Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage (16 page)

“When Rachel recommended you to me, I thought I could probably trust her taste,” Greg goes on. I’m listening again now. “That was the right thing to do. Please keep in touch, wherever you end up next. I’d like to see your work and maybe pick something out for myself, rather than the office.”

I do my best to keep the conversation going. I ask him about his office and his business. Surprisingly, he speaks in a fairly coherent and informative way about what he does for a living. That takes up a little bit of time.

Greg orders us a bottle of wine, and we’ve both ordered dinner. I think of Tom with longing because the whole menu here is full of French words. Eventually I just give in and ask Greg to order me whatever he’s getting. I am so worked up that I don’t have much of an appetite, in any case.

Meanwhile, Greg had turned the conversation around to focus on me again.

“When I first met you, I didn’t really believe that you were you. I had a completely different picture of you in my head.”

“How was it different?” I want to know. “Was I taller? Older?”

“Both taller and older,” he answers agreeably. “Here comes this girl, this casual little thing in sneakers with tangled hair.”

I run a hand through my hair mechanically. I had shampooed it, carefully blown it dry and combed it out. Greg laughs, and the nice boyish smile is back on his face.

“No, no, it’s nothing to worry about! External appearances aren’t the important thing for an artist. Right now you look simply amazing. There’s just this very striking contrast. Such powerful, maybe even masculine, art, and then this tiny, feminine artist.”

I take a gulp of wine from my glass. What difference does it make how I look, if he likes my work? Greg seems to sense my tension, and he takes a checkbook and pen from his pocket and writes me out a check for the job. Seeing the amount makes my eyes bug out, and my jaw literally drops. It’s more than what Tom had told me. More even than what you might expect with a bonus for finishing early. Greg hands me the check and raises his glass.

“To work well done here!” We clink glasses and drink, and then I slip the check into my purse before he can change his mind. A gentle fog is gradually settling over my mind, thanks to the wine. When our food finally comes, I make sure I eat enough to avoid getting completely drunk. I have no idea what my dish is called, but it’s delicious, and believe it or not, I manage to happily eat almost all of it. Greg watches me with a grin. He no longer looks so composed and focused. There’s more of a comfy, relaxed air about him now. His gaze lingers on me for some time. I realize such a look ought to embarrass me, but for some reason, it doesn’t. I look right back at him with curiosity.

“We need one more toast. Let’s drink to our continued cooperation!” With that declaration, he pours the rest of the wine into our glasses. Greg’s eyes are sparkling with excitement.

“Do you have another wall that needs painting?” I ask him, all business, but also high on my own success and the unprecedented fee I had just collected.

“Actually, I had another form of cooperation in mind.” Greg opens up his suit jacket a bit and loosens the knot on his tie. “I work pretty much constantly, and I have no time for any sort of private life. I can’t even remember the last time I sat like this in a restaurant with a beautiful woman. I live alone. I eat and sleep alone. Sometimes it gets unbearably lonely… So, I was thinking. Why don’t we spend this night together? You’re not leaving for Vancouver till tomorrow.”

Greg looks at me. I look back, and find myself thinking that sex with him might not be all that bad.

What is
wrong
with me? Am I drunk after all? Do I really want to sleep with him? I don’t know him and I certainly don’t love him. All day long I’ve been thinking of Paul, nonstop. Of course, I didn’t love John, either, and that didn’t keep me from totally enjoying sex with him. There you have it: this is just about sex. I love sex now, and I can’t get by for long without it. That doesn’t mean, though, that I should be going to bed with anyone who happens to ask, I scold myself. That’s just drifting with the current again. If you sleep with Greg, I tell myself, going back to Paul will be even harder.

“Greg, I’m married. Didn’t Rachel tell you?” I ask him, looking him right in the eye. He’s clearly abashed, and I give myself a mental high five – way to go, Emmy, play it cool!

“No, I didn’t know. You didn’t say anything,” he adds in his own defense.

“No, I didn’t tell you. It never came up. I never showed
that
kind of interest in you, though, did I? Did I ask you a bunch of personal questions or flirt with you?” I barge on through. I need to know what makes these guys think I’m interested in their attention.

“No, no, none of that,” Greg admits. “It’s just that, well, when I look at you, I start thinking about sex. I can’t help it.”

“Why?” I demand, nearly jumping out of my chair.

“Well, you’re cute, and, if you want me to put it bluntly...” Greg pauses to think. “You’ve got sex appeal. Yes. Sex appeal, that’s the phrase. Forgive me, please.”

“No, it’s okay.” I mull over what he said. Then I reach out my left hand to show him. “There, you see? I have a ring. My husband’s name is Paul. I love him very much.”

As I say those words, I realize that they are true. I do love Paul. I’m terrified to think that everything might be finished between us. I know I don’t want any other man, not now, at least. I just need sex...

Greg peers curiously at my ring.

“It doesn’t look like a wedding ring.”

“We didn’t have the money for a fancy gold ring with diamonds when we got married. It didn’t seem important, either.”

Now he is looking at my face with the same sort of curiosity. I refuse to feel embarrassed, and I look him in the eye bravely.

“Do you want the check back? Does it include payment for personal services rendered?” I ask him quietly.

“No! No, the check has nothing to do with this. How could you think that?” Greg is clearly alarmed.

“Ha! What else was I supposed to think when you paid me, and then suggested I go to bed with you?”

Greg looks at me thoughtfully, and then finally says, “I just thought, why not ask? What if it’s my lucky day? Well, it’s not. We can still be friends, right? Or is your honor so besmirched that you can’t speak to me anymore?”

“My honor is unbesmirched, and we can still speak. Right now, though, it’s probably time to go home. For both of us.”

Greg drives me back to the hotel. We don’t talk in the car. I sit there, my legs squeezed primly together, to hide how aroused I feel. I’m seriously, physically desperate for a man, but still, when Greg came on to me at the restaurant, I rejected him.

I haven’t quite made up my mind, even at the very last second, but finally I say goodbye and get out of the car alone. Back in my room, I throw myself on the bed and thrust my hand down inside my underwear. I need some release right away or I’m going to explode. Just then the telephone buzzes. It’s Paul, texting. “Emmy, where are you?”

I write back, with a sigh, “I’m at my hotel. Why aren’t you sleeping?” It’s almost midnight.

Paul: Can’t sleep. What kind of dress did you buy?

Me: Black, knee-length. Why?

Paul: Did he hit on you?

Me: Who?

I’m playing dumb. I know full well who he’s asking about. Now I understand why Paul cut off our conversation earlier, why he sounded so cold. He was jealous! That’s a good sign, right?

Paul: Your client who asked you to dinner.

Me: You can sleep soundly. I’m completely alone in my own bed and safe. I’ll call you from Vancouver.

Paul: Good night.

My hand creeps downward again and my fingers get back to work. I remember how Paul looked and felt that last time, in the shower, how he kissed and caressed me, how he fucked me, pressing me against the wall. I come with a cry.

All night, I have erotic dreams about sex with different men, not just Paul and John, which would make sense, but also Eric and Greg, which is more perplexing and, I think, more shameful. I wake up covered in sweat and completely confused. What is wrong with me? I’ve transformed from totally frigid to a sexual maniac. What would my grandmother say?

I remember my decision to be honest with myself. Then I admit, truthfully, that ever since I discovered what good sex is, it has become difficult for me to get by without it. Why
should
I try to do without it, anyway? I can help myself! With that thought, I slip my hand back under the covers and start stroking and rubbing myself again. My imagination helpfully cooks up various fantasy images for me about a certain muscle-bound security-guard surfer, and how it could have been if we had gone for it. My other hand is kneading my breast. I come again. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, is there? I’m a normal, healthy, young woman, and I want to experience pleasure.

I didn’t go sleep with Eric or Greg in real life, even though the thought had obviously occurred to me. No. I had made the decision to stop drifting and become the master of my own fate. What I imagine while I’m masturbating is nobody else’s business. I can imagine the pope if I want, if that turns me on. That makes me giggle, because the pope does absolutely nothing for me sexually.

I remember Rachel, how she accepts herself as she is, without a single thought for other people’s opinions. That’s how Tom spoke of her, I think. Meanwhile, she is gorgeous, sensuous, and... Paul cheated on me with her. He couldn’t resist her. I want to be sensuous and gorgeous, too! In fact, I want to be like Rachel. I had really liked her, at first, after all. A lot. My grandmother’s voice can just shut up now, for all I care.

My gaze falls on my purse, which I had tossed down on the bedside table the night before. Inside that purse is the enormous check Greg wrote out for me. I’ve never had so much money at my disposal! What’s stopping me from spending some part of that on myself? I think I can afford it. My mood has once again swung back in the other direction, and no amount of rain is going to ruin it.

I jump out of bed, have some breakfast, and drive straight to the nearest mall. I’m going to buy myself some sexy new underwear. A few dresses, too. I keep picturing Rachel in that brick-colored dress of hers. I may have a different figure and different hair, but I’m going to find something just as feminine and seductive to wear.

On my way, for the first time in my life, I stop at a sex shop to buy myself a vibrator. Luckily for me, there’s nobody inside except the woman at the cash register who probably owns the place. She is busy reading something on her computer screen and doesn’t pay me any attention. I exhale (apparently I’ve been holding my breath, out of embarrassment or nerves, I suppose), and I head over to a wide selection of vibrators, in all different shapes and colors. I immediately pick out the one that is going to be mine, in a shiny shade of lavender.

Gathering my courage, I stroll farther down the aisle, past shelves holding all sorts of amazing contraptions and outfits, till I reach the DVDs. I start digging through the bins, trying to find the film that Rachel starred in, the one Paul masturbated to at home. There’s a remarkably large selection to choose from. Any topic you like. I don’t know what category that movie belongs to, so I stand there, dismayed.

“Can I help you?” The voice startles me, it’s so close by. I turn around, and see the woman who had been sitting at the cash register. Now she’s standing right behind me. “Are you looking for something specific, or just something you’ll like?”

The expression on her face tells me she is genuinely interested, and actually wants to help. Trying to ignore my fear and the nagging sense of shame that is knotting into a fist in my stomach, I tell her, “I’m looking for a movie made fifteen or twenty years ago. The star is this totally beautiful woman, tall, with auburn hair. She has an unusually shaped mouth, like a heart, and lips so plump they look like they’ve been drawn on.”

“Well, twenty years ago, they made a whole lot of films with auburn-haired beauties with full lips. I’ll need some more details. You’ve seen this movie before?” The other woman’s face doesn’t betray any sign of surprise. She must be used to these awkward questions. I feel braver.

“I’ve seen it,” I nod, and after thinking a bit, I add, “She’s so uninhibited in it. Two men are fucking her and she has these colossal orgasms. Like she’s just exploding. Is that enough detail for you?”

“No, not really, but it’s something to go on...” The woman walks over to some cartons near the cash register and starts digging around inside one. “Is there a plot, or just sex?”

I try hard to remember. Yes, I think there actually was a plot. I had only seen one scene, though, so I can’t tell her the whole story.

“They’re in some kind of fancy castle. It looked like it was professionally made. The cameraman obviously knew what he was doing. The lighting was done well, too. And the music.” Diana’s film lessons are paying off. Good thing she had spent so much time indoctrinating me with the secrets of expert cinematography! Now I can tell high-quality porn from garbage! Thumbs up, I think to myself. Good work, Emmy!

“Yeah, these days they don’t generally think too much about the artistic stuff when they make films like those,” laments the cashier. “Now porn is mass produced. Back then, they used to make films sometimes that showed some real talent. Ones especially for the ladies.”