Free Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1) by Azam Hossain Page B

steely confidence in Zhukov’s eyes and an assured effortless confidence about his persona as we shook hands.
    “It so nice of you to come,” said Olonova when it came to her turn to shake my hand. I looked into that beautiful face and wondered whether we would ever meet again.
    Ollie greeted the couple in Russian, which suitably ingratiated us with them.
    “Are you an art dealer?” Zhukov suddenly asked me.
    “No. However I do admire beautiful things. You have filled this gallery with great works of art. I look forward to visiting each room and being suitably impressed.”
    He appeared content with my answer. They left and moved on to their other guests.
    “You were charm personified,” said I to Ollie.
    “You weren’t too bad yourself,” she praised.
     
    After awhile Ollie and I agreed to split up. I soon became rather disenchanted with making small talk to fellow guests and so I moved away from the main throng to one of the galleries. I’m rarely averse to a bit of self deprecation but what I know about art is hardly worth knowing. I like Titian, Gainsborough, some of the Dutch masters amongst others. The gallery rooms only contained the occasional guest whom like me decided, miraculously enough in an art gallery, to admire the art. I was looking at the paintings for several minutes in a rather disinterested fashion, when over my shoulder I heard a voice ask, “Mr Willoughby?”
    I turned around and saw Anastasia Olonova all alone and smiling.
    “Ms Olonova,” I gushed surprised.
    “Hello. What do you think of this piece?”
    She was referring to the picture I had just been looking at. It was a Cubist painting, consisting of coloured shaped blocks in the middle of which were some contorted semi human faces. It was by all accounts a grotesque looking piece, but no more so than your average Cubist painting.
    “It’s an extremely interesting example of the Cubist school. I find the way the colours are juxtaposed with each other symbolic of what the painter is trying to communicate,” I began, looking at the picture and gesturing with my hand to emphasis my words, “I ’m particularly enamoured of the heads looking in different directions in the centre and the disparity that they represent. The facial features are acute and no doubt have a significance that the painter is trying to impart to the viewer.”
    I finished there – thinking that that was enough waffle made up on the spot to be going on with. I turned away from the picture to look at her at my side. Her face was lit up seemingly impressed at my answer.
    “You really know your art,” she said barely able to conceal her delight.
    “I know nothing really,” I said truthfully, shrugging my shoulders and smiling.
    She laughed, “You are so modest. It’s what I love about you English. Russian men are so proud, serious and never laugh. I find you very refreshing Mr Willoughby.”
    “Oh please call me Damian,” I said feeling very self conscious, as is my wont when speaking to a pretty girl and it was an effort not to keep smiling like a fool. The fact that she seemed so impressed with my answer, which I had made up on the spot, did not to my mind say much about her knowledge of art.
    “How did you and Mr Zhukov meet?” I asked, deciding that I had had enough of art talk and recalling my reason for being here.
    Her face changed expression, to one of mild surprise and then after pondering for a second she replied, “We met about three years ago at a party.”
    “He seems like a very interesting man,” I suggested, “and very rich?”
    She smiled embarrassed, “Yes, but I did not know he was rich until later.”
    “You must be very fond of him?”
    “I am fond of many things Damian,” she purred mysteriously.
    “Is that possible?” I queried. Her eyes gave me a piercing look.
    “I believe it is Damian. Vasily has given me great opportunities that I would not otherwise have enjoyed. I hope you do not judge me harshly,” she