Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage (12 page)

“Nobody hurt me. I hurt myself.” I let out a big sigh. “I got confused, Tom. My relationship with Paul – my husband – is in a terrible place. I don’t know what’s going to happen to us. This commission for the mural is like manna from heaven, the easiest way to escape. I really need to go away, to figure everything out.”

“Something happened between you and John,” says Tom. He’s not asking, he’s stating a fact, even nodding his head, as if encouraging me not to object, but to go along with his assertion. I don’t have the strength to argue or even stretch the truth, really, and I just let my head sink into my hands and close my eyes.

“That little shit
did
seduce you.” Tom’s voice holds no note of condemnation. He’s just stating the obvious.

“How do you know?” I look up at him.

“Well, it’s not too hard to guess. Last time I saw you two together, he was staring at you like a hungry hound dog looking at fresh meat, and now you’re having trouble with your husband, you don’t know what’s happening next, and you need to get out of town.”

“Wait, you don’t know the whole story yet. The thing is that Rachel – ”

Tom doesn’t let me finish.

“Just a minute, let me guess what you’re going to say.” I nod. “Rachel seduced your husband while John was fucking you in the mountains.”

My mouth drops open in surprise.

“Why so astonished? What have I been telling you this whole time, honey? I’ve known them both forever. And they don’t try very hard to hide their habits and their passions. Neither one of them feels they need to. They accept each other just as they are, bless them, and they are quite satisfied with themselves. If anyone doesn’t like it or wants to judge them, that’s
their
problem. So! Rachel loves young blonds. And it doesn’t cost her anything to lure them into her bed. One time I myself was a witness – an unwilling one! It was an accident!” Tom puts a hand out in front of him, as if to ward off any reproach from me, but no reproach comes, so he continues.

“I don’t know who made those big swollen lips of hers.” Tom uses his fingers to sketch out Rachel’s lips in the air in front of his own face. “Obviously, whoever it was is a master of his art. She walked up to this young man and kissed him with those lips, and he was immediately ready for anything, I think, no more preparation needed. And then she slid down his body, undid his pants, and took him...” Tom hesitates, because he is now being painfully honest with me. Seeing how critical it is for me to know what happened next, he continues. “Well, she took...
him
in her mouth and started to suck, and the poor guy went into convulsions, almost immediately.”

“Right there in the gallery? Where everyone could see?” I asked.

“There are curtains. If you close them, you can’t see in from outside. And that table, where my computer stands, is pretty big. Plus there’s the little couch. Anyway, they had plenty of room to play.”

“And what were you doing there?” I can’t help asking.

“Nothing! I live there, girlfriend, remember? She didn’t know I was home that evening. I was supposed to have gone to meet a customer, who got sick and canceled at the last minute. Anyway, I snuck out of there, quiet as a mouse, before they spotted me, and came right over here. I drank till closing time, and I still had unpleasantly erotic dreams that night.

“There’s something of the witch in her. I like her very much, though. She’s a good woman, kind, and she takes care of her artists like they were her own children. She’s never been one of those petty busybody types, never bitchy. Doesn’t gossip or judge anyone. Even though she knows piles of famous people and she could tell piles of rumors about them. But no, her gorgeous lips are sealed! Even if you try to draw anything out of her, she avoids the question, smiles mysteriously, and changes the subject. And she is just
perfect
with her husband, John. You might even say she loves him. Of course, I’m not one to judge what’s love and what isn’t.” Tom stops abruptly, as if he’s lost his breath. He plants an elbow down on the table and props his head up in the palm of his hand. His green eyes peer out at me carefully from behind his glasses.

“Me neither, I guess,” I say, thinking about what he said about love. “I thought that I loved Paul. That I would never need anyone but him. Now I’ve done completely inappropriate things with somebody else’s husband, and, to my great embarrassment, I enjoyed it.”

“Well that’s the most important thing!” Tom laughs. “Enjoyment! As far as I can tell, for John and Rachel, love and feelings are for the soul. On the other hand, enjoyment and pleasure – that’s for the body. They don’t get those two things confused. Never seems to work for me, no matter how hard I try.”

“Then don’t try, if it’s not working.” I put a hand on his elbow. “Look at me! I’ve tried it, and this is how it’s ended up. Now all I want to do is escape to the other end of the world.”

“Come on, now, don’t lose hope. And don’t beat yourself up. You did such good work there, guided by all that passion, that no matter how things end, it’s going to have been worth it. Here, by the way, is your check from Seattle. I’ve already packed up the paintings and sent them off. You may kiss me right here.” Tom points primly at his cheek. I give him a huge hug and lean into him.

“Thank you, Tom! If I can ever repay you somehow, it would be my pleasure.”

“Oh, dear, that would be my pleasure, too! If I ever have two men chasing after me and I sleep with both...” Tom closes his eyes dreamily. “That’s my kind of trouble!”

After talking with Tom, eating dinner, and getting that check, I feel much better all around, and I head home to Paul. Whatever will be will be.

There are no lights on in our windows. Isn’t he at home? It’s late already, after midnight. Tom and I lost track of time talking. Maybe he’s with Rachel? The very thought makes me sick. But then I remember that Tom said Rachel is in San Francisco. Maybe Paul went there to see her? To San Francisco?

I open the door, drag my suitcase inside, and switch on the light. Paul is sitting at the kitchen table. He lifts his head and looks at me wearily.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” His face looks haggard, but he never takes his eyes off of me.

“I went to the gallery, to bring them the paintings. After that Tom and I went to dinner and we started talking. Should I have called or texted you so you wouldn’t worry?”

My question hangs there in the air.

“I thought you were with John.” When Paul speaks, his voice is flat and dull-sounding.

“Well, when I drove up and saw how dark it was in here, I thought you were with Rachel. See what they’ve done to us?” I ask, beseechingly. “How are we going to go on if we can’t stop thinking this way?”

“They didn’t do it to us. We did it to ourselves. And how we get out of this situation is all up to us, too. I told you everything was finished with Rachel and me. Whether you believe me is up to you.”

“Perfect!” I snap back at him. “Remember what I told you about John? That I’m gonna get together with him every chance I get?”

I start to cry. Something inside me has broken. I stumble to the bathroom and brush my teeth while the tears run down my face. Then, still miserable and covered in tears, I take a shower and burrow down under the covers in bed. Soon Paul joins me. He turns to me, takes me by the arm, and strokes my head, and I move closer to him, nestling into his chest. I’m still sobbing. Paul kisses my hair and keeps stroking my head. “Sweetheart, sweetheart, it’s going to be okay,” he whispers. And finally, miracle of miracles, I fall asleep.

It’s the best, deepest sleep I’ve had for many days. Now I remember what it feels like to sleep well and wake up with a clear head in the morning! Revived and refreshed, I bounce out of bed like a brand new woman. Really, nothing in the world can compare with eight hours of sound sleep.

Paul is in the kitchen, already dressed and cooking breakfast.

“Have you been up long?” I ask him.

“No, maybe half an hour. I finally managed to sleep right. Almost eight hours straight.” Paul is speaking out loud, but he sounds as if he’s talking to himself.

“Yeah, I know. That hasn’t happened to me for a while, either.”

We look at each other and we both smile. Paul is so handsome when he smiles. He has an adorable dimple on one cheek.

Over breakfast, I tell him about my recent career breakthroughs and show him the check for the paintings. Paul is appropriately impressed. Then I mention the offer to paint the office wall in Seattle.

“When are you leaving?” Paul immediately looks up.

“I don’t know. I just gave Tom my sketch yesterday. Tom seems to be taking over as my agent. He tells me when and where and for how long.” I’m finding it hard to look straight at Paul’s face. His bright blue eyes are drilling holes through me.

“Is Tom really any good as an agent? I thought his expertise lay elsewhere,” Paul says. He’s not looking at me anymore, and the muscle in his cheek is pulsing.

“Tom is a phenomenal agent. He’s already sold a bunch of my paintings, without any help from me, for good money. And next week he’s going to be meeting with the customer who wanted the landscapes. He has a real eye for art and he’s a born salesman. I’ve had amazing good luck with him.”

But as soon as I pronounce those words about luck, a mental balance sheet flashes before my eyes – with one column each for good luck and bad luck. So far, actually, the good luck has dominated. Why, then, do I feel so unlucky?

“How’s it going with your screenplay?” I try to change the subject. It feels wrong that Paul hasn’t made any objection to my trip.

“You know, I decided to have the athlete and the coach make up.” Paul looks at me expectantly, and then turns back to the stove to flip the pancakes.

I take the bait. “Why?”

“Because they’ve been together for so long, they know everything about each other, and they’re friends. They are miserable without each other. They don’t want to let any stupid girl ruin what they have. So they get together, have a man-to-man talk, punch each other in the nose and make up. Afterwards, they have to get back to work because they’re training for the Olympics.” I can only see his back. Such a handsome, muscular back! And his faded old shirt fits him so well!

“They beat each other up? Why?” I wonder who he’s talking about now – the characters in his script, or us?

“Well, they feel better afterwards. Had to let off some steam, you know? You can try it, too, if you want.” Paul puts a plate of pancakes before me and sits down across the table.

“You want me to try breaking your nose?”

“Sure. Hit me, make it hurt.”

But just looking at him makes
me
hurt. We’re so close, in this familiar kitchen of ours, and yet so out of place. “Are you going to hit me, too?” I ask glumly.

“No. I have no desire to beat you up.”

“I don’t, either. I don’t ever want to hurt you. Anyway, I don’t think it would make me feel better.” I dig into my food as if I haven’t eaten for years.

“What am I supposed to do to help you feel better, then?” Paul’s voice is calm, but the tension in it is audible. I lift my gaze up out of my plate and see his hands, clenched so tight into fists that his knuckles have gone white.

“There’s nothing you have to do,” I try to tell him with my mouth full. I almost say that he’s already done all he possibly can, but at the last minute, I decide not to. Instead, I finish chewing, and then add, “Now I need to somehow think this through, and figure out myself what to do. Without any help.”

Paul nods silently.

We don’t talk most of the rest of the day. It’s not a tense silence. We eat, then I help him with the dishes. I need to wash the clothes from my suitcase, and Paul goes with me to the laundromat. We just don’t feel like talking, so we don’t. It’s enough for us to be near each other, see each other, know that at any moment one of us could turn our head and call, and the other would answer right away. Our silence stretches between us and connects us like a thread. We hold onto it like we’re holding hands. When I check my phone, there is a message from Tom: “The client approved your sketch. Could you leave on Monday?” I show the message to Paul, who reads it without saying anything.

That evening, we eat quietly, wash the dishes, and go together to brush our teeth. After we lie down in bed, Paul takes my hand. He lifts it to his lips and starts to kiss my fingers, one after the other.

“I don’t care what you did with him, Emmy. I don’t even care that you
did
anything with him. I want you.”

“What about what I want?” I pull my hand away and roll out of bed. I stand up and look down at him. Paul puts both hands behind his head and looks back at me thoughtfully.

“I need for this to be my last memory of you before you leave,” says Paul. “It will help me hold on.”

I think about the long days and nights to come, without him, both in Seattle and afterwards. I haven’t decided yet where I’ll go after Seattle. Maybe I’ll come back here, and maybe not. Do I want my last erotic memory to be wild animal sex with John? No! The sex had been insane, but I want to have one more experience with Paul, one to take with me. Yes. He’s right. We need to do it before I leave.