Charles Coppergate considered himself a connoisseur of beauty and a lover of women.
These were not, admittedly, attitudes and qualities much admired in the current climate. Indeed, they might be considered problematic at best. They were, nevertheless, qualities that went to the very heart of who Charles was.
His appreciation for beauty was not entirely restricted to the feminine. He could be moved by the intricacies of Dvorak or the dark contrasts of a Correggio but it was undoubtedly the case that feminine beauty moved him in ways that others simply could not.
(Masculine beauty, he could appreciate in an off hand, detached sort of way but his instincts were, if somewhat refined, entirely hetrosexual).
Not that he would ever be so vulgar as to rate or compare women. That sort of boorish locker room talk repulsed him. To the extent that he was a connoisseur of female beauty, it was simply that he was able to discern and appreciate that special beauty that each woman possessed and was unique to her. Her charm he called it.
Almost every woman had her own special charm. True beauties were rare in this world but true horrors almost more so. Such poor creatures did exist of course but it was best not to dwell on such unfortunates and simply pass over in pity.
No, but every woman was unique and if not quite beautful had a certain charm, be she slim or curvaceous, fair or dark, tall or short.
He was in no way dismissive of women with more obvious charms, a pair of large, firm shapely breasts were a delight with little compare, but he was able to see beyond to other more neglected charms.
The less charitable interpretation might be that, for all his talk, Charles simply had very low standards and would fuck anything in a skirt. But that certainly wasn't how he saw it.
His job took him all over the world and to many interesting places. He was a dealer in seventeenth century lithographs primarily, and his trade took him to auction houses and the homes of the rich across the globe.
He was also, if more discretely, a leading dealer in antique erotica, a line entirely in keeping with his own tastes.
The fatal flaw in his business model was a complete inability to separate business and pleasure. He had enjoyed many an illicit tryst with the spoilt trophy wife of an old rich client leering over enamelled obscenities.
At its best, this enriched the experience enormously. What better way to round off a successful business transaction than with a roll in the sheets with a rich, beautiful, bored woman.
The downsides were obvious. His clientele were invariably possessive, they were collectors after all, well resourced and occasionally brutish. And Charles was not, I am afraid to say, always particularly discrete.
No serious harm had come of it yet but he had had some close encounters. And had decided that it would be prudent to give Moscow a permanent swerve from now on, too many angry oligarchs for his liking.
Inevitably, he had developed a certain reputation. Oddly though, this didn't seem to impact on his business interests at all. The type of men he dealt with were generally so self-regarding that they couldn't possibly fathom being cuckolded themselves. Still, it was a pity he had effectively excluded himself from the Russian market.
On this particular occasion, he was in the upstate New York home of one Thomas Van Deyn. Old money. The Van Deyns claimed to have been in New York since it was New Amsterdam, although Charles had independently verified for his own amusement that this was pure affectation.
Still, money was money, new or not. And lots of pretensions to come with it. Van Deyn, of course, considered himself a connoisseur and Charles had to admit, his collection was better appointed than some. His library in particular was something impressive.
Van Deyn was always on the lookout for Dutch art of the Golden Age, claiming some fatuous ancestral sympathy to it. He had something that he claimed was Rembrandt, although Charles had his doubts. Mostly he had lots of fairly unimaginative seascapes, which probably were genuine, as the sort of product churned out in the shipload by Delft in the good old days.
He was a good client and Charles's association with him went back many years. As soon as Charles first saw this particular collection from a Hague printshop in 1637, he had immediately thought of Van Deyn.
Van Deyn was also a homosexual. There was inevitably some beautiful boy draped over the furniture whenever Charles came to visit but almost never any women. This was in some ways disappointing, but it made the relationship between the two men much easier, no distractions, welcome or otherwise.
So, it was with some surprise that as he walked down the hallway to Van Deyn's library with his sheaf of papers under his arm that Charles was met with a vision of feminine loveliness coming the other way.
She was a tall slim brunette in her early twenties (or so Charles guessed and he was a good judge of these things, knowing jailbait when he saw it). Her long hair was damp and hung down to her waist. She was wrapped in a fluffy white towel but otherwise seemed entirely naked. Evidently, she had just been bathing.
"Good morning, Uncle Thomas," she smiled lazily at him (it was two o'clock in the afternoon), "and good morning ...?" she indicated to Charles.
"Good afternoon Anna, this is my good friend Charles Coppergate."
"Charmed, I'm sure," he took her hand and kissed it like a character from an eighteenth century play. He found it best to play up to being the older gent when dealing with younger ladies. Anna giggled, seemingly both amused and charmed by the attention.
Van Deyn looked at the little interaction with evident displeasure. Charles realised for the first time that Van Deyn was not ignorant of his reputation, it simply hadn't impacted on him before now.
"Anna, what have I told you before about walking round the house half-naked? I'm sure Mr Coppergate doesn't want to see you like this."
Van Deyn looked at Charles to indicate that it would be much better if that were true and he should act accordingly, whatever his personal feelings.
Anna looked at Charles too, "Oh, I'm sure Charles doesn't mind, do you?"
As she spoke, the towel began to unwrap from her chest and she had to quickly grab at it to hold it in place. Charles was quite sure that if she let it go, it would fall to the floor, leaving her gloriously naked.
He didn't, however, let this ruffle his composure.
"Now, now, Anna, that is quite naughty you know. The laws of decorum must be respected, but," he said this turning to Van Deyn, "we mustn't be too hard on the young people, youthful spirits will run on so."
Van Deyn harrumphed, not sure if he was satisfied with Charles's response or not.
"Well, just run along and get dressed now, Anna," he snorted dismissively and marshalled Charles firmly into his library, leaving the lovely, half naked Anna alone in the hallway.
Without being able to (and indeed without in any way wanting to) banish the vision from his mind, Charles turned to business. When it came to the serious matter of his art nothing distracted Charles and he was soon able to sell Van Deyn on the virtues of his collection and negotiate a good price.
One thing, though, was very clear to Charles, and that was about Anna. He simply had to have her.
Charles was a connoisseur, but not a collector. Many beautiful things passed through his hands but never for long. In fact, the very thought of a hoard repulsed him, beautiful things heaped up behind closed doors, unlooked at and unappreciated, existing only to flatter some rich man's vanity of ownership.
In fact, the one part of his professional life that he regretted most was that it was his lot to build the hoards of others. Still, he reconciled himself with the thought that the permanency of possession was nothing but vanity and illusion.
Death, bankruptcy, political ambition or the demands of a pretty wife (and her divorce lawyers) meant that such hoards never lasted for long and he, or men like him, would be on hand to redistribute and re-allocate the beauty, flattering the pretensions of the age.
So, he didn't want to possess Anna in any permanent sense. Why rich men married pretty wives was a mystery to him, there were much better ways to satisfy those desires.
But once he had the scent of a beautiful woman, it would torment him until he could taste her and hold her in his arms.
So, even as he was concluding his business with Van Deyn, his mind was whirling through the possibilities.
The problem was not with Anna herself, she had appeared cheerfully game and he could be charming and persuasive when he wanted to be.
