Scarlet Rose

Chapter 22

Candy had left in a hurry. The moment she turned her back to them, an awkward silence fell between the two men. Terry's feelings once more, burned with the intensity of the sun, risking of burning everyone around him. Unable to hold his tongue and barely being in control of his temper, he has screwed up royally. Part of him felt satisfied he had upset Candy so much. At least he found out he wasn't just a faded memory in a dark corner of her mind, despite of having another man in her life...in her bed...in her heart? That was the one question which had started eating him inside.

With the corner of his eye, he realised Robert and John were heading their way. Before they were in ear's distance, he turned his eyes to Christian who's face still looked annoyed. Mostly because Terry's rude remarks and his insistence to buy Scarlet Rose came out of the blue like a lightning on a clear summer sky.

"I'm really sorry Christian", he managed to say quietly between his teeth. "I'm not used to not having things my way and I step on toes some times." Christian remained quiet. "This is not the place to analyse my faults further, so please accept my apologies", he repeated raising the tone his voice just a tad.

Christian's stare on Terry's face remained firm. He squinted as if trying to get into Terry's mind before accepting his apologies. His companions were there. Terry turned to greet them.

"Gentlemen, this is the artist, Christian Blake", he said after he had swallowed all those feelings that burned him and had stuck in his throat like a brick. "I have to say...I was very impressed"

He let the men do the introductions, and turned to Robert.

"Robert, you will have to excuse me", he said, sounding almost urgent, while Christian was in conversation with Barrymore, a keen appreciator of art himself. Robert's eyes awoke with worry.

From the moment he decided to go, he did not want to stay there any longer. He had to leave before she came out of that bathroom. Part of him was tempted to just quietly disappear in that bathroom himself as he wondered what she was doing, what she must had been thinking. But he would only make matters worse. The best thing he could do was to just leave. Get a drink down his throat. Extinguish what burned him. That bloody painting, her image in his mind. The way she looked when she came in the gallery. Not a teenager any more, pigtails and innocent lips, shy eyes. She was all woman. Perhaps not fully aware of the attraction she caused to men's stares but she carried the confidence of a woman well loved in the physical term.

"Is everything alright Terrence?", he replied, dispelling Terry's train of thoughts.

"Yes, everything is fine...but I prefer to have a walk if you don't mind," Terry tried to calm the sudden worry his statement had caused Robert to feel.

"Sure my boy...", he said back, not feeling absolutely certain about Terry's excuse, "Please be careful, will you?"

Terry promised he would, then turned to the other two men who were still in conversation about the paintings.

"Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I remembered there are some phone calls I must do to New York, so I apologise for my abrupt departure.

"Christian, very pleased of yours and Rose's acquaintance. Please give her my apologies", he said, gave them a brief smile and left.

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Her cheeks felt flustered and her eyes were stinging as she had left both men behind her  and headed to the powder room.  She had to hold herself from running away. This was what her relationship with Terry had always been. A string of sudden events, practically finding her every time she would turn a corner. A continuous road of highs and lows, testing the limits of her emotions. She entered the bathroom. Thankfully alone, she walked towards the sinks. In whatever privacy she had, she realised there was only a door separating her from the man she had loved and had tried to put behind her for so long. A door and ten years. How could that space be bridged between them? The enormity of what just happened hit her. Hit her on her chest. Her breathing was hard, rushed. She was panicking. She held for a moment from the porcelain sink trying to slow her breathing down as if battling to jump out of quicksand. She had to go back out. Turned the tap on and splashed a little cold water on her face. She looked at herself in the mirror. As desperate as she was for someone to advice her, her reflection wasn't going to be the one to give the advice. She had to accept the facts.