The Art of the Black Notebook

“You’ll need to do better than that, pretty little thing! Here, let me help you get started!” He tore a page from his little black notebook, the object of Alice's fantasy and desire and threw it in her general direction, her a crumpled pile on the wet, sodden asphalt of the dockyard. She leapt at the scrunched-up piece of paper as if it was gold dust, jumping up like a cat jumping for that ball of yarn. She ripped it open and shone the page up to the dim flickering light of the dockyard lights. None of it made sense- a pyramid here, an oval there, rectangles and a scrambled array of shapes and unrecognisable characters. What did it all mean? She lay there, defeated as his laughter rang through her head on repeat.

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Alice Aston was a tall, willowy woman, possibly in her mid-twenties and in the prime of her life. Men wanted to be with her and other women wanted to be her. An up-and-coming indie artist, she was exceptionally talented and gifted, yet inquisitive and wild at heart. She lived in the best money-can-buy penthouse in Surry Hills, yet was always yearning for more from life.

Ben Bushall was a handsome, wealthy yet mysterious bachelor and philanthropist He appeared to be ageless, and was of the most prolific faces in Sydney’s high-socialite crowd. He was always seen holding a little black notebook with him and carried a mystifying aura around him. Women were mesmerised, and men were curious. People ways wanted to know more but left his company with even more questions.

Our two fateful characters met at a well-known exhibition, the most natural of settings for both to meet. The venue was glammed up, red carpet, spotlights galore, every important name in Sydney there for the occasion, dressed to impress, champagne aplenty.

“Am I mistaken, are you the infamous Ben Bushall?” she said, resting her gaze on the incredibly handsome man in front of her.

“Why yes, I am. Pleased to meet your acquaintance. To whom am I speaking to?” he answered, wetting his lips.

“Alice Aston.” She blushed a little, partly from the champagne bubbles, the heat of the spotlight and his mesmerising stare boring right into her very core like a relentless red-hot laser.

“Pleased to meet you Miss Aston. I daresay we shall be encountering each other more often. Here is my business card.” He smiled and sauntered off, with a glint in his eye. Alice was instantly attracted to Ben, and gravitated towards him.

During the course of the evening, there was some light flirting: “Very talented Miss Aston, would you paint me like one of your French girls?”. Words of interest were exchanged: “Well, set a time and place and we can have a rendezvous.” Throughout all the gentle foreplay amongst the socialites and rich high-lifers, she noticed he was holding a little black notebook but never once opened it during their short exchange. She was intrigued and curiosity got the better of her, she had to know what was in that notebook and agreed to accompany Ben on his next upcoming ventures.

However there seemed to be an ominous series of events that surrounded Mr Bushall. At high profile social art events, he would be at the limelight, again with that goddamn black notebook, donating vast amounts of money to organisations and offering financial rewards to the winning artist. A few days after the event, the artist would go missing, reported in the local newspaper or on the telly, and a small exhibit or art piece would be “temporarily removed” after, often associated with the missing artist.

At first, Alice’s discovery startled her and every instinct in her body told her to walk away. Sadly, curiosity got the better of her. Little did she know it might also kill her too.

Her need to know what was in that notebook gave her the drive to know more. She had to know what was going on, and the link between Ben and these strange incidents, she had to get that notebook. She fancied that, in another lifetime, she would make a wonderful private eye.

A few days later, after a dance of intimacy with Ben at the White Rabbit Gallery, whilst Ben was giving his speech and presenting his generosity to the winning artist, and while standing in the crowd of well-to-doers, someone brusquely shoved something into Alice’s hands, clasping their hand on top of hers and forcing it around the package, while embracing her slim frame roughly, so as to hold her upright. Sweating ever so slightly, she politely excused herself while heading to the ladies. Once inside a private cubicle, she ripped open the ugly looking wrinkly brown paper package that had evidently held a wet sandwich. Bills of $100 dollar notes flew out, and she tried to count them all, sitting awkwardly on the plastic white toilet cover. It was worth $20,000; astonished, the only note attached to the pack was “I know you are on to HIM. Catch HIM for me. Get the notebook.” She knew it was no longer just a hunch. She was onto something.

A week later, Alice was invited to Sydney Contemporary held at the Opera House, the largest art fair in Sydney to showcase her latest art piece. Conveniently, she used the generous gift money to create her piece de resistance, entitled “Little Black Book”. She used carefully placed giant glass shards and metal sheets to create an illusion of an ethereal world, and guided her wonderstruck viewers through. Her exhibition, the black notebook is a metaphor of another undiscovered world and reflected of the mysterious world beyond the book’s cover. She ended the exhibition with a note: “Do you have the courage to open it?”

Naturally, like bees to honey, Ben was ever-present, and while at the event, he locked eyes with Alice as soon as the exhibition commenced. He knew that she was onto him. Making a pretence of viewing a small collection of sculptures placed near the fire exit, he made a quiet exit. Alice’s eagle eyes followed Ben through the crowd and she pursues him, hot on his trail. The quick pitter-patter of his footsteps led her, dressed up in her best glad-rags and high heels, in to an abandoned dock near the Opera House.

She shone a light at him, her head full of questions, desperate for answers. He has her alone. He smirks and takes the notebook out of his perfectly-tailored navy blazer. She sees the notebook and makes a jump for it and missed, hitting the ground. As she crashed, she snatched it out of his hands and ripped it open, so eager for answers. Answers about him that would quash her thirst of curiosity. Her meaning to life for the last few weeks. It’s empty?! It’s blank?! No symbols, no characters. She ruffled the pages, nothing. She's been had from the beginning. He laughed maniacally. He whispered in her ear “that money was put to good use, wasn’t it?”

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He tore a page from the real notebook and let it fall, as Alice laid on the cold hard ground, spent, exhausted, numb and emotionally drained, her beautiful white satin dress covered in spots of dirt and asphalt, her feet splayed at a weird angle. He took aim at her with a trigger and shot at her arm. She felt a sharp prick on her arm and a strange sensation begins to invade her body, like losing herself to the abyss. She thought she might be dying, losing consciousness quickly. Alice watched helplessly, as Ben jumped off the harbour, landing in a jet ski with an unknown accomplice. She tried to chase after him in vain, but her legs gave way, his last words ringing in her head: “Catch me if you can!”

Just before her vision blurred and she blacked out, a pair of warm enveloping arms caught her. This feeling is familiar to her, she feels like she knows these arms. Could these arms have been the ones that gave her the $20,000...what has she got herself into?

To be continued...