The Lover's Game (2 page)

B
y the time she came, it was dark, and I had been waiting impatiently for almost an hour, my hands frozen in the pockets of my coat as I watched the late afternoon sun disappear. The beautiful Victorian-style lampposts were already switched on, their dull flicker casting an eerie yellow glow on the asphalted street. Central Park was magically beautiful, both during the day and at night. I usually avoided parks after dark, but today I was making an exception. To kill time as I waited for Thalia, I had walked around the southern half of the park. I had assumed it would be devoid of life at that hour, but to my surprise, clusters of people had gathered here and there, walking or jogging, immersed in their lives, probably struggling with their own demons.

After what seemed like an eternity, a car finally pulled over. From a distance, I spied Thalia getting out, right where we had arranged to meet. I waved to get her attention, then walked over.

Even under the weak illumination from the lampposts, I could see that the car was a scrambled mess with clutter all over the passenger and back seat. Never in my life had I met anyone so chaotic—except for Sylvie, when she was about to pack her suitcase and couldn’t decide on what to take with her. It was as if Thalia had practically been living in her car; for all I knew, she had been.

“Jesus. What happened to you?” Thalia slammed the car door and turned to regard me. Her voice betrayed a worrying edge as she eyed me up and down. “Your lips are all blue, and you’re freezing.” She pulled my hands into hers and shivered as if to prove her point.

My tongue flicked over my numb lips. I hadn’t realized my physical appearance would so easily give away the way I felt. Granted, I didn’t have a mirror, so I had no clue how I looked. But surely it couldn’t be that bad, apart from a bit of smudged mascara. I absent-mindedly smoothed my hair and smiled.

“It’s not as bad as you think.”

Deep worry lines creased her forehead, signaling that she didn’t believe me. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly, after a pause.

Great. Just great.

I figured I must really look like crap, which wasn’t ideal, given the fact that I was supposed to go on a job interview. I should have changed at Sylvie’s place. Or maybe not as, I thought, remembering why I’d decided against it in the first place: I couldn’t deal with her questions, nor did I have the energy to recall all that had happened or, worse yet, acknowledge my mistakes and whatever hard facts I needed to accept.

“I’d rather not.” Swallowing hard, I shot her a shy look. “I just had a crappy day, that’s all.”

“I don’t mean to be pushy,” Thalia said. “I’ve been told I’m a good listener, and I just want you to know I’m here to talk whenever you feel like it.”

I shot her warm smile. “I appreciate that, but I’m not ready. Sorry. Maybe another time?”

“All right.” She eyed me one last time before she sighed. “I brought coffee. Figured you might want one.” She inclined her head toward the car, signaling that she was about to change the subject. “Sorry I kept you waiting. I had to clean the floor after my shift.”

“No problem. I’m just really grateful you’re offering to take me along.”

“You really need this job, huh?” Thalia pointed around the car impatiently, a sign that she wanted to leave. I walked around and slid into the passenger seat.

“After today, I definitely do,” I said, realizing there was no point in lying.

I watched her walk around to her side and hop into the driver’s seat. Leaning forward, she handed me a cup of coffee.

“Thank you.”

I warmed my cold hands against the cup containing the hot liquid, then took a tentative sip. After being outside in the cold for hours, the warmth soothed me from the inside, and I savored the flavor of coffee, sugar, and whipped cream, reminding me that I was still alive and living.

“Don’t worry. I’ll persuade Grayson to give you a job, but first—” Her eyes brushed over my clothes in thought before she pointed to the cluttered mess on her back seat, “—we need to get you out of that. I have countless dresses I bought before my self-imposed shopping ban. There should be one that fits you. My motto is, ‘If you look good, you feel good.’ So...” She shrugged and paused, hesitation written all over her face, as though she wasn’t sure why she was about to divulge such information “Whenever I have a bad day, I dress up. It makes the world a better place, at least for a while.”

At that moment, Thalia officially sounded like Sylvie. I decided to like her; after all, anyone who resembled my friend Sylvie had to be a good person. In fact, I figured most human beings on the planet were better than Jett and his sick family. Compared to them, Thalia was a God-sent angel, and through her, for the first time in my life, I saw a way out, a way to escape my debts.

“I don’t know why you’re doing it, but thank you for helping,” I whispered.

Staring out the car window, various emotions washed over me as thoughts kept spinning in my mind. The job was an option. An option I could accept, but didn’t have to. Still, the more I thought back to my college days, eating ramen noodles day in and day out, working my ass off to avoid amassing a fortune in loans, the more I was convinced I was doing the right thing. And I really didn’t care what I had to do, as long as I was in control of my own life. And control I was seeking.

Finally, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, an escape from a precarious financial situation that I had thought would keep me enchained for the rest of my life. My best friend had always told me that if I wanted something, I had to work hard to achieve it. I had done that, but as it turned out, working hard was not enough, and it was certainly not always the fastest way to solve a problem. So I had always poured everything I had into my career, but now, a shortcut was necessary.

Taking this job could be my shortcut. I was willing to adapt, to change, to try something new, and to take on challenges I hadn’t faced before.

Whatever it takes. It was time to write my own destiny.

As silently as I could, I switched off my cell phone, so no one could reach me.

T
he streets were busier than usual, and the car seemed to stop at every corner. We had been driving for at least forty minutes when we finally reached an area close to the Williamsburg Bridge. The car came to a screeching halt in front of a red, three-story building, and I got out. From the outside, in the dark, it seemed rather ordinary, if not even a bit run-down. If I hadn’t known any better, I wouldn’t have had a clue that it was actually the studio of a successful photographer slash artist. There was certainly no sign indicating the opportunity of a promising job.

A cold wind whipped my hair into my face, and I wrapped my coat tighter around me. Shivering near the entrance, I watched Thalia change her sneakers for a pair of high heels. She tossed the athletic shoes onto the back seat and retrieved an oversized training bag, which I assumed contained her outfit for the job.

“Is he famous?” I asked as she locked up the car.

“Who?”

“Grayson.”

“I wouldn’t say that, but he is well established and known for his exquisite taste and expensive art collection.” She turned to shoot me a strange look, then glanced up at the windows. “Whatever he shows you, keep any remarks to yourself. His art takes a while to get used to, if you ask me, but he takes it very personally when someone doesn’t like it.”

“Is it that bad?”

She laughed. “See for yourself. As they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I’ve never understood his taste, but I’m not exactly a creative genius. Maybe it’ll appeal to you. Who knows?”

She slung the bag over her shoulder and let herself in, motioning for me to follow her up a narrow staircase. Her cryptic words had left me eager to find out what she had meant by “exquisite taste.” Was this Grayson renowned for his taste in selecting just the right model for the job, or did his art cater to the strange and bizarre? The countless questions floating in my mind kept me intrigued and focused and not just as a distraction that helped me forget my relationship drama. As far as impressions went, Grayson was a big, blurry question mark. I knew next to nothing about him, and the sudden realization of the unknown made me nervous.

“What happens with the pictures he takes?” I asked. “Does he always sell them?”

“Usually, yeah.” Thalia nodded slowly. “Most go to rich collectors, fans of the fifties era. Others he sells to magazines and film and music studios. He keeps only a few for himself. This is the place where he usually hangs out when he’s not traveling. Sometimes he rents out his studio to art events, gallery shows, and launch parties, which is how he raises his profile. Before he became a photographer, he owned a modeling agency.”

She pressed a button above a polished steel plate that had “GR Photography” engraved on it. Within seconds, the door buzzed and opened. We stepped into a large hall decorated with marble pillars, huge mirrors, and hardwood flooring. In some ways, it reminded me of an art gallery with white naked walls and high ceilings. No flowers, no paintings adorning the walls.

“This is the waiting area,” Thalia explained in a muted voice.

I nodded as I let my gaze sweep over the plain white leather couches and matching chairs near an unoccupied glass reception desk set up in the middle of the room.

“Obviously, Grayson’s expecting us, so we’re not going to wait here,” Thalia continued and pointed at a door marked “Studio.”

As we passed the reception desk and crossed the corridor, my eyes fell on a life-sized sculpture. Just looking at it gave me the creeps and yet I stepped back to analyze it, unable to peel my eyes off the horrid statue. It took me a few seconds to process what I was seeing. The thing was carved from wood and reminded me of a distorted face with an open mouth and big, alien eyes reflecting terror. The body resembled a deformed man surrounded by blazing fire, his arms waving as though to cry for help, while his feet were rooted in what looked like earth. I shuddered at just how ugly it was. Actually, ugly was an understatement. It was dreadful. In one word: monstrous. So bad it was almost funny. I pressed my hand over my mouth to suppress a giggle. It was so deplorable and grotesque that I was surprised Grayson’s visitors weren’t too freaked out to return.

“What the hell is this?” I whispered. “If I had something like this in my home, I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes at night.”

Thalia laughed quietly in my ear. “He calls it his ‘mandrake.’ Scary as shit. Now, that’s the art I was talking about. He is kind of obsessed with it.” She pulled at my arm gently. “Like I said, pop over a few times, and you won’t even notice it anymore. But if he asks, tell him you love it.”

I nodded and Thalia led me through yet another door into a well-lit space with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and various places to sit.

“This is the dressing room.”

Compared to the entrance hall, this room felt oppressing and tight. Maybe it wasn’t the lack of space as much as the fact that it was littered with clothes and carrier bags, and shoes strewn across the floor.

“From the sight of it, Grayson’s busy.” Thalia pointed to the ceiling.

I was just about to point out that I had no idea what she was talking about when soft thudding sounds carried down from above. People rushing around. Jumping. Perhaps even dancing.

Moving past the mirrors, I caught my reflection and winced. My hair looked presentable enough. Being curly and wavy, it never needed a brush. But my face was a mess: my skin pale from exhaustion, the bags under my eyes swollen and dark. There was no doubt I looked as though I had attended a funeral. I laughed inwardly at my morbid thoughts. It some way, I
had
been at one. While sitting in Central Park, I had mourned my old self and all those things I’d never have: a family with Jett, a father for my child.

Thalia glanced at her watch.

“We’re late. We have to hurry.” She retrieved a blue
Donna Morgan
print dress from her bag and pushed it into my hands. “Try this on. It should fit you.”

I changed quickly, aware of her eyes on me, and then followed her silent command to sit down when she pointed to a chair. Her hands immediately began to busy themselves with my hair and makeup. My curls were pulled up and twisted with bobby pins, then, with a precision and ease I had never possessed, Thalia started to transform my face into flawlessness, complete with porcelain skin and huge, hazel eyes, framed by dark green eyeliner. She paused to inspect her work before resuming with the confidence of a professional artist.

“Where did you learn to do this?” I asked.

“I’m self-taught,” she said with justified pride. “As a teen, I wanted to be a makeup artist, so I used to spend my time reading fashion magazines and blogs. Even though I couldn’t afford school, the knowledge has come in handy.” She applied a touch of mascara and stepped back to regard me, apparently satisfied with the result. “There you go! You have stunning eyes. You should wear more green and gray.”

“Thank you.”

She pointed at the mirror and began to put away her brushes.