Chapter One: The Beginning

1.1
Words, we don’t often think about them. We simply say them; they glide effortlessly off the tips of our tongues into unsuspecting ears. Now stop, just for a second and think about this one: Destiny. It is a word that has the potential to shape the very course of our lives. Whether it is pre-ordained by the divine or by human will is simply a matter of perspective.

It is a word that would alter the very course of Bruce’s life. The reason behind this was that he took it to heart every time an adult would heap praise on him as a young child. When he was told that he would one day do great things Bruce accepted it as a literal truth.

His certainty about his future was visible to everyone that came into contact with him. His smile was a mixture of innocent boyish charm and a hint of and seriousness that seemed to imply he knew something you did not. His eyes were an icy blue and left one feeling disconcerted if you spent to long looking inside of them.

He moved with confidence, his body completely obedient to his will. Seeming to glide at times, he moved with the grace of a cat. Self-conscious adults felt inclined to straighten their posture when standing in his presence.

People from all age groups were drawn to him, particularly woman. In the beginning they all wanted to touch him and mother him. As he grew older they wanted to sleep with him. Reactions varied from pure lust to love at first sight. The powerful combination of his height, light blond hair, dark skin, innocent smile and soft, purring English accent often left even the most committed of woman desiring him.

His beauty was not unbeknown to him and he possessed a certain vanity that made him seem more enticing. His mind was sharp and he had an undeniable artistic flair, which blossomed at a young age and under the tutelage of prominent artist and painter Sebastian his talent quickly flourished and outgrew that of his master.


1.2

By the age of twenty-eight he was both a lover of woman and a successful artist. His moderate success as an artist added to his allure and the trail of forgotten lovers left in his wake stretched well beyond the walls of London, where his studio was based.

As he gazed out across the London skyline, pleasures of the flesh were the last thing on his mind tonight. This evening he was hosting a private exhibition of his latest works in the hope of securing an exhibition space at the Royal Academy of Arts; one of London's major art galleries. It was home to an ever-changing programme of exciting, blockbuster exhibitions and specialised in the works of modern masters and the most exciting names in contemporary art. The gallery he had his eye on was situated on the second floor and involved ascending several flights of stairs but viewers often found the ascent well worth it, as the room provided a light and airy venue for a wide range of exhibitions.

All the big players in the London art scene had been invited. It also just so happened that over half of them were woman, many of whom he had been intimate with. He was hoping that this would count in his favour rather than against it. It occurred to him that this could all go rather pear shaped and prove to be a very awkward evening indeed if one them were still jaded. He grinned silently to himself as he thought of the guests due to arrive in less than an hour. It was going to be an interesting night whatever the outcome.

A newspaper lay on the terrace table beside him, murmuring tales of yesterday’s news as it rustled in the warm May wind. He picked it up and scanned the lifestyle section for write up about his shin-ding this evening.
“Bruce Quentin is renowned and much admired for his use of colour combined with subtle lighting effects. He paints in traditional watercolour and acrylics, inspired by travel, working with other professional artists in New York, France, Italy and England. Going beyond ‘Pop’ as a style, his latest private viewing will presenting The Artist in the Age of Publicity which will propose a radical re-reading of Pop Art and its legacy…”
He read until the end and made a mental note to get hold of the journalist and thank them for the good write up.

Cars began to pull up below as the first of his guests arrived. He watched as they approached his apartment and were greeted with champagne by his mentor agent and friend Sebastian. He never forgot a face and could name them all as they arrived. All except for one. As she stepped out of her vehicle her eyes made their way to the terrace where he stood and their eyes locked with each other. His eyes greedily drank up every detail about her, her beauty was breath taking, her confidence unnerving. He struggled to tear them away from her. He realised she was standing dead still taking him in just as much as he was her. He summoned all his will power and stepped back off the terrace back into his apartment. What was that all about he thought to himself, he was not easily unnerved and certainly not by a beautiful woman. Now was not the time he thought and pushed the thought aside and composed himself. "Let the show begin,” he murmured, as he made his way downstairs.


1.3

She saw him as he made his way down the stairway. A grand stairway one might say. His apartment and studio was one of those very opulent old Victorian houses. Divinely overdone, full of crimson and gold offset by modern appliances and self produced pop art hanging from the walls. She watched as he walked down the stairs, her beloved Bruce; a slouching, blond, longhaired youth, the usual silver aviator sunglasses over his eyes, hair presentably combed for once. His body adorned in a dark blue Armani, double breasted suit. Chardé smiled before she could stop herself. He was a waking contradiction – a picture of a mop of flowing hair, impeccable tailoring and a regal manner of sort of sauntering down the stairs and blocking the staircase. She knew his vanity; after all she had been watching him from the shadows for over four months now. Though she had to admit it all made for a rather potent combination.

She thought back to the first time she had laid eyes on him. It had been early in January smack bang in the dead of winter. She had been hunting.