BY CAROL LEWIS-POWELL
Copyright is held by the author.
HE WAS magnificent.
The gallery had spot lit him from above. The light created subtle shadows, which highlighted his life-sized toned body. It seemed to caress him, a lover delicately tracing the lines of his face, stroking the curve of his muscles, caressing his chest. He was a conquering hero, a mythical god brought to life. A study in bronze, burnished to a deep glow. The exhibition was a triumph, and he was the centrepiece.
Alice observed the chattering room. She held her glass of warm wine so tightly that it threatened to shatter into a hundred shards of bitterness and hatred. Her hair tumbled down her shoulders in a cascade of untidy curls, her dress clung to her slight frame, black velvet which suited her mood of mourning. Between her breasts nestled the onyx pendant Roland had given her, a cold and hard memory against her clammy skin.
Catherine worked the room. Her laughter, like a breeze, caught in a chandelier as she accepted sycophantic praise. Red dots already decorated several of her sculptures. Blood red accolades. Except for him. He was not for sale.
Alice made her way through the crowd to the centre of the room. There was an odd sense of quietude there, as if she had stepped into another world, a door closing on the babble of the gallery. The likeness was astonishing. He stood, legs astride. Bold and confident of his looks and strength.
She circled the plinth and drank in the detail. Every line etched on his face was as delicate as a painting. It was as if the real Roland stood before her in all his glory. Unlike the other pieces created in stone and clay, the sheen of his creation glowed. She reached out and trailed her fingertips along his thigh. It felt warm to her touch. She almost expected to hear a heartbeat, for words of endearments to form in his mouth, for his hand to reach out and caress her cheek.
Catherine, on the far side of the room, watched Alice and smiled. She saw her running Alice fingers along his torso as she circled him. He was the finest piece of Catherine’s career. She had accepted extravagant praise by the critics and refused eye-watering offers from patrons and collectors. He belonged only to her. Forever.
As she made her way across the room, the sea of faces blurring into the scent of perfume and air kisses, she continued to watch Alice. Pretty in a schoolgirl way, wearing a sombre dress that your average receptionist could only aspire to. Catherine stood in front of the sculpture and waited.
The sight of Catherine made Alice shrink into herself, as though by becoming smaller she might go unobserved. The tension between them was palatable. It tasted of bitter fruit and hatred. And fear. Catherine stood six feet to Alice’s five. Her arms and legs were thick with muscle from years of subduing materials to her wishes. Goliath and David. This time, David would not be the victor.
Around them, the vacuous laughter and the clink of glassware continued. Inside their space, it was quiet and time stood still. Alice gathered the long fabric of her dress and crushed it in her hand, drawing it across her body.
“He’s magnificent.”
Catherine paused for a moment and considered her reply. “He’s mine.” She smiled, displaying small, sharp teeth.
“He loved me.”
“No, he fucked you.”
Alice could no longer hold Catherine’s gaze. She looked down at the floor, a child caught with stolen sweets. She remembered the summer nights of lovemaking, his tender touch, the smell of his skin, falling asleep in a tangle of limbs. Windows open to catch the bouquet of pollen carried in the stream of early morning sunlight.
Catherine stepped forward until Alice felt there was not enough air left for her to breathe. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. Despite the heat of the room, she felt ice cold and shook. Wine from her glass splattered on the floor, leaving a stain that resembled urine. She dropped the glass, and the room paused briefly. Catherine did not move.
She watched Alice try to cross the room to the exit. It was crowded and Alice kept knocking into other people. More spilt wine. She could hear her soft, girlish voice mumbling apologies that sounded tearful. To Catherine, it appeared that she made it across the room in a few minutes. To Alice, it felt like a lifetime.
The door to the gallery swung shut, leaving behind a welcome rush of cool damp air from the evening’s rain. Men were a cliché of fools, and Catherine thought Roland had been a fully paid member of that coterie. Turning back to the statue, she took the same circular path around the plinth as Alice had done. It really was her finest piece. Despite the size and weight, she had done this without her assistant. The seams of the cast were invisible, so the sculpture looked like a single creation rather than one of two halves. He was magnificent.
Catherine sniffed. No smell of decomposition. Faithless Roland. Faithless lover. Forever entombed in his bronze sarcophagus, he would stray no more.
***
Carol lives in Kent, U.K., and her work has appeared in MetaStellar, Flame Tree Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine and Witcraft.