A/N: Inspired by Come On Petunia by the Blow.
Petunia would never have claimed to be particularly cultured, except in the presence of others. At the garden parties hosted by her ladies' circle she would chatter away gayly of Blackadder, Vermeer, and all the names which opened doors where there had been none before. But when she was honest with herself, when Vernon was a million miles away at a drill conference in Tokyo, drinking in the lights of freedom with a pretty blonde with a prettier rack. When she was honest with herself standing in front of a mirror while she changed for bed, pinching her stomach, and squeezing her thighs in a vain attempt to find the ingénue inside herself. When she was honest with herself she knew she was as common as her name. As common as a common-garden Petunia. She liked the lotto, and Antique Roadshow, and had to force herself to put down the Daily Mirror in exchange for a book on renaissance artwork.
She still wasn't quite sure why she was here. It had been all Yvonne's fault. Most things could be traced back to Yvonne, the owner of that indefinable nothing, that holiday home in Majorca.
"But of course you must come" Yvonne had said pressing more tea on Petunia. "Magenta Comstock hasn't had a gallery show in years. All the best people will be there." She'd said the magic words. Petunia grimaced a little, as Yvonne unceremoniously dumped three lumps of sugar in her tea, but accepted the invitation along with cup.
The gallery was a tiny one somehow squashed between a Tesco's on one side and Yoga For Tiny Tots on the other. She believed she'd passed it more than once on her way to buy marmalade for Dudley's sandwiches, but had never felt the compulsion to go into the dingy little showroom.
When they arrived, sliding into the parking lot in Yvonne's new BMW the place had been transformed. Jasmine was entwined in an overhead trellis; the brick wall with the sheen of night looked authentic and bled of antiquity. They sailed up the walkway in their new dresses and Petunia blurted out, "It looks like it was on Extreme Makeover" and then coloured with embarrassment. To her relief Yvonne let out a tiny tinkling laugh.
As they were ushered inside, ahead a long line of local colour Petunia felt a vicious stab of delight. The delight died a premature death as they entered the large cool room. Fountains decorated the room, water played along in its element, crack-glazed basins of water flowed into each other, the gentle call of water echoing through the wall. But that was merely background noise; what drew the eye, immediately and shockingly were the paintings on the wall.
Eyes.
Everywhere; almond, slitty, beckoning, avenging, blue, brown, green, grey…they stared down from the high white walls surveying the crowd of champagne-drinking people below them with clear disdain. Yvonne was immediately drawn away on the arms of a French couple with peculiar names and odder mannerisms; her peroxide blonde bobbing above the gaggle of people.
Petunia assured her that it was no problem and snatched desperately at a flute of champagne carried to her on a silver tray. She tried and failed to keep her eyes off of their mirror images fastened to the wall.
She drifted off across the room, keeping her eyes down to the floor. Occasionally a treacherous eye would glance up at the paintings on the wall, and then dart away, with the unsettling feeling that they were looking straight at her. After a series of strange turns, into side rooms, the gallery seemed far larger on the inside, she ended up in a tiny room.
The room was almost empty, relieving free of the pressing crowd. There were only two paintings, hung on opposite sides of the room, the immediate feeling when one walked into the room was as if the two paintings were having an eternal staring contest. Which was ridiculous.
The painting to her left was of a set of cool grey eyes, and she could see the hint of a strong nose and a stronger personality.
Boy Aged 21
(Albania)
There was something very wrong with the picture and she turned away.
The other occupant of the room was down by the left wall so she thrust her shoulders forward and walked forward to look at the other painting. Her forced smile died on her lips as she locked eyes with the painting on the wall.
They were a piercing indigo, and the rims had not yet started to fade into an every-day grey, they looked strong and vigorous and in them she could see flashes of what would be a long and echoing life.
A castleA tree A pearly figure
A catA flash of green light.
A long life. But the eyes were young enough and strong enough not to need the glasses she knew their owner would eventually come to own. She knew it in her soul.
With a quivery feeling in her stomach she peered at the small plaque by it.
Boy Aged Nineteen
(Scotland)
Beauty in its simplicity. They could have been the eyes of anyone. But they weren't.
She turned away from the painting quickly, the eyes laughing straight through her. The young blond boy who had been staring with such a peculiar expression at the other canvas turned around at the moment.
He acknowledged her with a nod. "Not much of a choice--is it?" He said lightly.