Expecting His Love-Child. Carol Marinelli

awareness.

      ‘That one.’ Millie pointed to a tiny oil painting with a shaking hand, wondering what his take would be. It was a field of flowers and grass, every blade smiling, every flower wearing a different expression, and in the middle was a wooden child bearing no features—it was quite simply her favourite piece, evoking for Millie such emotion and memory that it would truly break her heart if it ever did sell. Yet it was the one she had hoped would launch her career.

      ‘Were you on drugs when you painted this?’

      ‘No.’ Millie let out a little laugh, not just at the question but at the pronunciation. His English, though excellent, was laced with a heavy dash of fabulous accent, and that he could make such an offensive remark sound somehow sexy was certainly a credit to him.

      She glanced over at him. His face was at the window, and he was peering at her work with a frown. For an artist it was actually a compliment—someone trying to fathom her work, instead of a brief, cursory glance and then on to the next one.

      ‘My brother’s autistic—when I was younger I remember the doctor explaining to me that the reason he didn’t cuddle or kiss or show affection was because of the way he saw the world. The clouds, the trees, the grass and animals were in his eyes just as important as us—to him, people were the inanimate objects. That’s me.’ She pointed to the frozen lifeless object in the middle, waited for his comment. For an age it didn’t come. He was looking, really looking, at her picture.

      ‘I knew a child once—he screamed if he had to go to bed. Not just screamed…’ Slate eyes turned to hers and Millie was lost. ‘Every night it was as if he was terrified. Do you think to him the bed was real? That perhaps he thought he would hurt it…?’

      ‘Maybe.’ Millie was flustered, wondering who he was referring to, wanting to know more. But it didn’t matter anyway. The fact that her work had provoked such thought, a memory, such a question, was reward enough in itself. ‘I don’t know, but I guess it’s possible.’

      ‘And may I ask the name of the artist?’

      ‘You may. It’s Millie.’ She smiled. ‘Millie Andrews.’

      ‘Your accent?’ He frowned just as Millie had when trying to place his. ‘England? London?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘Are you here on holiday?’

      ‘A working holiday…’ Millie gave a rueful smile. ‘I go home tomorrow.’

      ‘Shame.’

      She’d been flirted with on many occasions, but never so blatantly and never by anyone so divine.

      ‘Millie?’ He pondered on her name for a moment. ‘I am not familiar with that. Is it short for something?’

      ‘Do we have to go there?’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Millicent.’ She winced. ‘My parents must have been—’ She didn’t get to finish. Anton was frantically waving in recognition as he came to the window, gesturing for her to come inside. It would have been rude to say no, to shake her head and carry on this delicious conversation. So, extremely reluctantly, she turned to bid Levander goodnight.

      Clearly he had other ideas. As the door opened, instead of walking away, instead of concluding their time together, he blatantly extended it, moving to the door, then stepping back to allow her to go first, his hand taking her elbow. It wasn’t just his boldness that startled Millie but the contact itself—the firm, warm, incredibly male contact that had her more flustered than she cared, or rather dared to admit.

      ‘Ready for the off?’ Anton’s effeminate voice rang out as he scooped her into a hug, but it lasted about point three of a second. He dropped her like a hot coal as he clapped eyes on her companion.

      ‘My, my, Millie. And I thought you were supposed to be working tonight.’

      ‘I—I am.’ Millie stammered. ‘I was. Anton, this is…’

      ‘I know who it is.’ Anton beamed. ‘Welcome, welcome, Levander—and may I say I just love your new range?’

      ‘It is not my range.’ Levander smiled tightly. ‘I deal with the business, not the fashion.’

      ‘Well, I adore it anyway,’ Anton gushed, but Levander wasn’t listening. Instead he wandered around the gallery, squinting as he peered closely at the paintings, some holding his attention, others barely meriting a cursory glance.

      ‘Do you know him?’ Millie whispered, which was more than a touch rude, but she just had to know more about him.

      ‘Everyone knows who the Kolovskys are.’

      ‘I mean do you know him?’

      ‘I wish,’ Anton sighed. ‘The boutique may be a couple of doors down from me—but the Kolovskys are a million miles away. I did used to talk to the twins, though…’ Anton smiled at her frown. ‘They’re just as gorgeous. Millie have you any idea who you’re dealing with? They’re practically royalty here,’ Anton breathed, ‘and your beau tonight is first in line.’

      His voice trailed off as Levander made his way back to them, and Anton spectacularly saved the rather awkward moment, rolling his eyes dramatically at Levander. ‘I’m scolding Millie for even considering being seen with you in her waitress garb. Mind you, perhaps it’s just as well—I assume you’ve seen her when she’s not working?’

      ‘Not yet.’ Levander turned and gave Millie a slow, lingering look, unashamedly undressing her with his eyes for an indecent amount of time as she stood there squirming. Not even turning back to Anton, he carried on talking. ‘But I am very much looking forward to it.’

      ‘Well, don’t get too excited,’ Anton sighed. ‘Millie has no end of paint-splattered shorts and T-shirts, but not much else.’

      ‘I see you have only one of Millie’s paintings in the window—while other artists there have two.’

      ‘The other artists have sold.’ Anton held his palms up to the air in a helpless gesture. ‘Actually, Millie, darling…’He gave a little wince. ‘I’m not going to take you out of the gallery, but space is at a premium, and with this new exhibition I’m going to have to move—’

      ‘You have more of Millie’s work?’ Levander interrupted. ‘I would like to see it if I may.’

      ‘Of course.’ Anton gave Millie a wide-eyed look as he gestured him to the back of the gallery, to the tiny piece of wall that—for now at least—displayed her work.

      ‘Your price is too low…’ Levander ran a quick eye through Millie’s bio and gave a shake of his head. ‘And you come across too needy—too grateful that anyone should even stop to look at your work, let alone buy it. You need to raise your price.’

      ‘It was higher,’ Millie answered, ‘and I still didn’t sell.’

      ‘This is an exclusive gallery—yes?’ Levander waited for Anton’s hesitant nod. ‘People do not want rubbish on their walls—and at this price that is what they think they are buying.’

      ‘She’s an unknown.’ Anton’s bubbly demeanour dimmed a touch as his judgement was challenged, but Levander held firm.

      ‘Today she is unknown.’ He turned to Millie. ‘Change it before you leave. Rewrite your bio…’ He turned the page. ‘Each painting is now the cost of your air ticket—the price you paid to share your talent.’

      ‘It won’t work…’

      ‘So you have lost nothing. And she should have at least two in the window…’

      ‘Levander…’ Anton was blushing, flirting, and trying to be assertive all at the same time. ‘Millie’s already had three months on display in the window. I simply cannot—’

      ‘When