Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage (19 page)

I put my hands up to my cheeks. I don’t know. I’d have to deal with Rachel and talk with her. How would that work? Immediately, though, Tom offers me a way out.

“I’m organizing the whole thing myself. Don’t fret, girlfriend. You can trust your Uncle Tom. Everything is going to be just tip top.”

Lorna backs him up. “Go for it, Emmy. We’ll exhibit your next works from this series here at my gallery. I’ve been planning something of the sort for November.”

“Thank you so much,” I tell them both, pressing my hands to my chest. This means Lorna really does like what I’ve been painting, and she hadn’t complimented me just to be polite. “You two can’t even imagine how much your support means to me.”

Great, now I’m about to cry. Tom raises one eyebrow, and the gravity of the moment dissolves. “Maybe we need to have a drink to celebrate. You know what I say: less talking, more doing.”

Lorna graciously dismisses us. “Okay, you two, off you go. I can see you want to talk. I can do without you for a while here, Emmy.”

Tom and I head out to Richard’s bar.

“You’ve really changed, girlfriend,” Tom says, his gaze sweeping appraisingly over my dress and boots. “I like this new look of yours, even better than your old one, I think.”

“Thanks!” I’m flattered. Tom is a knowledgeable judge, so his praise really means something.

“You were adorable in jeans and sneakers, too, of course. Now, though, in that dress, you’re simply gorgeous. Why do I get the feeling you’re wearing some stunning lingerie under that gown?”

Now I’m blushing. I know Tom is gay, but still... If he figured out what kind of underwear I have on, what would an ordinary heterosexual male think, looking at me?

“Oh, don’t be so embarrassed! It’s wonderful that you’re finally embracing your own femininity and sexuality. Even your posture is different! You’re walking differently, as if you feel more confident and assertive. Your husband will love it.”

“Paul?” my ears perk up. “Do you have any news of him?”

I freeze. Tom’s only possible source of news about Paul is Rachel. Isn’t she tired of him yet?

“Not only do I have news about him, but I’ve seen him in person,” Tom says, waggling his eyebrows mysteriously, obviously expecting questions from me. I don’t disappoint him.

“Where? Did he visit you at the gallery? Is he still seeing Rachel?”

“No. I’m the one who went to see him, and we met on neutral ground. As far as I know – and believe me, I always examine every possible angle – since you left town, Paul and Rachel have not spoken once.”

“So why did you see Paul?” I’m still worried, but a little bit reassured, too. Now I understand better how Paul found me here in Vancouver.

“I gave him a check for your landscapes. I hope that’s all right.”

“Oh! Thanks! No, that’s fine.” Honestly, I had forgotten all about the paintings and getting paid for them. That’s my business sense for you. What would I do without Tom? How would I fund my sexy new underwear?

“How is Paul doing, anyway?” I ask, looking up at Tom.

“Paul is just like you. He stares at me with those same sad eyes when he asks about you.” Tom smiles gently. “He loves you, silly, and he was just devastated when you left. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. You ought to stop torturing him. You two need to get back to sleeping together.”

If only he knew!

“Well, I’m not against it. Sleeping with Paul, I mean,” I explain. “How do we arrange it, though?”

“That’s just details. You can figure that out without me,” Tom answers dismissively. “Uncle Tom is above all these petty little things. I just know that if you send some paintings to Rachel at the gallery, a trip down there will be inevitable. And then anything could happen.”

I already have a round-trip ticket to Los Angeles. I desperately want to see Paul. What about Rachel, though? What could I say to her? How would I react to her?

“I know it’s Rachel who recommended me to Greg – er, Mr. Montgomery,” I tell Tom. “It looks like Lorna hired me on her recommendation, too. Why do you think she did those things for me?”

“Maybe you ought to ask her.” Tom looks at me slyly and grins. 

I glare at him in response. I find it hard to imagine myself asking Rachel questions. “Why did you seduce my husband and then send me off to Seattle and Vancouver?” Is that what I would say?

“If you ask me, there’s a simple answer. She thinks you’re a talented artist,” says Tom. “Her sleeping with Paul and you sleeping with John doesn’t have anything to do with this. She draws a very clear line between business and pleasure.  Don’t be so upset. You’ll figure it out just fine.” Tom pats me on the shoulder.

He raises his glass of wine to his lips, but suddenly catches sight of someone or something behind my back, and freezes. His eyes go glassy, and his entire face ages in an instant. I turn around, and see Antoine standing in the entrance, looking right at us. Another man is with him. They’ve obviously come in together. Slowly, and with what looks like reluctance, Antoine walks over and exchanges greetings with Tom. They talk about the upcoming opening of the play, but when Antoine names the date, Tom responds regretfully that he’s leaving town before then.

“Then come to a rehearsal. I’d like to know what you think,” Antoine offers, and soon he and his friend move off to a table far at the back of the bar.

Poor Tom has a completely bewildered look on his face. Now I know who it was who broke his heart! Apparently, Tom has some personal business here, too.

“Old friend?” I ask. I know I’m being tactless, pestering a suffering man with questions, but I need to understand what’s going on if I’m going to try to help him feel better.

“Yes,” Tom finally answers, with difficulty. Then he swallows his wine in one gulp. “We’ve known each other for a long time. We even lived together for a while in college.”

“Then what happened?” I ask.

“Then, well, life tossed us in different directions, to be poetic about it.” Tom chuckles sadly. “I have always imagined it as some giant in a t-shirt with LIFE stamped across the front, who picks up a couple of poor little people in his enormous fists and throws each one as hard as he can in a different direction.”

Tom is quiet again, thinking. So am I. I don’t mean to poke at old wounds, but I’d do anything to help him.

“Antoine always had a drug problem. He said drugs helped inspire him. There’s nothing wrong with inspiration, but one time I found him in the bathroom in my apartment, when we were both living there, and he was passed out cold, no sign of life. I don’t even remember calling the ambulance. I sat by his side in the hospital day and night. He promised me it would never happen again. I paid for his trip to rehab. I went to visit him there, and – Excuse me!” Tom had turned to flag down Richard. “Shot of vodka, please?”

Tom takes his shot and exhales sharply.

“Yeah. That little asshole had run away from rehab, and gone back to some old lover. It all started again – the drugs, the drinking, the parties. His money ran out, and then he called me.”

“What did you do?” I was holding my breath.

“Stupidly enough, I gave him what he wanted. I thought he would love me again. Wrong. I’m just like my father: I’m made to love one person only. When my mom left, my dad never recovered from the blow. He started drinking, way too much, and he’s still a drunk. It’s hard to even talk with him. I thought I meant more to him than that. Once he lost her, though, he lost interest in everything, including me.”

“What about Antoine?”

“What about him? You saw us,” Tom says, laughing ruefully. “We keep in touch, and we’re even sort of on good terms. When he asked me to come to his rehearsal, that was him throwing me a bone. He knows how I feel about him. I never could resist him. I’m not giving him any more money, though.”

Good thing, too. That bastard would have bled Tom dry without breaking a sweat.

“You know what kind of person he is…” I start, but I don’t finish my sentence.

“Right!” Tom nods. “I know he’s a wreck of a man, a man who doesn’t love me. He doesn’t love anyone except himself. Still...” Tom sighs loudly, looking down at his feet. “I just can’t seem to help myself. There really are no rational reasons or explanations for love. Or lust, for that matter.”

The next day, Tom helps me pack up my paintings. He’s flying home that evening, now that he’s decided to skip the
Romeo and Juliet
rehearsal. Tom really is just an extraordinary guy. A logical and pragmatic art dealer, and at the same time a romantic with a broken heart. I give him a big hug as we say goodbye.

I feel like saying something nice to him. It must be difficult for him to leave Vancouver. “You’re my first real friend,” I declare.

“How many unreal friends did you have, before me?” Tom waggles an eyebrow at me again in fun.

“Well, I never had any friends at all, either real or unreal. Just acquaintances, actually, and Paul.” I can’t quite believe I’m being so honest.

“Good answer, Emmy. I am one of a kind! Come on, give me a nice big kiss. Right here.” Tom taps his finger to one cheek, then the other. “I’ll see you soon back in
our
gallery.”

Once Tom leaves, I make arrangements with Lorna for the coming weekend and my trip to Los Angeles. What if Paul doesn’t want to talk to me? Maybe he’s already left. Then where would I spend the weekend? Would Tom take me in? This is too much to think about right now… The best thing to do would be to text Paul.

Me: When will you be home Friday?

The answer comes a couple hours later.

Paul: This Friday? 7 PM. Why?

Me: I want to visit you.

Paul: Why do you ask? Nothing else to do?

Me: Already bought a ticket. Plenty to do.

I keep an eye on the phone for a long time, but no message arrives from Paul. What’s wrong with him? Is he trying to figure out how to tell me not to come? Panicking, I text him again.

Me: Should I cancel?

Paul: No, definitely not. When are you getting in? I’ll pick you up.

Me: Need to stop by the gallery to see Rachel first.

Paul: Why?

Me: To talk about some paintings.

Paul: Fuck the paintings. Fuck Rachel.

Me: OK, fuck them, but I’m getting in early anyway. You’ll be at work.

Paul: What time? What flight?

I send him the flight number.

Paul: I’ll be waiting.

I live through the rest of the week in a feverish state of excitement, on pins and needles, waiting to see Paul. There’s so much I need to say to him, and so many things to explain and confess. How stubborn and thickheaded I’ve been, for example. Paul had figured out right away that nothing John and Rachel had done to us ought to force us apart. It’s taken me all this time and distance to reach the same conclusion. My body feels famished for Paul, and it’s incomprehensible how I’ve held on this long without him. I remember that I still need to find a way to stop by the gallery and talk with Rachel, but I’ve forgotten why that is.

When Lorna notices how nervous and anxious I’m acting, she starts to worry that something awful has happened. I finally have to tell her that my husband is in Los Angeles, and that I miss him terribly and can’t wait to see him.

“Emmy, look how mysterious you’ve turned out to be! Who would have thought that you’re married?” Lorna doesn’t hide her surprise, or her annoyance. I’ve lived under her roof for almost a month now without divulging such an important thing. “Did something happen between you two? Are you separated?”

“Something did happen,” I answer, not very enthusiastic to explain. “We’re not separated. We just decided to live apart for a while. That turned out not to be my smartest decision. I’m going there to find out what he thinks about all this.”

“You’re trying to make up?” Lorna asks, intrigued. She’s wonderful, and I like her, but telling her the whole story, even if she might understand and refrain from judging me, is out of question. I just don’t want anyone else to know about John, Rachel and us. It’s too personal, and the memories are still all too fresh and painful.

“We didn’t actually fight. Things just worked out this way: first I had the job in Seattle, then there was the job here. I’ve always wanted to work in a gallery, rather than teach school. It was important for me to try living on my own.”

“Haven’t you liked it?” Lorna’s face wears a troubled expression. Strange as it sounds, that troubled look makes me happy, because it means that she doesn’t want to lose me. I don’t want to get lost, either.

“I love working here, Lorna! Vancouver is great, and so are your friends. I hope that Paul – that’s my husband – will like it here, too.”

I can see the wrinkles fade from her forehead as she relaxes. Now I’ll be able to go, without losing my job and without explaining the whole complicated story.

Thursday night I hardly sleep, trying to put my thoughts in order. What will I tell him? How? I envision Paul as he was the first time we spoke, when he walked over to me in class to pick up my test, with those blue eyes and that scarlet flush on his cheeks. Then I see him as he was the last time we met: exhausted, disheveled, and tormented. I want to touch him so badly it hurts. It’s as if he holds some sort of life force that I can’t live without.