He contemplated his glass again. I noticed the waiter hovering and waved him away. “Where are the toilets?” Zeppo asked, abruptly.
“Ah... I think they’re through there.”
He pushed back his chair and went out. I picked up the menu and went through the motions of reading it without understanding a single word. I put it down and took a drink of wine instead.
Zeppo seemed to be gone a long time. I was glad when he reappeared in the doorway. This time he scanned the room openly as he crossed it.
“So how old is this girl, anyway?” he asked, as soon as he sat down. “Anna, is it?”
“Yes, Anna. She’s in her early twenties.”
“And you say she’s good looking.”
“Oh yes. Very. At least, I think so.”
Zeppo nodded to himself. His right hand rested on the table, fingers drumming an erratic beat. There was a subtle change in his manner. He seemed more decisive than before. I tried not to raise my hopes.
“And you’ll pay cash?”
“Cash, cheque. Whatever you like.”
He was silent again. His fingers continued tapping out their uneven tattoo. I waited. Suddenly he grinned.
“Okay. Why not?”
“You mean you’ll do it?”
“That was the general idea, wasn’t it?”
I hoped he could not see how relieved I was. “Oh good,” I said, letting my breath out slowly. I smiled at him. “More wine?”
Anna had worked at the gallery for nearly four months. For the first three of those I hardly noticed her. She had simply been another assistant, the latest in a long line of young women I had hired to help out over the years. So long as she remained punctual and reasonably competent, nothing else concerned me. The fact that she was attractive was incidental and unimportant.
My attitude towards sex had always been one of indifference. Even as a young man I had no great interest in the subject, and what little curiosity I had went unanswered until my mid-twenties, when I misguidedly hired the services of a prostitute. The experience was distasteful and I felt no inclination to repeat it. Instead, putting the incident behind me, I concentrated on a more dignified outlet for my energies. Art.
For a time I had aspirations of becoming an artist myself. Unfortunately, my talent seemed to lie more in appreciation than application, a fact which mercifully led me to abandon my own attempts before they became too embarrassing. I was disappointed, but realistic. I reasoned that if I could not make a career from my own work, I could at least do so from other people’s. I already owned a modest collection of oils and watercolours. The next step seemed obvious. I became a dealer.
My interest in erotic art did not develop until I bought my first example of it, however. It was an eighteenth-century French snuffbox, unremarkable until it was opened. On the underside of the lid was a picture of a girl, coquettishly lifting her skirts to reveal that she wore nothing underneath. I was enthralled, and the snuffbox became the first piece in my private collection. I was, of course, aware of the irony of being fascinated by erotica when sex itself held no appeal. But that piece, and subsequent ones, seemed to possess a subtlety and charm completely lacking in the physical act. It impressed me in a way mere fornication never had.
I entered middle age content with my life. I had everything I wanted: a flourishing business, and a private, harmless passion that I could afford to satisfy. I neither wanted nor saw any reason why my situation should change. And, had I not been absent-minded one evening, it might never have.
I had left Anna to close the gallery while I went to an auction. It was by invitation only, and halfway there I realised I had left mine in the office. Annoyed, I turned back for it.
I expected the gallery to be empty. It was past closing time when I returned, and I presumed Anna would have already gone home. I parked in the alleyway around the back and let myself in. The building was in darkness. Two flights of stairs led up to the office, one from the gallery at the front, the other from the storeroom at the rear. At the foot of the latter I switched on the light, and the bulb blinked and went out. Exasperated, I began to climb the stairs in the dark, and was almost at the top before I realised there was a light on in the office.
My first reaction was to go back to the car to telephone the police. If it was a burglary I wanted no part of it. But the fear of humiliating myself over a false alarm prevented me. I hesitated. Then, surprised at my own courage, I went up the rest of the stairs and on to the landing.
The office door was partly open. Light spilled out from it on to the darkened corridor. I tiptoed slowly closer, more of the room coming into view as I approached. Then, when I was only a few feet away, I heard Anna cough.
I relaxed. Relieved and irritated. I took another step forward, intending to announce my presence, and stopped.
Through the gap in the doorway I could now see the large, gilt-framed mirror that hung on the opposite wall. It showed part of the office that was still hidden behind the door. The bookshelf. My desk. The desk lamp, casting a golden illumination into the room. And Anna.
She was naked except for a white bra and pants. She stood poised with her weight on one leg, the other slightly crooked as she strained with both hands for the strap in the small of her back. For a moment she did not move. The mirror, set against the blank, surrounding wall, framed the scene as perfectly as a painting. Then there was a sudden forward motion of her breasts as the bra came undone, and Anna bent her shoulders and slipped it off. Dropping it out of sight, she hooked her thumbs in the top of her pants and pushed them down. Her breasts swung heavily as she stooped, her hair sliding over one shoulder in a dark club. Then she turned to confront herself in the mirror. And me.
Instinctively, I flinched back. But the hallway was in darkness: I was invisible. Cautiously, I moved forward again. Now Anna’s reflection directly faced me. Her hands went to her hair, tying it behind her with a black band. Her head bowed slightly; her breasts stretched and quivered. Her stomach was smooth, slightly rounded at its base and deeply indented by a long, oval navel. Below this, the thick wedge of black curls was still pressed flat from her underclothes.
She turned then and reached for something out of sight on the floor; the pose presented me with an angled view of her back. It gleamed where the light caught it, her spine a shadowed groove. She bent further, head and shoulders dipping out of sight until her buttocks became almost heart-shaped. A small, dark diamond formed where they joined her thighs. Straightening, she stepped into another pair of pants, black this time, and pulled on a pair of tights. She drew them up her legs and over her stomach to her navel, so that the lower half of her body was all black, the upper still white and naked.
Suddenly I lost sight of her as she moved out of view of the mirror. I felt a surge of panic. But her reflection returned almost immediately, holding a black dress. I watched, regretfully, as her body was concealed in it, cherishing one last glimpse of her breasts as she eased them inside. Then she was fastening the dress behind her, clothed and hidden once more.
I remained in the corridor, reluctant to accept it was over. It was only when Anna began to put on her lipstick that I remembered where I was, and what I was doing. I crept away from the doorway and went back downstairs, trembling and light-headed. At the bottom I leaned against the cool wall and closed my eyes. An after-image of Anna naked in the mirror instantly appeared, and I quickly opened them. I waited until the tightness in my chest and throat had subsided and then began to climb the stairs again.
“Anna? Is that you?” I shouted.
“Mr. Ramsey?” There were hurried sounds from the office. Then Anna appeared in the doorway. She looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I was just getting changed. I wasn’t expecting you back.”