonderful this place is and what a wonderful person you are. The person that arranged this was Dylan Rourke, does that name ring any bells?" It certainly did. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost. "No, no." "Yes, yes. Dylan Rourke, my Editor, was the father of that young, incredibly beautiful and enormously talented artist, who took her own life rather than live with the shame of getting pregnant to you, of letting her parents down like that. The sad part about this was, if she had told her parents, they would have given her their unconditional support, they loved her that much. But in her troubled mind she forgot all about their love." Giles slumped over his desk, so we left him to his thoughts, went to out bungalows, packed our bags and left. We went home to my place and, while I wrote my story for the paper, Sophie explored my personal world, tried the bed, slept for a while, and when she heard my printer spewing out my finished product, came to me with a cup of coffee for us both, and a kiss for me. "Thank God we don't have to exist on herbal tea any longer, I was suffering from caffeine withdrawal." She took the pages from my hand and sat in my reading chair and read. This is good. I can't see Giles surviving this." Sophie came with me when I handed my story to Dylan. "Who is this?" He asked, his eyes fixed on her. "This is Sophie Grantham, my wife. Sophie, this person who can't take his eyes off you, and I don't blame him, is Dylan Rourke, my Editor." He looked astonished, astounded, and he was speechless for at least a minute. "You're kidding me, right?" "No mate. It's a long story and one day I'll tell it, but not now. Right now, Sophie and I are going off to continue our honeymoon." "It'll never last, I'm warning you, both of you. All of the fiery passion, that goes with your first meeting with each other, can hope to over-ride your monumental lack of compatibility." "You're talking out your arse," I told him. "As usual" "Get out of here before I find you an assignment in Antarctica!" He had a smile on his face, as if he realised what we already knew, that we could survive as a couple. That was ten years ago. Sophie and I have a great life. We compliment each other in every way, and are the envy of our circle of friends, who can't believe that two so dissimilar personalities can co-exist in a harmonious relationship such as ours. We also now own Montpellier which has been transformed into a boutique 5 Star seaside hotel complex, with luxury hotel accommodation, a B & B section and self catering bungalows. Within weeks of my story hitting the streets, Giles had made the announcement that he was putting Montpellier on the market to pursue other projects. The fact that his clientele had deserted him could have had something to do with it. That and the the state of his finances. After having to refund a lot of money to clients damaged by the outcry my article created, his bank was preparing to foreclose on his mortgage. We approached Sophie's bank with a proposition based on her forward commissions, plus the sale of our respective houses, that would be enough to make a sizable hole in any mortgage that we would have to take out. With a figure that we could manage, we approached the Giles' bank, and made them an offer based on the balance of his mortgage plus a little extra. They were happy to be able to off-load it without going through the hassle of advertising it through an agent, and the subsequent auction, that had no guarantee of exceeding the amount that they needed to clear their books. See what comes of being friends with the Finance Editor of the paper? We have staff to manage Montpellier, and they do it very well with little interference form us. This leaves us free for our artistic pursuits and the kids. We have our new home further along the headland from Montpellier where Sophie has her studio and I my writer's room. We have a dog that loves us and the kids, and a cat that tolerates us, the kids, and the dog. Phia, short for Sophia, close to Sophie but not the same, is showing signs of becoming an artist. Her work is very abstract (what more can you expect from a four year old?), while Gareth is already reading, even before he starts school.