Teaching Maya (13 page)

The club was noisy and crowded the next day. I was wearing a short black dress that put my legs on display. I looked good. If only I felt as good. Sigh. It had been a month since I’d returned from Paris, and my emotions were still pretty fragile.

I found Patrick and his friends. Introductions were made all around. His new roommate Anne eyed me with barely hidden dislike as I shook her hand. I wondered idly
what her problem was, but I didn’t pay much attention. I was floating through life; everything was superficial and shallow. I’d left my core bit behind in Paris. I felt like a zombie, devoid of an essential part of me.

Derek, the guy standing next to
Anne, shook my hand when we were introduced, holding it an instant too long. If I’d been paying attention, I’d have realized there was something about him I didn’t like. But I wasn’t paying attention. I was concentrating on the social niceties as a way to survive the clubbing without falling to pieces.

“
Dance with me, Maya.” Derek was next to me, leading me onto the dance floor. I shrugged passively. Sure. Whatever. My mind was far away, not in the club at all. My mind was in Paris; I was reliving Christmas at Ryan’s apartment. His easy laughter. The smell of the pine in the air, mixed with the aftermath of our sex. The breakfast he’d cooked Christmas morning, an echo of the Christmas breakfasts his mom had made for him. Pancakes, with chocolate chips in it, a special Christmas morning treat. The look in his eyes as he’d fed me a piece of pancake, the heat of his tongue as he’d licked syrup off my lips. And later, he’d tied me up so I couldn’t move, drizzled drops of syrup all over my body, and proceeded to slowly, thoroughly lick it off me. Heat rose in my cheeks as my body remembered that day. I swallowed a lump in my throat.
It’s over, Maya,
I told myself harshly.
Get a grip.

As I had after the cottage, I’d hoped that he’d call me. But he hadn’t. For the first week, I looked at my phone every instant, to see if I’d missed a call or a text from him, or even an email. I’d received nothing. My hope had faded by this time, and only pain was left. I had been drawn to Ryan, once again, like a moth to the flame, and once again, I’d been burned.

Derek said something to me, something I couldn’t hear in the noise of the club. “I’m sorry, what?” I yelled over the noise. He drew me closer to him. His body was hard and lean, but it felt somehow wrong. I held still. I was being ridiculous, I knew. He wasn’t holding me particularly close, but I was fighting the desire to flee.

“
Have you known Patrick long?” he yelled at me, arms still wrapped around my hips.

“
Four years,” I replied.

“
Are you dating him?”

“
Patrick?” I arched an eyebrow in surprise. I laughed. “No.” I shook my head. Patrick and I were friends, but we’d never been attracted to each other.

A fresh wave of music drowned what Derek said next.

“Sure,” I said automatically. I didn’t want to ask him what he’d said; he’d pull me even closer, and I didn’t want that.

“
Perfect, I’ll pick you up at 6.30 tomorrow then,” he was saying smoothly. “We’ll go to Café Alsace.”

What? I’d agreed to go out with this guy?
At Café Alsace, the newest pointlessly-expensive, pretentious, see-and-be-seen restaurant in San Francisco? Great. I rolled my eyes in disgust at myself, but I was too polite to retract my agreement. “I’ll meet you there,” I said instead. His eyes narrowed with displeasure, but before he could protest, the song thankfully came to an end. I fled the floor, hunted down Patrick. “I’m leaving,” I told him. He looked immediately concerned. I could see him begin to form the words, to tell me that I’d have to embrace life again; I couldn’t drown in my sorrows forever. I added quickly, to forestall that lecture, “I have a date tomorrow, by the way.”

“
Who with?” he asked in surprise.

“
Derek,” I said, making the slightest face, “at Café Alsace.”

Patrick frowned at me.
“I don’t like that guy,” he said, his brow furrowed.  “Be careful.”

“
I will.” I kissed Patrick on the cheek, and left.

The next evening, I was cursing my politeness. I really didn’t want to go out with Derek. I didn’t want to make polite conversation. I didn’t want to find out what Derek did in his spare time; I didn’t want to share what I did in mine. It was Friday night. I had to wake up early the next morning to go to the brewery; Ryan’s Christmas present to me, the one thing I looked forward to every week. I wanted to watch a sappy movie, drink some beer, and wallow in my misery.

It was too late to call the thing off though, so I dressed quickly, slipping on the dress I bought in Paris for
Gayla’s party over my head, and headed out.

Derek was already seated at the table when I walked in. I looked at my watch, wondering if I was late, but no, I was perfectly on time. He got up as I walked up to the table, waited for me to be seated.

“I ordered for us,” he stated, pushing a glass of wine over my way.

I suppressed my irritation with difficulty. The one redeeming feature about Café Alsace was that its beer list was excellent. I’d been looking forward to exploring.
Be polite,
I chided myself inwardly, and took a sip of the wine. Looking around, I realized I knew the people at two nearby tables; people who did business with Martinez, Inc. I pasted a smile on my face, nodded politely to them.

“
You want to know why I asked you out, Maya?” Derek’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
Not really,
I thought inwardly, but I faked a look of interest. There was something about Derek that I was responding to very badly. Up close, I realized, I did not like this guy.

“
You see, Maya,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension and arrogance, “I can sense what you need. You need a man to tell you what to do; to keep you in line. You need to submit. I can tell, looking at you, looking at how you keep your eyes lowered.”

My ire was rising through his speech. I kept my eyes lowered out for fear he’d see the irritation
in them. I was unwilling to make a scene at a restaurant filled with people I worked with. I cast my mind about for what to say; a way to politely tell Derek, that no, despite what he thought, I didn’t actually need a man to keep me in line. 

Derek mistook my silence for agreement.
“You’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey, haven’t you, Maya? I’m a Dom. And I can tell you are a natural submissive.” His voice barked out an order. “Go to the washroom, take off your panties, Maya, and come back and hand them to me.”

He had to be joking.
This guy didn’t know me at all. He’d met me just once in a club; he clearly wasn’t interested in finding out anything about me, did he think I would take off my panties in one of San Francisco’s most prestigious restaurants, and hand it to him?  I looked at him.

“
I’m not going to repeat myself, Maya.” He raised his voice; his words had an edge to them.

He wasn’t joking. I rose; this ridiculous date had gone on long enough. The contrast between this prick and Ryan couldn’t have been greater. Ryan didn’t need to raise his voice. Ryan was faultlessly polite; unendingly interested in me. I had been a person to Ryan; I was just a means to an end for Derek.

I met Derek’s eyes levelly. I didn’t raise my voice, but my voice was icy. “Thank you. This was… illuminating.” I reached for my purse, threw a handful of bills down, more than enough to cover this travesty of a dinner, and I walked out.

I didn’t want to go back home; Derek had unwittingly
stirred emotions in me I was trying to keep under control. I missed Ryan so much; my body ached for him. I called Patrick as I drove back. “Are you at home?” I asked.

“
From the sound of your voice, that doesn’t sound like a good date,” he said.  “Sure, come on over, I’ll get pizza.”

“
The stupid asshole, does he think I’m going to jump to his bidding?” My voice was angry as I recounted the story to Patrick over slices of pizza. “In a restaurant where I’m surrounded by business partners? Hand me my panties, indeed. Motherfucker.”

Patrick shook his head, but I wasn’t done with the ranting.
“Like I’d ever take off my panties for that boy.” My voice rose, it was filled with contempt. I was still seething. “Please. I’ve been with the real thing. This silly boy, with his Fifty Shades of Grey fantasy, he can go fuck himself.”

Patrick eyed me.
“What do you mean, you’ve been with the real thing?” he asked, as he helped himself to another slice.

“
Oh. Ryan liked to tie me up, spank me.” I blushed. Patrick and I had never discussed details of our sex lives.

He whistled, raised an eyebrow.
“Really? Maya, you are growing up quickly, aren’t you?” He was laughing at me, damn him.

I could only laugh back. I reached for a slice of pizza to cover my embarrassment. 
“Drop it, ok, Patrick?” I mumbled. “How’s the painting going?” I asked, partly to change the topic, but also because I’d been so engrossed in my problems that I had no idea what was going on in my best friend’s life.

We chatted companionably a
fter that; about Patrick’s work, the galleries he was planning on approaching; my work and how busy I’d been since I returned from Paris. I went home, greatly cheered.

***

The days passed. Work was excruciatingly busy. Ivar had eyed me thoughtfully when I got back from Paris, but whatever comment he might have had upon seeing my reddened, swollen eyes, he kept to himself. Ivar rarely pried; he never offered advice. Instead, he made sure Paul buried me in work. Knowing Ivar, the extra work was a gesture of concern, a desire to lessen the amount of time I’d have to brood.

I was getting ready to go to work one Monday morning, when my phone beeped at me. My heart lurched, as it had been doing every single time my phone b
eeped the last month and a half, wondering if it was a message from Ryan. But it was never Ryan.

It wasn’t Ryan this time either; it was Patrick. The message was short.

Maya, I think you better read this.

I clicked on the attached link. It opened to a tabloid article.
I idly wondered what Patrick was doing reading the tabloids. I started reading, and my world fell apart.

The piece was short. There was a photo of Ryan, taken at a book launch. He was laughing at something. The headline was titled
“50 shades of Clayborn”. My heart plummeted; my hands started to shake. I read on, dreading what the article was going to say.

“
Ryan Clayborn isn't just making waves for his books, darlings.  A well-placed source tells us that in between books, the luscious author has been tutoring San Francisco local, Maya Martinez in the kind of sexual arts best described in the recent bestseller “50 Shades of Grey”. Who knew? Mr. Clayborn, you can tie me up and spank me anytime.

Mr. Clayborn has been seen in recent weeks in the company of up-and-coming Parisian artist Natalie
Besson, so perhaps the tutoring session is over for the young Martinez, Inc. finance executive.

Ryan
is in the middle of a book tour at the moment, darlings. Check the schedule on his website, perhaps you too can get your spank on, courtesy Ryan Clayborn?”

How? My brain was reeling. Who had
talked? Patrick knew, of course, but I trusted Patrick with my life. It couldn’t have been Patrick. My eyes filled with tears. The article was sneering; it had cheapened the most special two weeks of my life.

And Ryan’s reaction. I could only remember in despair how private Ryan was. His repeated warnings for me to be careful with who I played with. His disdain of the paparazzi; his carefully guarded privacy
. Could it be any of his friends at Gayla’s party? Maybe, but I knew I was fooling myself. The leak was here, in San Francisco. I’d caused this.

I’d gone pale; m
y eyes were filled with tears. If I’d ever hoped to have a relationship with Ryan, this was the nail in the coffin of that hope. He would never forgive me for this.

Work. I couldn’t possibly go to work. People
would be abuzz with speculation. I found I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t face questions about Ryan. My heart was too fragile, the wounds too recent. I sent Paul a brief email, telling him I wouldn’t be into work, and I sank on the floor in utter despair.

It was hours later when I heard insistent knocking at the door. Probably Patrick, I thought. My phone had buzzed several times during the day, but I’d ignored it entirely. I didn’t want to see the text messages or the emails. I wanted to stay buried in my apartment.

The knocking resumed, louder. I sighed. My neighbors would be wondering what was going on. I got up to open the door.

It was Ivar. He eyed me expressionlessly, as he walked in.
“So you’ve seen the article.”

I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

“Come here.” Ivar gathered me into his arms, drew me in for a hug. His unexpected gentleness was too much to bear. I burst into tears. I cried thinking about the article, in despair over everything I’d lost in Paris, and in sorrow and heartbreak that Ryan hadn’t called or emailed me.

Ivar kept quiet as I cried, holding me, offering silent comfort. My sobs finally stilled. I drew back, laughed shakily with embarrassment.
His shirt was stained with my eye-liner. “I’ve ruined your shirt,” I said sadly.

“
It’s just a shirt, Maya.” Ivar dismissed the shirt with an indifferent shrug. His shrug reminded me of Ryan. Fresh tears threatened.

“
And now the entire family knows I was sleeping with Ryan,” I mumbled, my eyes on the floor.

Ivar laughed in amusement.
“That was pretty obvious right at the cottage, Maya. I knew, I’m pretty sure Mom and Dad knew, and I know Nina found out that you never stayed at her apartment in Paris.” 

“
Oh. I thought I was sneaking around better than that.” My voice was small. “Are you angry?”

“
Why?” Ivar looked at me, puzzled. “You are an adult, Maya, not a child. You can do whatever you want, sleep with whoever you want. Besides, it isn’t as if I don’t approve of Ryan. He’s my best friend.”

“
What about Grandma?” I asked.

Ivar raised his shoulder in a shrug.
“I don’t know; we haven’t discussed it, Maya. If you really care, ask her yourself. Weird as it may seem to you, we all rarely have conversations about who you are sleeping with.”

I coloured.
“Oh,” I said again.

“
Paul said you sent him a note; you didn’t come into work today.”

“
Do you blame me?” I asked bitterly. “I’m in the tabloids. People are sneering about my sex life. I just want to hide.”

“
In fairness, I think they were sneering at Ryan a bit more…” Ivar’s voice was slightly amused as he pointed that out. I burst into tears in response.

Ivar winced.
“Okay, what did I say?” he asked, running his hands through his hair in a gesture of helplessness.

I shook my head; I didn’t reply. Ivar just eyed me for a while, let me cry it out. After about five minutes, he handed me a handkerchief.

“Maya. Listen. I didn’t just come here to watch you cry. When that article came out, I set Andrew on the case. I wanted to know who had leaked that story.”

Andrew was the chief of security at Martinez. He was scarily competent.

I paid attention. “Who?”

“
Patrick’s new roommate. Anne.”

“
But, why?”

“
You rejected her cousin or some such thing?” Ivar shook his head in disgust. “Silly drama queen. Plus, she got paid ten thousand dollars for her trouble.”

Oh. I hadn’t realized Anne and Derek were related.
Realization dawned. “I went over to Patrick’s after my date with Derek. She must have been in her room; must have heard me.” I hadn’t made any effort to keep my voice down. I’d forgotten entirely about Anne.

“
Yes. Well, I called Patrick. He feels terrible, blames himself. Anne will be moving out, of course.” Ivar’s voice was cold. He rarely interfered in our lives, but he was very protective of us all.

“
Did you yell at Patrick?” I asked. “It wasn’t his fault, it was mine.”

Ivar laughed.
“No, of course I didn’t yell at Patrick. I like Patrick. Anne, on the other hand…” His voice turned to ice. “Anne will find it difficult to work in San Francisco again.”

I supposed I should have felt sorry for her; the punishment far exceeded the crime. But Ryan would never forgive me for this. I found it difficult to muster much sympathy for her. Thoughts of Ryan set tears running down my face again.

Ivar looked at me with some impatience. “Maya. Everyone gets written about from time to time. I end up in the tabloids at least once a month. You can’t pay attention to this. You just have to live your life.”

My tears had not abated. How could I explain to Ivar that most of my tears were not because of that article, but because Ryan hadn’t called? How could I explain how much I missed his touch, the way his body felt against mine? Instead, I just cried.