DISCLAIMER: Some of the characters in this original work of fiction have been created by and belong to the author Keiko Nagita.
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At the Gallery
Early evening, 7pm. Clad in black tie attire, pulling wondering stares for he hadn't a familiar face the people recognised, Terry stood inside the Whitechapel Gallery, looking at the crowd that mingled around, taking their time to stand in front of the paintings, exchanging opinions. Robert and John would be there soon enough.
He had left Claridges ahead of them. He preferred some quieter time on his own first. When the legendary John Barrymore would cross those doors, he would be like the honey pot for the flies. Terry wasn't too keen for hanging on his coat tails. It wasn't actor's jealousy by no means. Barrymore happened to be the greatest American actor alive after all. But for Terry, even standing by this great artist in a social event...he preferred to not have people think he rubbed shoulders with acting aristocracy for his own benefit.
There was a fair crowd in the room. He could check the paintings on his own pace. He opened the exhibition catalogue. "Grantchester Meadows" was the first on the list. He smiled at the coincidence. When lifted his eyes from the page, he noticed some women looking over their shoulder at him rather than the paintings. "More of the same", he thought with slight boredom having grown accustomed to this kind of female interest. He turned his stare back to the paintings.
From the looks of them from afar and the interested stare of the people that stood around him, Terry thought that the artist had indeed some talent. Intrigued, he started walking further inside the main exhibition room. His foot was still hurting from last month's accident. His earlier walk around London and St. Paul's didn't really do any good either. He thought wise to take the elegant walking cane Eleonor had bought for him, wanting to cheer him up just before he was leaving New York. It was a beautiful cane, he couldn't deny it. Long, thin, and light as a feather, it was made from ebony wood and polished to perfection. With moulded silver on both its ends, the holding end alone had such carvings made that it could a piece of art itself. He thanked Eleonor in his head, for her impeccable taste and smiled at her thought.
Cane at hand, he helped himself to a flute of champagne from those floating discreetly around in big silver trays carried by waiters. He had a sip and moved to view the paintings from up close. He moved at his leisure, from one painting to the other, while consulting the catalogue at the same time. Terry stood more at the portraits. Christian seems very able to paint really expressive faces. So expressive in fact, it was as if they were alive and breathing, just ready to jump out beyond the confines of the frames. He was very impressed; judging from the gossip he was hearing coming from the people that were standing next to him, he wasn't the only one.
There was one painting in particular. His ear had caught a few words spoken about, from two men who happened to pass by him. A beautiful blonde. The Scarlet Rose. He looked down at the catalogue. "Scarlet Rose" was last on the list.
He looked around him. In the distance, on one of the free-standing stark white walls, there was a painting hanging on its own. A nude, painted in hues of red and violet, it was making such contrast with the whiteness of the wall, it was sticking out like a sore thump, an exquisite sore thumb that is. He moved closer, eager to view it. He finished the remnants of the champagne, grabbed another flute and turned to face the painting.
