Chapter Thirty-One
As Isobel returned from the bathroom she stopped to chat with one of Ryan’s friends and would have been content to stay there, had she not been tempted by the selection of desserts on offer. A smiling server came to attend her as she mulled her options, the healthy fruit versus the decadent chocolate. She compromised, choosing the pecan pie, then weakened and agreed to a topping of double whipped cream. She accepted enough for two, intending to share, but found herself dallying, nibbling at the pie as she looked down on the pool area.
She scanned around for Ryan and found him sitting on the lounger with his phone to his ear, one hand behind his head. Mel lay sunbathing on the next lounger, prostrate and shameless, her body angled in Ryan’s direction with her head propped up on one hand and her leg bent at the knee. Her bikini top lay beside the lounger and her surgically augmented breasts stood up like two solid brown sand castles on which had been painted contrasting white triangles. Temper rose up in Isobel and she steeled herself for confrontation, not sure who to tackle first, the brazen Mel, or her infuriatingly laid back boyfriend. A voice came from behind, startling her.
“They say a woman should not eat alone and a man not drink alone.”
She swivelled round to find Victor, holding two flutes. She forced a smile. “Thank you, but my hands are rather full.”
“Then let me help you.” He took the plate and fork from her and offered her a glass. “I apologise for being a poor host and neglecting you.”
“Not at all, you have plenty of guests to look after.”
“But none as charming and mysterious as you, Isobel. You must tell me more about your work as an artist. Come, let us move to the veranda, out of the sun.”
She gave a final glance in the direction of the loungers. Mel had turned away from Ryan, her arm across her breasts in token modesty; she could not be sure from the distance, but as best she could tell, Ryan was about to apply sun cream to her shoulders.
Victor touched her elbow and guided her away through the guests and toward the main building. A few heads turned to watch them go. “I believe as well as painting you also work in a gallery?”
“You seem to know quite a lot about me.”
“Only what Ryan has told me. Which in truth is very little. Please, do not be bashful.”
“Perhaps he’s told you little because he hadn’t much to tell. I’m spending most of my spare time painting and I help out now and again in a gallery in Coronado. I’m interested in most art but could hardly yet count myself as an artist.”
“But it’s your desire to build a career in the world of art, here in California?”
“Perhaps. I can’t go out and design a tractor or build a bridge. Art is where I started out, some might say it’s all I know.”
“And so it is natural you should think of returning to it, now you are free to do as you please.”
Victor’s interest in her and her work warmed her mood.
“I’m not sure any of us is that free, except perhaps you, Victor.”
“Everyone must answer to someone, even if it is only the Almighty.” He took her elbow and guided her through the open French windows into the house.
“Perhaps I can ask a few minutes of your time, Isobel. I would value your opinion on my modest art collection, though an expert like yourself might not consider it so. I’m afraid I know nothing of art, yet I’m obliged to fill my home with objects that suggest I do.”
Isobel gave consent with a smile and followed him, trying to shake off her unease as he led her deeper into the house.
“I think I should be getting back to Ryan,” she said tentatively, “He’ll be wondering where I am.”
“He has many distractions around the pool to occupy him, I believe. And what better support can you give him than to convince me of his good judgement? Please, it is rare that I have such an opportunity to show off my collection to someone who might appreciate it.”
“Why do you collect art if you don’t appreciate it?” she said, resigning herself to the fawning role he expected her to play and which, she had no doubt, Ryan would want her to play.
“Perhaps because I am acquisitive by nature. You could give me all the Picasso and Dali paintings in the world and I would still want to buy up the Miros. But also because I like things of beauty.”
“Then perhaps you appreciate art more than you give yourself credit for.”
“It is good of you to say so. But for me it is an investment rather than an enjoyment and in that I am guided by the opinion of others, of people who are more interested in their commission than in things of beauty.”
They had arrived at the centre of the mansion, beneath a circular wall that surrounded the glass and chrome spiral staircase. The walls were cluttered with pictures of different styles and sizes, all competing for space and attention.
“You have eclectic tastes,” she said, struggling to find a positive to summarise the pastiche around her.
“You think it is too diverse, that there is no consistency, no theme?”
“Perhaps that’s its strength.”
“Please, I have others that might be more to your taste.” He took her arm and led her up the spiral staircase, adorned with what looked like family portraits. Additional paintings covered the circular wall on the floor above, though with greater thought to consistency, mostly works of modern art. She stopped at an abstract painting that she remembered once fetched twenty million dollars in a private sale.
“Is that an original?”
“I hope so. But only Warhol knows the answer to that and I am afraid he is dead,” he said, grinning like a shark as the final word left his lips and Isobel shifted away from him imperceptibly.
“You like expensive things.”
“I don’t like things because of what they cost, I like things that only a few people may own.”
“Doesn’t that amount to the same thing?”
“Some might say that but please remember I do not claim to be a connoisseur. Only a collector.”
He directed her through heavy oak double doors into a bedroom suite, and she heard a dull thud as he pulled them closed behind her. The room around her screamed money and poor taste, the golden yellow and deep purple decoration being both garish and opulent in equal measure. But at least the artwork followed a theme, from the exotic to the pornographic. Any intention Isobel had of making her excuses and leaving was replaced by a determination to stand her ground, not out of loyalty to Ryan but out of a refusal to be cowed by the graphic images before her.
“You do not look shocked.”
“Erotic art has been around for thousands of years, why should it shock me?”
“It is something that interests you?”
“Yes, if it is done well, but I don’t exactly read Playboy, if that’s what you mean.”
He gestured toward a painting of a woman with a flowing mane that stretched to her buttocks, standing in a tub decorated with delicate lines, and being washed by two black slaves. “This is something I have only in the last year commissioned. I took inspiration from a story of the Shah’s wife, a beautiful but vain princess. They say she bathed every day in goat’s milk to keep her skin supple and smooth. It captures a scene of great sensuality, does it not, the black hands on a milky white body?”
“It is true to the story, that’s for sure,” said Isobel. She looked toward the door, her pulse beginning to quicken.
“Perhaps I might persuade you to also paint something of equal beauty for me? A commission such as I am talking about would be newsworthy, it would open many doors for you here in Los Angeles, and there is also the Persian community in San Diego to consider.” He paused as if giving Isobel time to digest the implications of his offer. “And,” he continued, “if it is your intention to earn a living through your art, my friends in Washington can be most helpful.” Again he paused. “I’m talking about work visas, green cards even.” He had rehearsed a clever and calculated seduction, and Isobel gulped at the thought of what he offered her, a solution to so many of her problems. His eyes were fixed on her body like a hungry hyena and he seized on her hesitation. “And I assure you, you will find me generous in my reward.” He had moved into touching distance and put a hand on her shoulder as if to reassure her. “Is it something you might consider?” he said, his tone fatherly.
“Perhaps,” said Isobel, trapped between fear of his intentions and the chains of her own ambition.
He rubbed her upper arm. “It seems we are beginning to understand one another.” He moved to an object on a glass stand shrouded in a dust cover. He swept off the cloth and revealed a statue of a naked Nubian woman kneeling before a giant black phallus. He rolled his hand over the top of the statue. “Does this appeal to you?”
No possibility remained to cling to ambiguity; Isobel found herself unable to continue to navigate the fine line she had been treading. She knew she must either fall on her knees before him, or end the charade. “Does it appeal to Mrs. Shahidi?”
She saw a flash of anger in his eyes. Before her stood a powerful man, one not used to being refused his way. “Mrs. Shahidi has her own life, she need not concern you.”
“Are you propositioning me?”
“That is not a word I would choose. I find you a seductive and intriguing woman, and also an intelligent one. Someone not impressed by money, so I suspect you are used to it. What man would not want to possess you?” He ran his palm up and down the phallus. “All I am interested to know is what you like…and how you like it.”
She folded her arms. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shahidi, it seems I have given you the wrong impression. Your art collection is distinctive and I thank you for taking the time to show it to me, but I have no intention of becoming part of it. If you will excuse me.”
She turned toward the door but he moved to intercept her. “What is your hurry, Isobel, I do not hear anyone calling for you? All I am offering you is pleasure, or pain if you prefer it. What have you to lose? We can agree that it is not your innocence.”
An impulse to strike him rose within her but she stayed her hand. “Self-respect comes to mind. And now, as we seem to be at the end of the tour, I’d like to get back to Ryan.” She went to move past him but he caught her wrist.
“Ah yes, poor Ryan. Perhaps you should ask yourself how you came to be here in this room. Do you imagine you are the first woman brought to this house by Ryan to have ascended these stairs? Before you spurn my invitation, think what it is that is best for Ryan.”
“Take your hand off me.” He tightened his grip, and she found herself pinned back against an ornate pillar, his body pressed against her. “Let go of me or I’ll scream,” she said.
“Then you will need to explain what you’re doing up here in my bedroom.” He clutched her breast. “And explain why you walked willingly on my arm away from the party.” He squeezed her through the thin cotton of her dress and tried to kiss her. She turned her head sideways, but otherwise remained impassive. He continued to grope her breast, but she remained emotionless. “Do you think that underneath your airs and graces, you are any better than the young gold-diggers around the pool?”
She thought for a second to spit in his face, as much for the girls he so dismissively denigrated as herself. “Not better, just different,” she said with quiet assurance.
Her icy detachment seemed to inflame him and he pushed his groin into her pelvis. He began to grunt and grind against her, his tongue slobbering over her cheek, his coarse moustache tearing at her skin. He continued rooting at her, his eyes wild and his manhood hard against her pelvic bone. With each thrust her spine hit against the cold stone pillar. But still she remained docile. Finally, he took his hand from her breast and stepped back, his eyes filled with anger.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked coldly. “Get on with it, or let go of me.” Her cool contempt seemed to render him powerless. She jerked her wrist free. She took a second to straighten her crumpled dress, gave him a last withering look, and walked slowly to the door.
She ran down the stairs, stopping to compose herself at the bottom. She looked backward, relieved that he had not pursued her. The sinking sun now cast a long shadow across the upper terrace. Many of the guests had moved to the railing above the pool and she could hear shouting and revelry coming from below. She stopped at the top of the steps to look for Ryan but the two loungers where she had last seen him with Mel were empty.
Isobel went down to be met by a raucous atmosphere in and around the pool. A net had been strung across the water, attached to two chairs, with a game of volleyball underway. Excited girls jumped up and down on both sides of the divide, some to parry and volley the ball, others for no other reason than to gain the attention of those who looked on. All the women in the water, including Mel, were topless. Isobel looked for Ryan amongst them but soon spotted him elsewhere, leaning on a high table by the pool bar with two blondes, one she recognised from the vodka launch event, the other the young girl in the polka dot bikini.
He called over. “Hey, babe, I’ve been looking for you.”
She eyed the decoration either side of him. “I can see that.”
He didn’t rise to her sarcasm. “Well, now we’ve found one another, come and join the party. You want a drink or something?”
“I’m fine. Can we go somewhere? I need to talk to you.”
“The game’s only just started.”
She pulled on his arm. “Now, Ryan.”
The two girls exchanged looks and he shrugged an apology.
She turned and he walked with her. “You’re making a bit of a scene, don’t you think?”
“Not half as much as you’ll see me making if I stay in this whorehouse much longer.”
“If this is about Mel we were just talking, and I’m not fucking her, if that’s what you think.”
“I couldn’t give a shit about Mel.”
She marched him back to where they had been sitting before.
He folded his arms before her. “So, what gives, babe?”
“Nothing gives, babe. At least nothing I can’t handle. I want to head back now. If you’re not coming with me, you’ll need to get your bag from the car.”
“What’s the rush?”
“The rush is there’s somewhere else I’d rather be. You can come or you can stay but if you’re staying you’ll need your bag.” She could see Shahidi at the railing above. He wasn’t even looking her way, his actions and her emotions seeming to be of as much consequence to him as the outcome of the volleyball game.
“Listen, Isobel, you can’t keep blowing hot and cold on me like this. What’s got into you?"
“I’ll tell you what’s gotten into me. Your sleazebag boss has just hit on me like I’m a pay-by-the-hour hooker!”
He put his hands on her shoulder but she pushed them away, they seemed to burn against her as an unwelcome reminder of Shahidi’s touch. “Take it easy, let’s back up here a minute. What’s happened?”
“I’ve just been dry-fucked against a pillar, that’s what’s happened.”
“Jeez, babe.”
“Tell me one thing, Ryan, do you procure girls for Shahidi?”
He let out a long sigh. “What do you mean, ‘procure’?”
“You know damn well what I mean.”
“No, I do-fucking-not. It’s like I told you. Victor wants pretty young things to decorate his parties. I help run his club, a club where those kinda girls go and where many of them work. He tells me how many he wants and I make sure they get invited. Whether they come is up to them and what they do once they get there isn’t my business either.”
“What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t bleed over, that’s what you’re telling me?”
“Pretty much, yeah. My job stops when the girls walk through the gate. I’m not Victor’s pimp but I’m not the girls’ pastor, either. If a few of them want to put out for a few hundred bucks or for a screen test, that’s up to them.”
“So the girls are just commodities, to be bought and sold, and you’re the middleman, picking up your pieces of silver from Shahidi?”
“If that’s the way you want to see it, fine, but it ain’t the way it is.”
“Then explain to me why Shahidi would take me up to his bedroom and expect me to spread my legs for him? I’m not Mel or one of your other bunnies. What would make him think that I would for one second be up for that?”
“I can’t explain that.”
“He’s never done it before with one of your girlfriends?”
“Jesus Christ, Isobel. Do you think if they did do that they’d tell me?”
“I’m sorry, Ryan, you’re tap dancing, that’s not what I call a categorical denial.” She pulled her bag hard down on her shoulder. “See you around.”
He grabbed her arm. “Look, I don’t know what’s gone down here or why, but I’ll sort it out. Give me half an hour and I’ll talk to Victor.”
“Victor? You’ll talk to Victor? Whose side are you on here? I’m not staying one minute longer in that creep’s house. And if you meant any of the things you said today, you won’t either. It’s your choice.”
“Isobel, be fucking reasonable. The guy is still my boss. Remember your speech this morning about other people’s behaviour not being your problem? Give me time to sort this out my own way.”
“When someone lays their hand on me they make their behaviour my problem. Now do you want to get your bag or do you want me to leave it at the gate?”
She began to walk away but he pulled her to a stop. “Wait in the car and give me five minutes to say my good-byes. I can’t just piss off without a by your leave. Five minutes, okay?”
She walked the line of cars, her vision blurred by rage, to find her own still hemmed in. Crashing bumper against bumper, she forced her way out. Finally free, she reversed back, threw out his bag, put her foot to the floor and tore away, rubber screeching, as if fleeing the gates of hell.