Possessed hearts
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– This will be my seventh. Mr. Grayson is very generous and supports young talent. Like you, Miss Mroczek.
I grinned. To myself. Only a mortal would call me young.
– I'm flattered. So what about the contract? If we've got it all figured out, and I'm willing to give up all the rights and all the files for the job, I'm ready to sign and go to the hotel," I smiled.
Everything went without further ado. The contract was signed. The official opening date was set for the tenth of October.
I got into a taxi and ordered it to take me to the hotel, and called Markus's number.
– I need Brandon's number. It's an emergency," I said briefly.
Yeah, I didn't have Brandon's number. I never imagined I'd be dealing with him.
Markus had sent me the number, thankfully without further question, and I dialled it immediately. My fingers did it on their own, regardless of my desire to never communicate with Grayson. I hated him.
But I needed to know. Why he needed that picture. Because he knew damn well I was the author.
– Brandon Grayson. – I heard his beautiful, low voice.
– Why do you want that picture? – I asked in a joking tone.
Apparently, he chuckled. I could feel it.
– It's you, Maria. I have to admit, you're a great photographer.
– I know I am. So why do you want this picture?
– Did you sign the contract?
– I did.
– I don't have to answer to you.
– And I don't have to sell it to you. – His calm, indifferent tone burned me.
– You already did.
– But I still haven't disclosed the amount.
– You're right, it's about time.
I desperately didn't want to sell him my picture. No, hell no!
– How much would you give for it?
– That's not a fair question. You're the author, it's your right to set the price.
– Then I want it for… Let's say a million. – I said that high figure on purpose. I don't think he'd want to buy a small photograph for that kind of money.
– It's a decent amount for a decent job," Brandon said, as if nothing had happened.
– Are you kidding? – I blurted out.
– Is that the final price?
– Do you want that picture that badly? – I couldn't help myself.
– Do I? No. But I like its aesthetics.
– Then I'm not selling it.
– It's too late. You signed a contract. You have to sell it to me.
– You know what, Brandon? I'll sell you my work, but only because I want the damn exhibit! And you're a scumbag like the world has never seen!
He laughed.
– You make it sound like a compliment, Maria. What's the final sum?
– I've already given it. Pounds sterling.
– That's good. It's already in your account. I'll be at your hotel tomorrow, 8pm. We can have dinner together and I'll pick up my purchase.
– Don't put conditions on me," I replied irritably.
– It's not conditions, it's just routine.
Dinner with Grayson. Never. How will I be able to look at him and hide my dislike, my disgust? For my eyes will burn with hatred.
But if he doesn't care, he can take his purchase and go to hell.
– It's a deal. Eight o'clock tomorrow at the hotel restaurant. – I passed out.
I was full of contradictory feelings, and I thought my head was spinning, even though it was impossible. But these feelings, these emotions sat inside me, pressing, tormenting, tearing. A worthless conversation with that narcissist Mr. Grayson – and I fell into a state I'd never known. I'm lying. The same state that had come over me in the church eight years ago when that bastard had said to my mother, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Mroczek, I'm terribly late." Those words rang in my head like the striking of a bell. Does that mean my head is as empty as the dome of a church? No. It's bursting. The thoughts. They're like the strikes of a bell, like Brandon's words, like everything around him and connected to him. My hatred. For him. For that day. For myself.
"Is that how much I need this exhibition? I can break the contract at any time, especially since no action from the performer has yet begun," I pondered. – He needs my work. He loves aesthetics. What aesthetics did he find in that photograph? He'll come for it… I should have just sent all the files by courier! I don't need this meeting. What the hell am I going to do, pretend to be indifferent to his presence again? He's ruined my whole life. Shit, Maria, you're acting like a white bunny trying to hide from a sly fox. What's wrong with you? Have you gone soft? Are you spoilt? It's just another business meeting and you'll be as calm as Everest. You'll chat about nothing…"
– Miss!
The driver's loud voice took me by surprise.
– Are we there? – I asked tiredly, opening my bag and looking for cash.
– Yes. Your hotel, as requested. The Laslett.
I glanced at the taximeter and paid silently, leaving a good tip, which caused the cabbie to change the scowl on his face into a friendly, barely perceptible grin. Grabbing my cardigan, I got out of the car, but suddenly, against my better judgement, I knocked on the window of the taxi that hadn't left yet. The driver rolled down the window. I leaned forward.
– What time do the nearest nightclubs open?
My question caused the cabbie's face to flush with displeasure.
– The nearest one opens at eleven. But it's rubbish, miss, even though it's close to such an expensive hotel.
– Thank you. What's your name, nice man?
– Erm, Harvey.
– Here, Harvey. – I took out another of my big wallets – a twenty, the first one I could find. – Buy yourself some tea.
– Miss, have you already…
– Take it. That's for tea. You can spend that money on something else," I said insistently, and handed the taxi driver the note.