Out of the Darkness Page 3

  About three weeks after the drug fatality, I went to the opening of a photography exhibition at an uptown gallery on Madison Avenue. The gallery was featuring Chad Baker, a well-known photographer recommended by a fashion photographer I sometimes worked with.

  I arrived at about nine, two hours after it had opened, and a lot of champagne had been consumed by then. I hated going to places too early. For a start, with a face as well-known as mine, people tended to zero in on me when they were sober. But after a few glasses of bubbly they ceased to care who was in the melee alongside them. Unlike many other celebrities (and how I hated that word) I refused to employ 'people'—assistants, security, hangers on, and the like. Sure, I had a PR company and the modelling agency, which handled contracts and publicity, but I kept them at arm's length.

  Some people thought I was crazy, going out without a minder, but I found that having people with you drew attention to yourself more than if you travelled alone. Most people only saw the glamorized, expensively dressed and coiffured person who appeared in the magazine or on the billboard. I was able to change my look sufficiently that many people did not even realize who I was. The danger was when one eagle-eyed person spotted me, alerted all the rest, and created a stampede.

  Fortunately, that didn't happen too often.

  I grabbed a glass of champagne as soon as I arrived and began to wander around the gallery, looking at the photographs. Most people, by this time, had looked at them and were now concentrating on the drinks and chatting in small groups. Good. I preferred looking at them without being constantly jostled.

  The exhibition was a retrospective of a number of years' work by the world-famous photographer, about whom I had heard but had never met. I had heard that Chad Baker was quite reclusive and rarely appeared in public, so I was not expecting to meet him at the gallery.

  The photographs were at times raw, shocking, thought provoking, and sometimes amusing. He covered a multitude of subjects—men, women, children, and sometimes just objects and landscapes. I was fascinated by them, and so engrossed that I didn't notice a woman eyeing me from a few feet away until she shrieked at the top of her voice, "Oh, my God, it's Marianne Delaney."

  Suddenly, almost every pair of eyes in the room were zeroing in on me. The cool people pretended not to hear, or that they had no idea who I was, but many of the others, uninhibited by several glasses of champagne, began to move towards me, trying to chat to me as though they were my new best friend, or asking me to sign their programs. Pretty soon I had a dozen people around me. I felt hemmed in and embarrassed for the exhibition organizers, who didn’t deserve such a distraction. Perhaps it was time I went? But which way to go? I didn’t want to run down Madison Avenue with a crowd of people giving chase.

  I was just about to make a dash for it when a hand firmly clamped on to mine and pulled me forcefully through a nearby door, which was then shut behind us, leaving the baying crowd— thankfully—on the other side. I looked to see who my rescuer was and came face to face with a rather scruffy man of about mid-forties, with tousled brown hair that was starting to turn grey, and a weather-beaten face that looked as though he spent a lot of time outdoors. He was wearing an un-ironed check shirt and jeans. I wondered if I’d fallen out of the frying pan and into the fire. Perhaps this guy was the mad janitor, who was kidnapping me for his own evil purposes?

  I must have looked a little concerned, because his face broke into a broad smile.

  "It's okay. My intentions are honorable. I just thought you needed rescuing from the mob."

  I relaxed. The man looked benign, although I detected a slight glint in his eye. But over the years of modelling I had seen that look many times—friendly, but eyeing me up and trying to figure out if the rest of me was as good as the outside. I truly wasn't a vain woman. Fate had given me certain advantages in the looks department but, when staring at myself in the mirror, I didn't always see myself as anything special. I was lucky, I guess, in having high cheekbones and good skin, but the rest of me seemed pretty ordinary as far as I was concerned. I smiled apologetically at the man.

  "Sorry, I deliberately came late to avoid that sort of reception. And I was just beginning to enjoy the exhibition. There are some fabulous pictures and I only got to see half of them. I’ll have to try to come back another time. I hope the organizers aren't too pissed at me for causing a riot in the middle of their event."

  The man gave an amused smile. "I'm sure they’ll survive. You'd better not go back inside. Why don't we skip out through the fire escape? There's a quiet bar a couple of blocks away. I could do with a drink and I bet you could, too."

  I looked at him for a second. He had a trustworthy face and I could do with a drink. "Sure, why not? Lead the way."

  We slipped out into an alley and looked around to see if the escape was likely to be spotted from within the gallery. Seeing the coast was clear, we began to walk briskly away. It took just five minutes before we came to the bar. It was just an everyday place, nothing fancy, and had just a handful of people drinking their beers. A couple of men looked at me as we came in from the street, but a glare from my companion convinced them to stay away.

  He led me to the back of the bar and a dark corner. A woman came up to us. She obviously knew the man.

  "Two beers, Elsa." He turned to face me. "That okay with you?" I nodded my agreement.

  The woman smiled and turned away. "Sure thing, Chad."

  He looked at me and laughed as the realization passed over my face. I had dragged the photographer away from his own exhibition. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize…"

  "No problem. I was getting sick of all the glad-handing anyway. You just gave me an excuse to leave. And you are, of course, the world-famous model, Marianne Delaney. I'm not a fashion photographer, but it would be hard not to notice your face looking down at me from every billboard around at the moment."

  "Sorry, yes, I have been doing the perfume ad. People must be so sick of seeing my face."

  "Well if I had to look at one face all day long, I guess it's no great hardship if it happens to be yours," Chad said, a smile on his lips.

  "But you are clearly well-known too, and I feel bad that I didn't even know your name or recognize your face. You must think I lead a very shallow existence."

  "Well that's mainly due to me, so don't feel bad about it. I avoid the limelight like the plague. The gallery owners had to threaten extreme torture to get me to come to their opening night. I bet the majority of people at the gallery hadn't the faintest idea who I was. Most of them come for the free champagne, I expect."

  I was surprised at his answer. "So you don't enjoy fame any more than I do then?"

  "I guess not. But I do have the advantage over you that I have an ugly and extremely forgettable face." He smiled at me and his smile lit up his face.

  "Far from it," I assured him. "You have a face with character, and when you smile, you look quite handsome. Anyway, my mother always told me that 'Handsome is as handsome does.' You rescuing me tonight puts you in the Prince Charming category."

  "Well, I've been called many things in my lifetime, but it's a first for Prince Charming. But I take compliments any way I can get them, so thank you, and you’re welcome. About the rescue, I mean. You ready for another beer?"

  I nodded. "Yes, but I insist on buying them. It's the least I can do under the circumstances. You don't sound American, by the way. Is that a London accent I detect?"

  He smiled. "Glad to know I haven't lost it completely, even if I’ve been here for over fifteen years. I was brought up in Finsbury Park, North London. But it’s twenty-five years since I last walked down the Seven Sisters Road."

  I returned his grin. "We were practically neighbors then. I was brought up at Manor House, just up the road. Although, I have to say that you left Finsbury Park before I was even born."

  "You really know how to flatter a guy, don't you," he said dryly. "Let him know how ancient he is when he is in the presence of probably one of the most desi
rable women in New York right now."

  I laughed. "Oh, I don't buy into all that crap. I'm the face of the moment. Pretty soon, there will be a younger and prettier girl to take my place. Then someone will spot me and see a couple of wrinkles on my face and say, 'Didn’t that used to be Marianne Delaney? Boy, she sure has let herself go, hasn't she?'"

  "So cynical, so young," Chad said, a wide grin crossing his face. "So what do you plan to do with the rest of your life, when all this is over?"

  "I thought I might try your side of the camera for a change, and take up photography. Got any tips?"

  "Only one: don't do it. Every Joe with a digital camera fancies himself as a photographer now. You'll never make any money at it." He smiled at me, somehow emphasizing his statement.

  "Well, hopefully I'll be able to save some of the money I'm making now and I won't need to worry too much about making a living at it," I explained. After being the subject of so many cameras, being on the other side of one fascinated me.

  Chad seemed to accept that answer simply enough. "I’d be happy to take you out sometime, and give you some pointers."

  A grin of genuine pleasure spread across my face. "Thanks, I’d really like that." I wasn't just saying it. I’d only known this man an hour or so, and yet I felt so comfortable with him already. He was honest and straight, and he wasn't even hitting on me… yet. I had become so used to men's chat up lines that I thought I’d heard them all.

  Chad looked at his watch. "The gallery will be closed now, and the people all gone. How would you like to walk back and have a private viewing, seeing as how you were so rudely interrupted before? Unless, of course, you have an early start in the morning."

  I grinned as I shook my head. "No, I'm between jobs at the moment, and yes, that would be great."

  We walked back to the gallery and, sure enough, the place was deserted, although the lights were still on. An older woman was cleaning up the remains of the canapés and the discarded programs.

  Chad stopped abruptly. "Let's start here. The shots are placed chronologically and these are the oldest. The current exhibition has material from the last ten years. As you can see, I don't do these things very often. Ask me anything you like as we go around."

  "Tell me where they were taken and what you saw in the subject when you were taking them," I said.

  "This was a fisherman I saw on the beach in West Africa," Chad said. He rocked back on his heels a bit, pulling up his memory. "I was there on an assignment for a magazine and had taken the shots I wanted, so I went for a walk on the beach. This man was probably about sixty, but he looked older because of the life he’d lived. He was too old to go to sea by then, but he told me he had no family to take care of him so he mended fishing nets for a living. It paid peanuts, just enough to keep him alive probably, but he took such pride in his work, as though he was sewing a church tapestry. The pride in his work came through in his eyes, and when he completed a section, he insisted on showing me how neatly he had mended the tear. You can see the satisfaction in his face, can't you?"

  And truly, I could.

  We walked past endless shots from the many countries and cultures that Chad had visited over the last ten years, and he kept up a fascinating description of his work. Some of the pictures were incredibly moving, while others were stunning in their simplicity. I wished that I could produce something as meaningful as that, rather than being paid a lot of money to stand around and wear expensive clothing—or wearing very little, when the occasion demanded. But when I told Chad this, he dismissed my self-deprecation.

  "Don't knock what you do. You act out a beautiful dream for the man or woman looking at your performance, but you don’t use words or movement like conventional actors. Your job is much harder. You have to convey the dream by a single look, a single pose—silent acting. Not many people can do that. Also, beauty is important in a world that is often ugly and cruel. It helps us to forget the ugliness, at least for a while."

  I’d never thought of what I did like that. It had always seemed a little trivial and shallow when compared with other professions.

  We came to a group of four photographs of a nude woman. She wasn't very young— probably around forty—but she was beautiful and very sensual. The photographs were black and white, with a mixture of light and shade. I knew, without any doubt, that the woman was, or had been, his lover. She looked at the camera, or more likely, the man behind the camera, with such love it almost radiated out of the picture.

  But there was another powerful message coming from the pictures, one that not everyone might pick up on. The woman was his submissive. I was certain about that. I turned to look at Chad's face as he looked at the pictures and, almost without thinking, I whispered to him.

  "You were her Master."

  There was a short pause and I wondered if I had made a giant error of judgement.

  He turned to look at me. "Yes, you are very perceptive. Not many people see that."

  "She loves you very much. I can see that, too. Are you still together," I asked.

  He released a slow breath. "Sadly, no. We were together for ten years and I took those pictures the year before she died. She asked me to."

  His reply was so sad that I couldn't help my eyes filling up with tears, and instinctively I lightly touched his arm. I didn't know what to say. Everything that came to mind was trite or invasive of the privacy of a man I had barely known for two hours, but felt as though I had known for much longer. "I'm so sorry."

  There was a moment's silence between us as we both looked at the woman in the pictures. Slowly Chad spoke, without looking at me directly. "She had breast cancer and she wanted me to take the photographs before she had surgery, so she could remember…"

  He paused for several seconds, and then continued to talk. "She had the surgery and the chemo, but it was too late. She died eleven months later, three years ago this month. Her name was Naomi."

  I was so touched that he had shared this with me, but it was getting late and I felt that I had taken up too much of Chad's time. "I should go, but I want to thank you so much for bringing me back here and showing me the pictures, especially of Naomi. I feel very privileged to have been able to have you guide me around… and rescuing me, of course."

  I put out my hand to shake his, but instead of shaking it conventionally, he took my hand in both of his and bent forward to kiss me on the cheek.

  "I'm very glad to have met you Marianne, and it was my privilege to rescue you from the baying hordes. Perhaps we can meet for dinner one night, although I am sure that you will have half of New York pestering you for dinner dates, a lovely woman like you."

  I thought of my little apartment and the fact that, partly through choice and partly through circumstance, I had not had a single visitor since moving in. "Well, contrary to what many people imagine, my life is not one long party. The nice guys are frightened to ask me out because they think there would be too much competition, and the ones who do are often slimeballs who just want an arm accessory to impress their friends. So actually, I would love to go out for dinner with you."

  His face lit up with that wonderful smile of his, and we exchanged cell phone numbers and arranged to meet in two days at a small restaurant in the Village.

  Chapter 3

  Chad stood to greet me two days later at the restaurant and kissed me on one cheek. It was obvious that he had made an effort to look a little smarter than when we last met. He was still wearing jeans, but his shirt looked as though it had been ironed this time, and he had on a dark jacket. He moved to pull out a chair for me. "You look lovely, as usual."

  "Thank you. You’re looking good yourself."

  He chuckled. "Yes, I managed to persuade the woman in the apartment next door to iron my shirt. I'm afraid I don't own an iron."

  We talked all through the meal, barely stopping to eat, and before I knew it, three hours had passed. Chad had such a wonderfully deep and resonating voice that sometimes sent shivers down my spine from its
sheer tone. This man awoke parts of me that had been dormant for a long time, and I already knew that I wanted his big, strong arms around me and, hopefully, his hands contacting with my bottom. I was nervous, however, after my experience with Leon, even though Chad had absolutely none of the menacing tones of the French man. I’d come to realize that the desire to be someone’s submissive, if only in the bedroom, was a feeling I could no longer deny. I hoped that Chad would recognize this part of me and help to fill my need.

  At the end of the meal, Chad reached over and slid his arm gently along mine, and I immediately responded with goose bumps. I was sure that he had noticed my response, but he didn’t mention it.

  "I’ve had a wonderful evening, but I don't want it to end. I live quite near here. Would you like to come back with me?" he said.

  I hesitated. The memory of the panic I felt when Leon tied me down and began to beat me, exploiting my inexperience so savagely, suddenly came to the surface.

  Chad noticed my change of expression and took both of my hands in his. "It's okay, Marianne. I can wait. Let me walk you home."

  I nodded, feeling suddenly foolish, but Chad lifted my hand and kissed the back of it. "You don't have to apologize or explain anything. Come," he assured me.

  We walked down Cornelia Street, where the restaurants were still full of people laughing and chatting and headed for the Avenue of the Americas. Chad put his arm lightly over my shoulder and I wanted desperately to lean into his strong body and feel his warmth seeping into mine. I wanted to give up control and have him take care of me. I had been looking after myself for such a long time. Since I was a child, in fact. My family background hadn’t exactly been ideal, and I had a lot of unresolved issues from that time.