Vivian braced herself and reached into her portfolio. She took out the last picture and put it on the table. It was the first in her new series of experimental photographs.
Fenella’s face tightened. Her bony shoulders tensed. Her eyes narrowed. For a long moment she stared at the picture. Vivian told herself that might be a good sign.
“It’s the first in a series of limited editions,” she ventured. “I’m calling it Men.”
When Fenella did not reply, just continued to gaze, transfixed, at the picture, Vivian took the risk of opening her inner vision a little, just enough to get some notion of what to expect.
The back room of the gallery and everything in it blurred as she focused on Fenella. She caught a fleeting glimpse of energy shivering around the other woman. It was the color of a hot sunset on the eve of a violent storm. Rage.
Stunned, Vivian hastily shut down her sixth sense and gripped the edge of the table for support. Her pulse was skittering and she was breathing too quickly. She had been braced for a dismissive rejection but not for red-hot anger.
This was the problem with using her other vision outside the controlled environment of her studio. Glimpsing the raw energy of someone else’s emotions was always unnerving.
Well, at least she now knew for certain that she would not be launching a career in art photography at the Penfield Gallery.
“You can’t be serious,” Fenella said at last. Anger and disgust etched each word. She flipped the picture of a nude male figure aside. “This is nothing short of pornography. They sell pictures like this from behind the counter in cheap magazine shops. Really, I am extremely disappointed, Miss Brazier. I have an opening in my upcoming exhibition. I thought I might be able to fit in one of your photographs but obviously that’s not possible.”
“Sorry to waste your time,” Vivian said.
She started to gather up the prints.
A salesclerk appeared in the doorway. She was elegant and refined in a prim black suit. As far as Vivian had been able to determine, every member of Fenella’s staff came from the same mold. Male or female, they were all elegant and refined. They all wore formal black suits.
“Yes, Miss Curry,” Fenella said. “What is it?”
“I apologize for interrupting you, Miss Penfield, but Mr. Deverell is here.”
Fenella frowned. “He doesn’t have an appointment.”
“No,” Miss Curry said. “But he insists upon seeing you. He says it’s about the Winston Bancroft photograph, the one from Bancroft’s Woman in the Window series. He’s decided that he wants to acquire it for his collection, after all.”
Fenella shook her head. “Collectors. They can be so difficult. Very well, Miss Curry. Ask him to wait in my office. I’ll be there in a moment.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The clerk vanished.
Fenella looked at Vivian. “Morris Deverell is one of my best clients. He is obsessed with art photography.”
“Photographs in the pictorial style, I take it,” Vivian said. She did not bother to conceal her disapproval. “That’s Winston Bancroft’s style. He does mostly nude female figures, I might add.”
“Bancroft’s nudes are art, not porn.”
“Just because he doctors his photographs in an effort to make them resemble paintings doesn’t make his pictures art. No matter what he does he can’t make a photograph an abstract painting. In any case, what’s the point of trying to imitate another kind of art?”
Fenella gave her a stern look. “You would do well to study Bancroft’s work, Miss Brazier. At least some museums and galleries such as mine are willing to hang works from the pictorial school of photography. I’m afraid the modernist style is doomed to fail.” She smiled coldly. “When all is said and done it is nothing more than a form of journalism, isn’t it?”
Vivian’s mouth went dry. If Fenella Penfield had learned of her newspaper work, her career was truly doomed. Still . . . Fenella had not actually accused her of debasing her art by doing photojournalism. Fenella was not exactly the subtle type. If she did know the truth or if she had heard rumors, she would not have asked Vivian to show her some work.
Would she?
Not that it mattered now. Fenella had just accused her of doing pornography. That was probably lower than news photography on the respectability scale.
A figure loomed in the doorway of the back room, a man this time. He was in his mid-thirties, tall, slender, attractive in a distinguished sort of way, and athletically built. From his sleekly oiled hair to his well-cut blue blazer, expertly knotted tie, and neatly creased and cuffed trousers he was the picture of upper-class sophistication. He looked like the sort of man who played polo and golf in his spare time.
He had a folded newspaper tucked under one arm.
“Well, well, well,” he said in a voice that managed to combine amused curiosity with just the right edge of ennui. “What do we have here? An artist, I suspect. The scarf is a nice touch, if I may say so. It adds a certain, shall we say, flair?”
“Mr. Deverell,” Fenella said. “I wasn’t expecting you this afternoon.”
“I happened to be driving past the gallery and decided to pop in to see if the Bancroft was still available. I’m told it is.”
“Yes, it is,” Fenella said. “I asked Miss Curry to show you to my office.”
“Don’t blame your clerk,” Morris said. “When I heard that you were talking to an artist I couldn’t resist having a look for myself. I find artists fascinating.”
Fenella hesitated. Vivian got the impression that she did not particularly want to make the appropriate introductions but it was obvious she had no alternative.
“This is Miss Brazier,” Fenella said. “She’s a photographer. Miss Brazier, Mr. Deverell. He’s an avid collector of fine art photography. The pictorial tradition.”
“Miss Brazier is a photographer?” Morris’s eyes glittered. “What a coincidence.”
“I beg your pardon?” Vivian said.
“Under the circumstances, meeting you gives me a bit of a cold chill. A rather exciting cold chill but a chill nonetheless.”
Vivian stared at him. And then she looked at Fenella, seeking guidance. Collectors were known to be an eccentric lot. She had met a few, mostly wealthy acquaintances of her parents, but the feverish excitement in Morris’s eyes and his strange comment indicated that eccentric might not be a strong enough word to describe him. Mentally unstable would be more accurate.
Even Fenella, notoriously unflappable and believed to have ice in her veins, looked a little wary.