she was saying with an eyebrow raised almost coquettishly, ‘what do you have for me?’
‘Adam and Eve having a fuck,’ said James without thinking, because he was thinking how much he’d like to have a fuck. With F. McCabe. Or Margot F-M-L. Whoever. It had been a while. He wondered whether to apologize. Or to bite his lip. Or make light of it. Or just ignore it. But seeing her eyes light up, he decided that to show her Adam and Eve having a fuck was a good start.
‘1892,’ he said, by way of introduction to the sculpture. He gave her a few moments to feast her gaze upon it and then brought out the sketch of Eve. ‘1894,’ he said, watching Ms F-M-L hone in on the painting. Then he brought out Adam. ‘1895,’ he said, titillated by seeing how excited Miss Margot was. He didn’t really care whether this was over their monetary or aesthetic value, or a mixture of both. She looked hungry. And it turned him on. ‘What am I bid?’ he jested. She stared at him.
‘We offer the paintings as a pair,’ she suggested in a most conspiratorial voice, as if hatching an illicit plan, leaning close to him with an almost clichéd amount of cleavage on view. ‘It would be a travesty to split them. We put the reserve at around thirty thousand.’ James worked hard not to gulp because he felt she was scrutinizing him to see if he would. Or to see whether he’d noticed her bust. He had. He didn’t gulp. He nodded sagely. ‘The bronze,’ she said, musing, ‘forty thousand is realistic.’ James was sure to tip his head to one side and look out of the window as if considering whether this was the most financially viable route for him to take. ‘I propose we offer them in the July sale. It’s a biggie. Lots of Americans. Fetherstone is growing in popularity over the pond.’
‘Would you care to have lunch with me?’ James asked.
‘I’m hungry,’ Ms M. F-M-L said, licking her lips.
She chose two starters. Asparagus. Predictably. And oysters. Ditto. James tried to tuck into a Caesar salad but anticipated it would all be gone in two mouthfuls. Actually, it was five. He was still hungry. Watching Margot do what she was doing to the asparagus, he didn’t know what he longed for more – her or one of Mrs Brakespeare’s substantial platters of ham and eggs.
‘Will you let me have them?’ she asked, leaning across the table and exhibiting her cleavage again to great effect.
‘No,’ said James.
‘Or, let me just keep them in the department for a while?’ she compromised, her pupils as dark as the espresso in front of her.
‘No,’ said James.
‘Oh go on,’ she purred, ‘just come back to my office – I’m sure I can persuade you somehow.’
‘Roger!’ she calls across the vestibule to a man who comes over. ‘This is James Caulfield. He’s brought in three delightful Fetherstones. They’re in my office. Do come and have a look.’ This offer she extends to two other men they encounter on the way back to her office. James watches her bottom, clad in a tight skirt, swaying seductively as she takes the stairs. He has to thrust his hand deep into his trouser pocket in a bid to conceal his erection. She opens the door to her office and a shaft of light streams in, soaking Adam and Eve who are still having sex. Right there, on her desk.
‘Let me see now,’ she says, ‘how am I going to persuade you to part with them?’ Closing the door with her back, all of a sudden she pulls James towards her and gorges herself on his mouth. She doesn’t sip him down as she did the oysters. She doesn’t tongue him tantalizingly like she did the asparagus. She doesn’t linger over him and take her time. She gobbles him, sucks him, chews and gulps at him. Her hands grab and squeeze and pull at him. Her body is bucking and writhing against his. His face is wet from her mouth. His lips are being bitten both accidentally and on purpose. His hair is being pulled, his shirt tugged, his belt yanked. He isn’t kissing her back – her mouth is in the way. And it’s all so sudden, he hasn’t had the chance to think about it, to object, to stop himself, to participate.
Oh my God! She’s going to give me a blow-job! Oh my God! There’s someone knocking at the door.
It is Roger from downstairs wanting to see the Fetherstones. Anyone there? James’s thudding heart is in his mouth. And Margot has her mouth full. Roger has gone away, thank God.
Oh God, what is she doing?
James raises his eyes to the heavens but they hit the ceiling where fat cherubs are cavorting with whimsical unicorns and baby centaurs. He closes his eyes.
It’s been a while. Not since that girl in Hathersage.
Margot has stopped sucking. Her knees crack as she stands up to face him. James doesn’t know what to say or where to look. He’s desperate not to take leave of his senses but his brain has now taken residence in his balls. Coming is such a priority that it overwhelms any thoughts of intruders or condoms or impropriety or ramifications or repercussions. She hoicks up her skirt and guides him inside her. A few quick thrusts is all it takes.
The relief.
God. Now what? Where to look? What to say?
‘Definitely July,’ Margot is saying, rearranging her clothing, ‘the Americans will be here on a shopping spree.’
‘They’ll be sold to a private collector?’ James asks, zipping himself up, turning away from her and giving Adam and Eve an apologetic look.
‘Undoubtedly,’ she confirms, walking over to her desk.
‘And they’ll leave the country?’ James asks, staring at his Fetherstones as if they’re children about to be committed to boarding-school overseas.
‘I would say so,’ she says, regarding him levelly.
‘Don’t you think that would be a shame?’
‘With the money they could generate?’ she retorts, astutely. ‘It’s not my job to make sure that works of art go to the right home, wherever that may be, just that they achieve the highest amount possible.’
‘Say it’s a bank vault in Los Angeles?’
‘Then it’s a bank vault in Los Angeles that forked out around £70,000 to make space for them.’
James obviously doesn’t like the sound of this.
‘Look,’ she says, too sweetly so that it verges on patronizing, as if she’s lost interest with him, as if his soft side or conscience was not the reason for her having fucked him, ‘if you’re worried about where they’ll go, why not offer them to a national institution via the NACF or Trust Art? We can still be your advisors. You will forfeit the whole premise of an auction, of prices rising alongside salesroom hysteria.’
‘Phone the Tate?’ James asks.
‘Wherever,’ she says, ‘then the gallery will try to raise funds via a grant from, as I said, the NACF or Trust Art. You know who you should contact? Fen McCabe. She works at Trust Art now. She’s a Fetherstone fanatic. We offered her a job which she declined because she said she’d protest every time one was sold to a home of which she might not approve.’
‘Fen,’ James mused.
‘McCabe, short for Fenella, bit of a mouthful,’ said Margot Fitzpatrick-Montague-Laine,
