Piping Her Tune Read online

  * * *

  Just as Victoria strolled out the boardroom, her phone rang. She checked the ID: Annabelle. With some relief, Victoria reminded herself she’d had enough business for one day. The shareholders’ meeting had been particularly gruelling; everyone wanted huge dividends which were not possible in the current fiscal climate. The shareholders should have been darn grateful the company’s share price was holding its own.

  “Hi Annabelle. What’s up, chick?”

  “Did you watch the news tonight?”

  Victoria frowned as she caught the quaver in Annabelle’s voice. “I’ve been in a meeting all day. You sound strange. What’s happened?”

  “You better get on the Internet and look at the headlines.”

  “What am I supposed to be looking for?”

  “The Archibald Packing Room Prize.”

  Victoria felt a flush of pride for Abby. Though they had parted so acrimoniously, Victoria hadn’t been able to fully discard the image of the artist from her mind. There had been something about her…“Did she win?”

  “Yes, but…just ring me when you’ve seen it.”

  “Okay. I’m about ready to go home so I’ll look when I get there.”

  “Do it now, Vic.” The words came out as a loud screech.

  Victoria stared hard at her phone and hurried to her office. Her fingers drummed impatiently on the polished desk as she waited for the site to pop up. The photo of the portrait morphed onto the screen; all she could do was stare. The painting was brilliant; there was no question of that. The style was arresting, the colours superb as they melted together in harmony. But as the full extent of how she had been depicted sank in, hurt and betrayal rushed through her.

  She hit the Print Screen button on her keyboard, and settled in her sturdy leather chair to study the image. A mass of vibrant colours was her first impression. Abby had incorporated in her usual impressionistic style a slightly abstract variation. She’d captured Victoria’s likeness to a T (her imperious cheekbones were hard not to recognize), but her elongated form, in a stern, unsmiling mien did not make Victoria attractive. Far from it. She looked rigid and unforgiving. And added to that, the fiery background smacked of an apocalyptic battlefield.

  Was that how Abby saw her? Hell!

  Victoria heaped a double shot of coffee into a cup to boost her flagging spirits. She swallowed a mouthful—its bitterness matched her mood.

  The phone jangled; she composed herself before she answered. “Hi, chick.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well? Aren’t you fuming?” Annabelle paused. “That was perhaps a poor choice of words…”

  Anger now replaced the hurt and Victoria spat out the words, “She’s going to be very sorry she did that to me.”

  “What are you going to do? Sue her?”

  “Nothing so crass. Get your best outfit ready. We’re going to the awards ceremony next week.”

  * * *

  Abby slipped on her dress and peered in the long mirror in the hallway. Her eyes widened—the person reflected in the glass was a stranger. The hairdresser had done wonders with her hair; the blond curls had been arranged high on her head to accentuate the length of her neck. The visit to the salon afterwards for a makeup application had completed the transformation. Her freckles had vanished, her eyes were luminous and her lips: plump cherries. The long white dress with its scalloped neckline was worth every penny. The frock draped stylishly over her body. Abby swivelled round to study herself from every angle. Even though she remained naturally curvy, judo classes had certainly whipped off any excess fat. For once in her life she felt attractive.

  Her mother patted her arm. “You look very nice, dear. Put in your contacts tonight.”

  Abby smiled. A fussbudget, her mum seemed oblivious to the fact that Abby was in her thirties, quite capable of looking after herself. But, not able to fully discard the role of dutiful daughter, Abby put aside her glasses and slid the slippery discs over her eyeballs. “Shall we be off, Mum? The taxi should be here any moment.”

  Judy Benton, her plump face creased in a smile, wove their arms together. “I’m so proud of you, dear.”

  Abby tried to smile, though failed miserably. She had nothing to be proud about. In spite of the praise she’d received from the press and positive reviews from prominent art critics, she had made Victoria Myers the laughingstock of the nation.

  As she passed through the imposing columns of the NSW Art Gallery, Abby felt humble. Over the years, some of Australia’s most prominent artists had walked this walk on such an afternoon. The exhibition rooms were already crowded with the elite of the country’s artistic community when they entered. Expensively dressed patrons mingled with artists, who compensated for their limited budgets by wearing creative outfits. Abby chuckled at some of the getups.

  Jittery as she moved through, she heaved a relieved sigh to see that Victoria was nowhere in sight. For the next hour, she and her mother studied the portraits and grazed from the assortment of bite-sized nibbles, canapés and tasty little savoury tarts.

  Abby was beginning to tire of accolades she continuously received by the time she spied a lawyer friend from Legal Aid. “There’s Adam,” she muttered to her mother. She waved and gave him her first genuine smile of the night. “Do you mind?”

  Her mother smiled. “I’m happy to browse alone.”

  Adam was nursing a beer. “I thought you might need some moral support,” he offered. “You look ravishing, by the way.”

  Abby looked at him fondly. His support was welcome. They had an uncomplicated friendship, for not only did they share the same sense of humour and basic values, they were the only two gays in the office. She gave him a quick hug. “It’s all a bit daunting being thrust into the limelight. Thank goodness Victoria Myers didn’t turn up.”

  He set his face into a haughty look and poked a devilish finger from each side of his head. Abby burst into giggles. Trust Adam to see the funny side of a disastrous situation. A waiter appeared with a tray of drinks, and she took another glass of Riesling, savouring its acidic, fruity taste as it washed over her tongue. Things looked brighter; time to appreciate her achievement.

  Adam was pleasant company. He had just started a joke involving an Irishman and a leprechaun, but stopped mid-sentence, his mouth agape. “She’s here,” he stammered.

  Abby followed his gaze across the room. Victoria stood in the doorway, appearing totally at ease as she swept her eyes over the gallery floor. Abby tried not to stare. Victoria was breathtaking, and the dress—heavens knows what it cost. She looked like she had been poured into it, every curve of her magnificent body accentuated.

  Abby glanced at Adam. His mouth had formed into an O—even her gay friend appreciated the beauty of the woman. He raised his eyebrows. “How could you make that apparition into a Jezebel?”

  She slapped his arm. “I found her completely self-centred and very difficult to work with.”

  Victoria threaded her way through the crowd. Her face held a saintly quality as she greeted people, her smile benevolent. She fairly glided from one gallery guest to the next. The auburn-haired woman by her side was movie queen material as well, though she didn’t radiate Victoria’s charisma. Abby forced herself to turn away as a warning bell pealed in her ear. After watching Victoria’s performance, Abby would end up being the she-devil tonight: a cynical, jealous, bitch of an artist.

  * * *

  The artist was nowhere to be seen. Victoria fixed an angelic countenance on her face as she moved into the crowd. After a while she tired of the pretence. As soon as the presentation ceremony is finished, I’m out of here. Annabelle must have been feeling the same way, for she whispered in her ear, “Stuff the art. I’ve just seen a delectable morsel in the corner on the right and I’ve gotta have a taste of it.”

  Victoria growled her disapproval. She hated that her friend had no morals regarding casual seduction. Whatever vices Victoria had, they definitely we
ren’t in the sexual department; if anything, she was straitlaced, the product of a strict religious upbringing. Sex without knowing and liking a partner had no appeal whatsoever. She cast a cursory glance over at her friend’s objet de desire. The blonde looked pleasant enough and even a little familiar, though, after she grappled with her memory, she couldn’t quite place her. Then it hit. Far out! It’s Abby Benton.

  Victoria had only seen Abby with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face smeared with paint and dressed in an apron nearly to her ankles, with a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. But here she had been transformed into an attractive woman, with a curvy athletic body which filled out her simple white dress. Out of nowhere, a small stab of concern hit—Annabelle had her sights set on her.

  “Don’t be an idiot. That’s Abby Benton.”

  “So? She’s available, isn’t she?”

  The little muscles around Victoria’s mouth twitched. “You haven’t got a dog’s hope there. She would have seen you come in with me.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Don’t be so sure. She’s with a man anyhow, so she’s straight.”

  “Bullshit,” whispered Annabelle. “He’s got ‘I’m gay’ stamped all over his forehead. Really, Vic, you should get out more. See you later.”

  Victoria squared her shoulders as she watched her friend join the pair in the corner. It was time. She eased her way through the throng of people to her portrait. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.

  The gallery curator, a dapper man with a paisley pocket square and a pinched mouth, hurried to her side and sniffed cautiously. “It’s an excellent portrait, Ms Myers. We’re so delighted to have you here.”

  A soft laugh purred out before Victoria raised her voice. She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head to one side. “It’s very good. The colours are amazing, though I’d say Ms Benton is probably one hell of a dissatisfied shareholder.”

  The quiet that had fallen over the room was broken by titters.

  He shuffled from one foot to the other. “She’s very talented.”

  “I suppose you could say that. What a pity though her perspective on life is so negative. She obviously sees the Mr Hyde in people. Not a good trait for a portrait artist, is it? I doubt anyone would like to be her next customer if she made me look like this.”

  “An artist’s perception of the subject is always unique, which makes the good ones stand out from the crowd.”

  Her eyes glinted. “Ah, yes. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as they say. Benton may perhaps be more suited as a war artist. There’s plenty of death and destruction on the battlefield without having to imagine it.” She reached in her purse and held out an envelope. “Nevertheless, one must be above all that. She’s been her own worst enemy. Now I digress. The reason I came was to give the gallery a donation.”

  He slid open the envelope and his eyes widened. “Very generous indeed.”

  “My pleasure. I try to support the arts.”

  He smiled and fussily tucked the envelope into his suit coat. “I’m sure the trustees will be most appreciative. Now it’s time to announce the winners.”

  * * *

  Abby looked away from Adam as she grew aware someone approached. She blew out a nervous breath as she recognized Victoria’s companion.

  The woman touched her arm and smiled. “Hi there, I’m Annabelle. Excuse me for interrupting but I thought I should meet the artist…”

  “You came in with Victoria, right?” Abby waved her hand at Adam. “This is my friend Adam and I am…”

  “Yes, I know…Abby Benton. Victoria Myers is a friend,” interrupted Annabelle. “In spite of that fact, I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your work.” She plucked a snippet of fluff off Abby’s shoulder strap. “Have you been painting long?”

  For a moment Abby was taken aback by Annabelle’s disloyalty to Victoria. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Adam’s wink. “I’ll leave you two to talk,” he said before he sidled away into the crowd.

  Conscious of Annabelle’s scrutiny, Abby made an effort to be pleasant. She resisted the impulse to cross her arms over her breasts and continued the small talk. “I’ve been painting for many years. Are you an artist?”

  Annabelle raised an eyebrow. “Hardly, though I can appreciate beauty if I see it.”

  Despite the fact Abby had little inexperience at flirting, these advances seemed childish. She ignored the innuendo. “What’s your favourite portrait here?”

  “I prefer my subjects in the flesh.”

  Really annoyed now, Abby stared at her. Was the woman for real? She guessed she probably should be flattered, but Annabelle had fast become a nuisance and all Abby wanted was to see what Victoria was doing. She craned her head to search the room, and spied Victoria chatting with the curator. She hissed. Annabelle turned to look. “Hell,” muttered Abby. “What’s she going to say? She doesn’t look upset at all.”

  “Believe you me, she’s cranky as hell.”

  “How can you tell? She’s looks composed to me.”

  “By the way she’s standing; she’s wound up tight as a spring. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.”

  The room fell quiet and the conversation floated over as clear as a rustle of wind on a fine summer’s day. Abby winced and tears prickled behind her lids as she listened to the words. She imagined her career disappearing down the plug hole. As Victoria handed over the cheque, she snarled and anger replaced the desire to cry. “The goddamn woman is throwing money at him.”

  Annabelle laughed. “Oh, yes. She’s making him aware she’s more important than you.”

  “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work that one out. She’s denigrated my work in front of all these people and doesn’t give a damn.”

  “She’s hurt. Victoria is a lot of things, but not cruel.”

  Though sceptical, Abby held her tongue. Clapping resounded through the room, ceasing further conversation. The official party had moved to circle the microphone. “The presentations have started. Let’s watch.”

  The ceremony began with the Wynne and Sulman prizes first. When it came to her turn, Abby walked forward; she kept her head high as she accepted her award with a gracious smile and then joined her mother. “Come on, Mum, let’s go.”

  “Don’t you want to see if you’ve won the major prize?”

  “I just want to get out of here,” muttered Abby.

  Judy Benton rose, looking formidable, though she wasn’t any taller than her daughter. Her plump body was set in a firm stance, her knobbed, twisted fingers clutched around Abby’s wrist. “Abby Charlotte Benton. You will not let that nasty Myers woman ruin your evening. We came here to see the ceremony and stay we shall until it’s over.”

  Abby merely nodded; it was useless to argue when her mother spoke in that tone of voice. The winner was announced and when it wasn’t her, she pushed back the feeling of disappointment. “Okay. Let’s go, Mum. Please.”

  “Just one minute then, dear.”

  Abby watched in horror as her mother went over to Victoria. She came back to join Abby with a smile. “I’m right to go.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “Just a few pertinent words to show my displeasure. She got the message.”

  * * *

  Victoria strode to the back of the room to watch the awards ceremony. It came to the Packing Room prize; she leaned forward to watch Abby walk forward to receive it. Abby didn’t return to Annabelle’s side and Victoria felt a twinge of relief. Whatever else Abby had done, she didn’t deserve to be one of Annabelle’s conquests, most likely to be discarded like a used dishcloth in the morning.

  After the major Archibald winner was announced, a white-haired woman who was a heavier, older version of Abby, moved directly towards Victoria.

  “Abby forgot to include two important things in your portrait,” the woman began with a whisper.

  Victoria frowned. “Oh? And what’s that?”

 
; “Your horns and pitchfork.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Her mother.” Without another word she rejoined her daughter and they disappeared into the night.

  Victoria bit her lip as a dull headache crept into her skull. Annabelle appeared at her side, apparently miffed that Abby had rebuffed her advances.

  “Not the friendliest sort,” Annabelle offered.

  “I told you she wouldn’t be susceptible to your charms.”

  “No, she wasn’t. Pity you put her in such bad mood. You’ve been holding out on me, Vic. If I remember correctly, you said she was plain. You must need glasses. I wouldn’t mind having another go at breaching that particular fortress. She’s a cutie and has a sort of charming innocence about her.”

  “Does everything have to revolve around a conquest with you?” snapped Victoria.

  “Oh, my, aren’t we touchy tonight? I would have thought that casting aspersions on someone’s work would have put you in a good mood.”

  “She sullied my reputation.”

  “Oh come now, that’s rather dramatic, isn’t it? With all your money, it doesn’t matter what people think. Your pride’s hurt, that’s all. But she has real talent and you ground your heel into it. Except for the fact she made you look like the Whore of Babylon, the painting’s fabulous. Sometimes you can be a real turd, Vic. Now, I’m going for a drink with the girls. Do you want to come?”

  Victoria shook her head. “I’m going home to bed.” She began to feel nauseous as she went out into the cheerless street. As she walked to the parking lot, she scuffed her shoe on the concrete pavement. Why had she said those things to the curator? She should have swallowed her pride and laughed it off.

  Chapter Three