Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) (21 page)

W’s lips tightened. He looked at me with such anger, such irritation that I added, “If you even
want
to see me again...”

“I want to see you again,” he snapped. “Preferably without a bruised face.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I snapped back.

The nerve of him. He’d choked me until I passed out—more than once!—and he had the gall to judge Simon for accidentally hitting me. I drifted away from the corner to sit on the bed. He leaned over the table and started writing on the Four Seasons stationary. As soon as he started, he stopped and put down the pen.

“You know what, Chere? I’m not in the mood for poetry.”

“You promised me poetry.”

He gave me a dark look. “I’ll give you a poem next time I see you. In the meantime...” He wrote out something quick, ripped it off the pad, folded it over a couple times and brought it to me. He pressed it into my palm and touched my bruised cheek. Then he brushed a kiss across my lips and left without looking back at me.

When the door closed, I unfolded the paper and smoothed it in my lap, and read the two words, dark and bold, in W’s handwriting.

Love lies.

Simon might be a fuck-up, but he’d built a lot of relationships in the art world, and everyone came out to support his comeback attempt on opening night. His parents and his sister were there, his family’s friends, even former college professors, and art teachers who’d developed him as a rebellious child. There were people who had touted him when he was first appearing on the art scene, and people who had torn him down when his star shone too bright.

There were critics and buyers, gawkers and socialites and glitterati, and the magic of Simon was that he didn’t care. He stared through them until he could escape their attention, and then hung out with his current circle of friends, the drug users and losers. When people tried to engage him about the art, he acted disinterested and precious. It worked for him before, and maybe it would work again, but it irritated me.

Why couldn’t he be professional? I was trying to be professional. My hair was done up in a neat chignon, and I wore a classy, knee-length Pucci dress with Fendi pumps. Simon was in paint-stained jeans and a baggy black viscose button-up. For weeks he’d been telling me how important this was, and now he wasn’t taking it seriously because he was either drunk, or high, or both. Probably both.

Of course Rachel was there, in her raccoon makeup and a sloppy dress carefully designed to look like she didn’t care, but oh, she did care. She followed Simon around, fawning over him and basking in his attention, while I dealt with Boris White, the gallery owner, and Josh Jacobs, Simon’s agent. I was also the one who directed the caterers and decided where to set up the bar. I did it because this felt like Simon’s last chance, and a little bit like
our
last chance. But under my busy focus, under my frenetic efforts to make this work, two words whispered, over and over.

Love lies.

Whatever. I knew that love lied. If I had a dollar for every time my clients claimed they “loved” their wife while they snuck off to me for twice-weekly sessions, I’d be a gazillionaire.

Sometimes it seemed to me that love was a complete and total lie, but then I’d remember times with Simon that I knew I was in love. Love was definitely out there sometimes, in fleeting moments. Maybe it was more accurate to say that
Love flies
.

Screw W and his platitudes and poetry. He was as precious as Simon in a lot of ways, with his elevated self-worth. At the height of the party, when people were packed into the gallery like lemmings, I stood off to the side and thought about what
I
was worth. I couldn’t make art. I didn’t have a real career. I didn’t have money for a room at the Four Seasons. I barely had money for the basics, thanks to Simon and his money-draining addiction.

Speaking of which, was anybody going to buy his new work?

Some things were selling, some paintings flagged with discreet red dots. There was a lot of talk, a lot of nodding heads and scrutinizing and pointing. Simon’s art blared from the walls, irritating me because I didn’t understand it. I was tired of not understanding anything about my life. While people chattered and postured with champagne glasses dangling from their fingers, I shrank into a corner and struggled to discern the essence of myself, the purpose of my life and why I was here, and what had brought me here. Chere: vibrant, flexible, caring, pretty.

The one thing I didn’t feel was worthwhile.

Someone handed me a flute of champagne. I took it because my emotions were a blur, and because I’d paid for the fucking alcohol, and then the crowd in the background receded. I realized that W stood in front of me, blond and tall in his designer suit.

It astounded me that I’d taken a drink right out of his hands without seeing him. He was so big in my mind, so large. How hadn’t I known the second he walked in the gallery door?

I stared at him, helpless to speak. It was so loud all of a sudden, and I didn’t understand his expression. I didn’t understand why he was here.

“How are you?” he asked when I couldn’t muster up a greeting. “How’s the show going?”

“Okay, I guess.” I gestured around the room, trying to act casual. “I think he’s sold a few paintings.”

A burst of laughter interrupted our conversation. W turned his head, then moved so he was beside me rather than in front of me. Simon held court across the gallery, surrounded by art groupies and hangers-on. A prominent New York art critic bandied for space in front of him, her wild hair and manicured fingers waggling in unison. She was either chewing him out or enthusing about his work.

“It makes me proud,” I said, glancing sideways at W. “I’m proud for Simon, that his work excites people. We didn’t expect this kind of turnout.”

“Everyone likes a train wreck. It’s fun to gawk.”

“No one’s gawking.” I looked around. Were people gawking? “There are a lot of big names here, critics and collectors. They wouldn’t be here if Simon’s work didn’t mean something.”

W took a sip of champagne. “Yes,” he agreed. “His work means something, and it will mean something years from now. Everyone here knows that, just like they know he’s a fuck-up. If I didn’t hate the motherfucker, I might buy some of his work myself.”

I didn’t ask why W hated Simon so much. I knew why. Instead I asked, “How can you look around at all he’s done and say he’s a fuck-up?”

W gazed at me with the same cool, derisive look he employed in our ritzy hotel room sessions. I turned away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said. “You weren’t on the guest list.”

“I’m still not on the guest list,” he replied with a quirk of his lips. “In case you’re thinking about looking through it to find my name.”

“I don’t care about your name.” I hadn’t even been thinking about that. “I just don’t understand. You make this big deal about privacy, about your boundaries, and then you show up at my boyfriend’s art show.”

He gave a lazy shrug, his shoulder brushing mine. “I do what I want.”

“You shouldn’t be here. You’re one of my clients.”

“Are you ashamed of me?” he asked, joking.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I repeated. “And you shouldn’t be standing here talking to me. It’s not respectful to my boyfriend.”

He gave a half-laugh, half-bark, and rubbed his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ, Chere. Number one, your boyfriend is higher than a kite at the moment, and he hasn’t looked your way all evening. Number two, I only respect people who deserve it.”

He was talking about Simon, but I thought he was also talking about me. I wondered how long he’d been here, if he’d been watching me run around arranging everything, supporting my boyfriend who didn’t give a shit about me.

Humiliated tears rose in my eyes. I took a sip of champagne to mask them, and it tickled my nose. “I know it’s not...it’s not... I know my situation is shitty. I know he’s shitty. I told you, it’s just for now.”

“Peace, Chere.” He held up a hand. “You can do what you want, and Simon can do what he wants. It’s a shame, though, his addiction. He might have been great, one of those artists who lived on down through the ages.”

The chatter rose around us, or maybe it was the pounding of my heart. “He might still be great,” I said.

“He’ll be dead in a year,” he replied. “You know the kind of shit he’s using, and you know what he spends on it. I guess the silver lining is that dead artists’ work brings higher prices. So keep him painting, if you can.”

I knew W was cruel and sadistic, but it amazed me that he could say those words without a glimmer of empathy. I raised my hand, I don’t know why. To punch him. To slap him. He grabbed it and pushed it back down at my side.

“Listen,” he said in a low voice that was nonetheless perfectly audible above the craziness of the crowd. “I’m not saying anything you don’t know. I thought that’s why you were staying with him. For the end. The payout. If that’s so, you’d better marry him if you can.”

“You’re an asshole.” I angled my body away from him. “Why don’t you leave?”

“Why don’t
you
leave?” He turned the question back on me with urgent emphasis. “Why the fuck don’t you leave him?”

He nodded toward Simon, the barest nod, but I already knew what he was trying to show me. I saw the way Simon fawned over Rachel in utter disregard for my feelings. I blamed myself. I wasn’t worthwhile.

“Do you use drugs?” W asked.

I hunched up my shoulders. “No. I never have.”

“Why did Simon start?”

“His friends got him into it.”

“They’re not your friends?”

“No.” Bitterness closed my throat, and brought on a second flush of humiliation. “I’m not an artist. I’m kind of shunted to the outside.”

“You’re the money,” he said, parsing the situation perfectly. “But I’m surprised you never caved to drugs yourself. Your life must be miserable.”

I glared at him. “Some people make me more miserable than others. Why did you come here?”

He rubbed his lips, took another sip of champagne and thought a moment. “I don’t know. I’m not sure why I’m here. To watch the train wreck, I guess, like everyone else. Now I wish I hadn’t come. I prefer to see you in other settings.” He reached under my flowy skirt and touched the back of my leg, drawing his finger across my flesh as if he traced an invisible welt. “I’ll see you Wednesday at the Mandarin Oriental.”

“I know.” I wanted to throw my champagne in his face and tell him to fuck off forever, but this party wasn’t coming cheap, and W was my only paying customer.

He stared at me a moment, then looked down at my glass. “You don’t like the champagne?”

I gazed past him, at the back of Simon’s head. The crowd was growing larger. It was so hot. “Not tonight,” I said. “I don’t like it tonight.”

“Come here.” He took my hand and led me to the bar, and barged his way through to the front as people made way. He had a commanding presence, even here in this overcrowded room. His gold-blond hair looked even blonder in the gallery lights.

When we got to the bar he took my glass and set it on the counter. I felt a tap and heard a squeal, and turned to find an old friend from Simon’s earlier days, when he was the next great thing. Her eyes flicked past me. I couldn’t blame her. It was hard not to look at W—he was just that hot.

I couldn’t remember her name, so I searched my memory while she chatted at me about Simon’s work and the show, and what a huge success it was. She asked what I was “up to these days.” I could feel W against my back, leaning over the bar. He was talking to the bartender, asking him for a pen.

I wondered what she would think if I told her I was W’s exclusive prostitute, that he beat me and throat fucked me and tormented me at every one of our sessions until I cried. Instead I muttered something about consulting, sounding as vague as possible. I finally remembered that her name was Shelly and that she worked for a museum.

Maybe I could work for a museum. I wondered what kind of degree that required.

“You must be so proud of him,” she said, and I thought she must be talking about W, because she kept glancing at him with her round, black-lined, fuck-me eyes like she wanted him. She didn’t have a clue. W would leave Shelly-the-assistant-museum-curator in a heap of broken dreams. But then I realized she was talking about Simon.

“I am proud,” I said.

W thrust a napkin into my hand behind my back, and closed my fingers around it. A moment later, he moved away. I knew from Shelly’s gaze which direction he went, and that he was leaving me here, alone, in this bedlam and noise.

“Jaysus, Chere, you wouldn’t believe the guy who was just standing behind you. Oh my God, girl. Sex on a stick. I haven’t seen him around before.”

I made some nonchalant noise and held the napkin tighter. “I wonder who it was.”

“I don’t know, but yum. Blond hair and jawline for days, and his suit! Older guys are so sexy. It’s like they’re old enough to know what they’re doing, you know? They have that aura, like,
wow, I’m all rich and successful and I enjoy the finer things.
”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I agreed. “Will you excuse me? I’m helping Simon with the catering and I have to...you know...check on something.”

“Of course. It was great talking to you. I’ll see you around.”

She gave a fluttery little wave as I clutched the napkin in my palm. I headed into the crowd, toward the back. I pushed around a clutch of socialites and avoided eye contact until I got to the storage room behind the bathrooms. I leaned against the wall and looked down at the napkin, at the handwriting I recognized by heart.

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

I thought of Simon’s black hair and his dark eyes, which, I’m sure, was exactly what W intended.

Shakespeare. Jesus Christ. He was bringing out the big guns.

*** *** ***

It was after three when the party wound down. The caterers left and the gallery locked its doors. Some of Simon’s friends lingered, strangely animated. I skulked around the walls, looking at red dots. Those dots should have made me happy because they meant success and more money, but I didn’t feel happy.