Slow Seduction (Struck by Lightning) Read online

  “Bye, Rina. Don’t forget! Tea with Paul and Michel tomorrow.” She waved one last time and then her screen went dark when she closed her laptop.

  The tiny room felt very empty then. I sent an e-mail to my sister, Jill, telling her about tea at the Buckingham Palace Hotel.

  The sun was setting on this warm summer evening as I stared out of the open hotel window. The sky was alight with streaks of rose and magenta. The towers of the train station really looked more like a castle than a transit hub. Two children ran down the cobbled street toward the park, laughing, their father following behind, unhurried. I wanted to imagine that it was a castle, that I had come to a fairy-tale land, but reality was holding me in a very firm grip.

  I sat back down on the bed. I wanted to walk around but I didn’t know the neighborhood. Was it safe? Maybe it was at the moment, but once the sun went down, would it be? I remembered all the warnings my mother had given me, first when I went to college, then when I moved to New York City for grad school. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t go out at night. Don’t walk alone. They all applied suddenly. I was in a foreign country and out of my element.

  The e-mail Becky had sent with the links to the LL fan sites beckoned me. Well, that would be one way to keep myself busy for a while…

  I had avoided looking at the sites up until now. It was weird enough that the man I had fallen in love with, the man with whom I had done some of the most intimate and outrageous sexual things, was secretly an international rock star, but it was even weirder to realize that millions of women, my own roommate included, spent their days lusting after him.

  I clicked on the first link somewhat hesitantly. A fan site popped up, and a song of his began to play. Headings on the site beckoned me to sections: News, Photo Gallery, Your Stories, Meetups.

  The News page appeared to be a mix of blog posts and links to news stories about anything and everything remotely related to Lord Lightning. Some guy who had once played guitar on one of his albums had a solo record out now, and so most of the recent articles were about him. The Photo Gallery contained promo photos, concert shots, and occasional fan photos where people had uploaded pictures of themselves meeting him. Most of them were women, grinning wide-eyed in excitement and disbelief at standing next to their idol. None of those were more recent than several months ago, the last time he appeared.

  The night we met.

  I had to stop looking at the pictures. He always appeared wearing a mask or so heavily made up he was unrecognizable, but the comments people left freaked me out a little. “So beautiful! The most beautiful man alive!” read one. “Yummy. I could nibble those abs like ears of corn,” read another. Others were more graphic. It wasn’t that I didn’t agree with them, but the flare of jealousy I felt was so hot my cheeks burned. Jealousy and arousal, too, triggered by the frank erotic thoughts these fans had about him, about the little bit of skin he showed in a photo shoot or the suggestive pose on an album cover. Some guys get up there, sing, and get famous, I know that. But Lord Lightning wasn’t just a musician. He was a Sex Symbol with a capital S. He was made of sex.

  The Your Stories section was even worse. One section was meant to be true stories like “The Day I Met Lord Lightning for Winning a Radio Contest,” but there were only a few postings there. The fiction section, on the other hand, was huge, with thousands of stories. And I couldn’t help but notice that many of them were rated “R” or “X,” like movies.

  One of them, entitled “Limo Ride,” caught my eye. I couldn’t help myself. Against my better judgment, my curiosity got the better of me, and I clicked on it.

  Ever since the day I became my lord’s personal makeup and costume artist, my life has never been the same. I’ll never forget the day we were on our way to a public appearance. He’d chosen spandex to show off his incredibly well-toned body. I was in the best shape of my life, too, since he had me join him for workouts with his personal trainer. I knew every inch of his body, of course, since it was my job to fit him for costumes, and as you know, many of them fit him perfectly. When I say every inch, of course I also mean every inch of the magnificence of his love rod. Even flaccid, it was one of his most prominent and desirable features, and I was forever designing clothes to accentuate that delicious moose knuckle.

  But of course when not flaccid it could be a problem. A very embarrassing problem, not to mention it would ruin the line of the costume. So taking care of that became my job, too. So there we were in the limousine, from which he would emerge into a thousand camera flashbulbs and videos. “Caramel,” he said to me, gesturing to the raging boner so prominent that the reddened tip protruded from under his waistband, “this is a problem. Fix it.”

  “Right away, my lord,” I said, pulling the boner free with one hand and then straddling him. I never wore underwear anymore under my skirts, not when this kind of “problem” was prone to pop up a few times a day.

  “The problem,” he growled into my ear as he thrust hard into me, “is that you are so damn sexy, I can’t help but get hard every time you’re near.”

  “So, fire me,” I said, squeezing him with my love muscles.

  “Not on your life,” he said, thrusting harder and deeper. “I can’t live without you.”

  I couldn’t read any more of it. For one thing, it was ridiculous and laughable, but on the other hand, I found myself turned on by it at the same time. Oh my God, I thought, these are the kinds of fantasies these women have about him every day.

  I couldn’t really be offended by it. After all, they had no idea what he was really like. Everyone wants to think there’s something perfect out there, or someone.

  Sometimes it’s not a fantasy, though. I had my Prince Charming and I fucked things up. I drove him away.

  I slept uneasily that night, disturbed equally by jet lag and longing.

  Two

  You Wouldn’t Believe

  What I’ve Been Through

  Rain was coming down as I hoofed it through the crowds of morning commuters to the Underground. London was different from New York, but in a few ways, at least, they were the same: tons of people catching the subway to get to work; a plethora of small shops where one could pick up bottled water, candy, and newspapers; and guys selling cheap umbrellas on the street the moment the rain started to fall. I bought a black one so I wouldn’t arrive at the museum looking like a drowned rat.

  I managed to get there before the doors opened. There was a line outside the building of perhaps a hundred people standing in the rain, some of them holding newspapers over their heads while they waited to get in. I listened to them chatting. Some conversations were about the rain, some about how the museum was undergoing renovation. The wait was only a few minutes; then the glass doors were opened—I didn’t see by whom—and in we went.

  Everything that wasn’t under renovation was up a flight of stairs from the ticket lobby. I traded in the pass Martindale had given me and followed the crowd upward. There seemed to be a series of galleries arranged chronologically and a wide central atrium that had numerous modern and contemporary pieces in it. That surprised me, since I had thought all the modern stuff was at the Tate Modern, a completely different museum. But apparently Tate Britain had its share.

  Across the atrium I was arrested by the brazen, disdainful stare of Rossetti’s “Astarte.” It was like being sneered at by the most popular girl at school—I hated that painting and didn’t think it deserved the attention it got, but at the same time, seeing it was like seeing a face I knew in a sea of strangers. My homesickness lifted a little. Astarte was even bigger than she was in the actual painting because she was on a fifteen-foot-tall banner showing the way to the special pre-Raphaelite exhibit. I hurried over to her and saw the entrance.

  There was a queue set up with zigzagging ropes, but no one was in line to get in. I nearly rushed straight through, but stopped when I saw there was a large canvas hanging right there where anyone waiting would have had something to look at. It was odd that this on
e painting was the only one outside the gallery, but it was even odder that it was unfinished. The trees were very detailed, but the people in the painting looked more like statues or ghosts, barely sketched in and lacking features. I moved closer to read the information plaque next to it.

  Burne-Jones! The painting was by the same artist who had done King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid, my favorite painting of all time. This was apparently a scene of Tristran and Iseult, the lovers in the King Arthur legends. I didn’t know King Arthur that well. There appeared to be one couple in the center of the painting and then a handful of other people around them in various poses of angst.

  A young man in a suit with sleeves slightly too short and hair in need of combing came up beside me. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” he said, sounding like a BBC announcer.

  “Yes. Why was it left unfinished?” I asked, looking at the painting instead of at him.

  “I don’t know the entire story. I’m no expert, but the canvas was recently found. Publicity about the exhibition made the collector who had it wonder about it, and voila, turns out it was a hitherto unknown piece. They say Burne-Jones was trying to work out his conflicted feelings about being torn between his wife and mistress. He never did figure it out, so never could finish the painting.”

  “Wow. Well, that explains why these folks look so unhappy.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it? He didn’t even paint their faces and you can see their emotions just from the posture. I’m Tristan, by the way.” He held out his hand.

  I took a better look at him. He had pasty skin, and his brown hair was the same color as his suit. I must have hesitated a little too long while wondering if he often tried to pick up girls at the art museum, because then he went on. “You’re Karina, right? If you’re not, my apologies. I’m looking for an American girl who matches your description.”

  “Oh! Yes, I’m Karina!” I shook his hand. “Sorry! I wasn’t expecting to be meeting anyone.”

  “Perfect! Great!” When we shook hands, he pumped my hand up and down before letting go. “I’m Martindale’s summer intern. I’m actually on an errand for him right now, but when I saw you, I thought, could that be her? Best find out! And so, voila, here you are. So nice to meet you. Have you been through the exhibition yet?”

  “No. I’ve only been here a few minutes.”

  “Oh, you’ll love it. It’s fantastic. Such an honor to work on. And Mr. Martindale is a genius. You must tell me what you think of all the paintings—!” He paused for a breath and seemed to catch himself. “Ah. I must be going. But on my way back I’ll try to catch up with you.”

  “Thank you…Tristan.”

  “Yes, that’s my name! Just like in the painting! See, now you’ll never forget it!” He beamed and shook my hand again and then hurried off. I felt rather like I’d just met the art-world version of a big, energetic puppy.

  I looked at the unfinished painting for a few more minutes and then turned away from its vision of angst, confusion, and unfulfilled love to enter the main exhibition.

  Seven rooms of pre-Raphaelite art awaited me. A smattering of sculpture or other pieces of art sat here and there in the middle of the floor, and the rest was paintings. I made my way through slowly, savoring the view. The museum was still not very crowded, and although more people were starting to filter in, I was ahead of most of them.

  So many of these paintings I had analyzed in detail in my thesis. Seeing them in person, though, was completely different from seeing them in a book or even in a high-quality scan online. There was so much richness lost in a photograph or scan. And the details! I felt almost foolish for analyzing them when there were so many I had never seen in person.

  By far, though, the painting that had the most hidden detail was good-old King Cophetua. As I made my way through the exhibit, I wondered at the fact that I didn’t see very much by Edward Burne-Jones at all. Then a few small pieces came along, including a portrait of his mistress, and then in the next room, one of his wife.

  But almost all of his works were in the very last room because, of course, these kinds of art exhibits are always arranged to save the best for last.

  I got goose bumps when I saw King Cophetua. My entire body tingled and I felt almost like I was floating as I crossed the large room to stand in front of it. Unlike Astarte, with her sour expression and carefully posed fingers, the Beggar Maid had wide, welcoming eyes, inviting all to gaze up at her as adoringly as the king at her feet.

  Though I’d studied the painting, I had no idea how huge it was. The canvas was ten feet tall, making the figures in it life-size. The other thing you don’t see in the books is the frame, an ornate, sturdy, gilt thing that was like a throne. A foot wide itself, it made the whole painting almost as tall as the ceiling in the gallery.

  Looking at it, I could imagine the painter so struck by the beauty of the women in his life that he was transfixed, and he painted this subject of the transfixed king who has set his lance aside and taken off his helm so that he can gaze unabashedly at the beauty before him. And that’s the experience that I had seeing the painting, as did others there in the gallery. Some had to sit down, like the king, so they could keep looking without distraction. Eventually I sat down, too, on the low bench in the center of the room, which put me somewhat far from the painting, but the pull of it was no less powerful for being farther away.

  Amazing.

  “Quite a sight,” said a voice to my left.

  “Oh! Tristan!” I was startled. “How long have you been sitting there?”

  “A few minutes,” he said with a big grin. “But that’s all right. The view is quite engaging!”

  “Hah.” I got the feeling he had been staring at me instead of the paintings, but his flirting didn’t bother me. He seemed genuinely nice.

  “You’ve been in here for hours,” he said. “Fancy some lunch? I’ll buy.”

  As soon as he mentioned food, the breakfast I had eaten at the hotel seemed very long ago. “I could eat.”

  “Come on, then. Gift shop first, though.”

  Through the doors we came out of the exhibition and into the special gift shop dedicated to the pre-Raphaelites. I didn’t need a Rossetti refrigerator magnet or a scarf with a pattern of the flowers from one of the paintings, but Tristan marched up to the counter with a copy of the exhibition’s catalog, saying something to the cashiers about how Mr. Martindale had approved him taking one for me and being very self-important about it. The two cashiers never said a word. One was older and she gave him a skeptical look, while the younger one giggled a little.

  Tristan handed the catalog to me as we walked through the museum’s hallways. “Here you go. You’ll be needing that,” he said. He led me to a different exit from the one I had come in through.

  The book was quite heavy even though it was the paperback edition. I held it to my chest as we walked to the doorway.

  “Oh! I left my umbrella at the other entrance,” I said, as soon as I realized it was missing.

  “No matter. It’s barely a drizzle and we’re not going far,” he said.

  “I don’t think I should get this wet, though.” I held up the glossy art book.

  “Ah, yes. You may be right. Hmm. Well.” He took off his jacket and held it by the shoulders. “Will this do, then?”

  “Oh, Tristan, you don’t have to—”

  “Sure, I do. Come on.” He stepped out and I followed him. I ducked my head and hid the book against my chest as best I could, and we half-walked, half-ran to a café I had passed on my way from the Underground. It started to shower a bit harder moments before we reached the door, and we hurried inside, a bit breathless.

  We got a table near the back, away from the door, and I glanced at the menu. It didn’t look all that different from a lot of cafés in New York. Soup, sandwiches, and some hot entrées. “Ooh, shepherd’s pie. I love that.”

  “You’re not going to have a sandwich?” he asked, puzzled.

  “I’m in England, I want to eat
something English,” I said. “Is that so strange?”

  “It’s just that I’d always heard Americans loved sandwiches.” He rubbed his chin. “And I thought you might like to go somewhere that would remind you of home.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet, Tristan. But I really do think I’ll have the shepherd’s pie. Or maybe the Cornish pasty?” I pronounced it like “pastry” but without the “r.”

  “That’s pass-tee,” he said, correcting me. “It’s the English version of the em-pana-dana.”

  Now he really was making me laugh. “That’s empa-nah-da,” I said, correcting him back.

  “Ah, well, I never was any good at Spanish. I had to play Don Quixote in a school play once. Talk about a complete debacle.” He closed his menu. “Well, I am going to get a sandwich myself.” He waved to get the waitress’s attention.

  We placed our orders and then went back to small talk, which Tristan was a champion at. The weather, things to see in London, movies—he had a seemingly endless supply of topics to chat about. The shepherd’s pie was very tasty.

  I paged through the catalog a little while he visited the men’s room. Having now seen the paintings in real life, I thought the photos looked flat and lifeless.

  We made our way back to the museum together, but he went quickly back to work, while I headed to the exhibit for another look. I’d soon be leading tours, I reminded myself.

  I got caught up in staring at the paintings of Burne-Jones again. One series of his was of Perseus and Andromeda. Was Perseus’s armor the same as Cophetua’s? Both appeared to be made from layers of black leather with spikes and swoops on it, fanciful and not at all historically accurate. That made me wonder.

  Fortunately I didn’t stare at the art so long that I was late to tea, though it was close. Martindale saved me by showing up with my employee badge.