What is Love? (32 page)

“But she’s hurting
herself. Don’t you see, without society—without their respect—what will she
have? She can’t regain a lost reputation. Doesn’t she know that?”

“Listen to you. Why
all the concern?”

Ellen paused.
“Because I want to be with you.” She smiled. “You are with her and making
excuses. It’s like you want to be with her and not me. I thought I would see
you more—I see you less now. She has you completely wrapped around her finger,
like a fool
 …”

“Baby, I’ll figure
this out soon.” He reached for his phone and called Weston to return. “It will
all work out. I’ll try to get away next weekend,” he said, kissing her hand. “I
promise.”

Ellen tried to
smile, but the weight of the consequences from failing to win him reminded her
of the pathetic future without him. She felt her chest tighten.

“I need you,” she
whispered as she lay against his shoulder on the drive back.

The next morning,
after her depressing encounter with Rory, Sam had Weston take her straight to
Harry Winston, to buy another consoling little pick-me-up gift for herself,
something she seemed to do quite frequently now.

Next, Weston took
her to the bank so she could deposit her new purchase. Sam entered the bank,
crossing the marble floor to the row of elevators leading to the lower floor,
where they stored her other treasures. She rode the dark, wood-paneled elevator
down and walked up to the safety deposit window, signing in as Mrs. Jonathan
Horvath. For some reason, signing Mrs. Horvath was natural and she had no
trouble with the signature. Her handwriting looked more like Mrs. Horvath than
her own, Sam Miller handwriting. But then, a lot of strange changes had taken
place because of the switch, so nothing surprised her anymore.

As she entered the
private room, she reflected of the radical change in her finances. She sat
patiently as the guard entered, carrying her box. He set it on the table in
front of her and then discreetly left her alone to gorge on her prizes in
complete privacy. Sam set her bag aside, lifted the lid to the safety deposit
box and pulled out a large velvet case. She opened it and held the diamond
necklace up to catch the light. It sent thousands of tiny rainbows against the
walls of the privacy room. She opened the safety deposit-box lid again, staring
at the tray holding more velvet boxes filled with countless other extravagant
purchases.

She opened each box
and admired her collection. Her fingers stroked the glorious cut stones.
Emeralds, tanzanites, rubies. And diamonds. Loads of diamonds. Too many to
count. Some were drop earrings, others bracelets and a few necklaces. This last
piece was by far the most beautiful—fifty carats of various-sized diamonds on a
shaped filigree collar with a drop: ten carats of diamonds surrounding a
seventeen-carat sapphire. Sam smiled as she placed her assets back in the box.
At this rate, she would need a much larger box soon. Perhaps she should get
three boxes: one for diamonds only, and the other for colored stones and
another for the cash from the sale of all the antiques. She would talk to the
manager on her next visit and make the arrangements. Sam reminded herself she
should send some cash to her mom.
Next time,
she promised. It would be a
fun surprise, opening an envelope filled with cash and not knowing who it was
from. But would it make her mom nervous? She might think it was drug money or
Bob’s stolen money, and then what? She sighed, wishing everything would get
better for all of them.

She buzzed the guard
to return the box to its secure home in the vast wall, filled with other boxes
and numbers. Sam wondered what the contents in all those other boxes could be.
Were other women stashing their treasures as she did? And what secrets did the
husbands have stashed as well? The thought of all that wealth stashed away,
just like hers, brought a smile to her face. She thanked the guard and took the
elevator up to the main floor of the bank.

The sunshine blinded
her as she spun outside through the revolving door. A beautiful late August
day, a day too good to be spoiled by the offensive encounter with the impostor.
Sam squinted toward Park Avenue—
a perfect day to shop
. She glanced at
her Cartier watch. She had three hours before her hair appointment.

She stopped at a
Gucci window, a beautiful fur trimmed coat stared back at her. Sam caught her
reflection, a reflection she would never be used to, and cringed. She opened
the door and took a deep breath.
Yes, this would help. Dr. Sutton and Patty
were right, shopping really was the best therapy in the world.

***

Ellen walked into a
dark, dusty studio with paint all over the floor and the sink, buckets and
brushes strewn along the counters and floor. She looked at her note to ensure
this was the right place.

“Sam,” a voice
called out. “Good. You made it.”

Ellen looked up to
see a scruffy man in his forties, with a ponytail and black fingertips and
smears of black on his forehead. “Class will begin in five minutes,” he said
“Go on into the coffee room and help yourself.”

Ellen looked toward
the side room, a small, brightly lit room filled with a table and coffee pot,
mugs and shelves of art supplies. Eager artists filled the main room, already
set up and waiting by their easels. A few clustered around someone’s drawing pad,
flipping the pages.

Ellen went to an
empty spot and pulled out her supplies, lining them along the edge of the
abused wooden table in front of her easel. Graphite pencils, square conte
sticks, kneaded erasers. A woman walked up the platform in the middle of the
room and adjusted the spotlights.

“Here Sam, you need
to get changed.” Mr. Ponytail man appeared, holding a robe. He handed it to
Ellen.

“What do I do with
that?” Ellen stared at the tattered silk in her hands.

“Funny. Get changed,
we’re almost ready.”

“Changed?” Ellen
looked about the room. A sofa and cushions rested on a raised platform. Ellen
looked at all the drawings pinned to the wall, suddenly realizing her role. “Oh
no!” she cried and looked at the man. “I can’t, I’m sorry.”

“Come on, get going.”
He put his hands on his hips in mock anger. “Get nude, girl!”

Ellen tried to hand
him the robe. “But I can’t. I’m not prepared. I
 …”

“Shy now, are we?
You’re such a kidder.” He laughed pulling her by the arm.

Ellen pulled away.
“I can’t, you don’t understand. I just can’t.”

The smile fell from
Mr. Ponytail’s face. “Sam everyone here is counting on you. I know we all have
pissy days, but you’re booked. What’s the matter? You’ve done this a hundred
times.”

Ellen stared at all
the artists watching her, ready to work. She thought of Rory and of what Sam
would do. She reached down for the robe. How on earth could she be in this
situation? To have a room full of voyeuristic men—perverts, staring at every
inch of her body. Analyzing. Laughing. But it wasn’t her body, was it? It was
someone else’s. Did that matter? She sat down and stared at the paisley pattern
on the silk robe in her hands. They don’t know she’s Ellen Horvath. They think
she’s Sam.
Why should I care what they think? It’s not me really, it’s Sam.

“Get going girl,
tick-tock.”

Ellen stood and
walked over to the coffee change room. It was dank smelling, with a gnarled
couch that had experienced too many cats, a worn-out card table and mismatched
coffee mugs. On the walls were several vulgar nude drawings created by
amateurs.

How did I get
myself into this?
Slowly, she folded her clothes and set them on the
stained couch. Removing her bra was difficult enough, but when she got to her
panties, she took a deep breath—
just like at the doctor’s office,
she
told herself. She slipped the robe on and tied the belt tight around herself as
if to save her from opening it. She reached for the doorknob.
Can I really
do this?
Every cell in her body screamed, “No, don’t do it. It will hurt.
It will be painful.”

A quick tap at the
door. “Ready? Come on princess, your audience awaits.”

Ellen opened the
door and Mr. Ponytail said, “You okay?” He pulled her hair out of the collar of
the robe. “This isn’t like you—you love this, remember?”

Ellen made a feeble
smile.

“Really, you okay?”

“No, I’m fine
 …
I’m just
 …
well, I’ve been sick, and
 …”

He put his hand on
her shoulder and rubbed it gently. “We’ll take it easy. Just a few minutes of
one-minute poses to warm up and then some ten-minute ones. You can do the long
ones lying down—nothing too challenging.”

“Yes, that would
help. I’m not myself
 …
I’ve
forgotten how
 …”

“Say no more, we’ll
be gentle.” He grabbed her hand and led her onto the platform. She stood,
staring out at the sea of faces. The heat from the lights hit her face and her
body, warming her. She started to untie the robe.

“Perfect,” he said.
“Let’s start with the robe. One minute Sam.” He positioned her to stand with
her arms folded over her chest, the robe slightly open. He ran to his spot by
an easel and set a kitchen timer. “Time begins
 …
now.”

The tick of the
kitchen timer combined with Mozart’s “Jupiter” playing in the background. What
was she doing? She looked at all the perverse voyeurs who had assembled, using
their pads and pencils as an excuse to peep—old men, young men, old women,
young women—they all wanted to stare at a fresh naked body. Her body. She was
about to plan her exit when
 …

Buzz! “Another pose
Sam, undo your arms
 …
yes, now
widen your stance. Perfect. Time
 …
begin.”

Tick, tick, tick.
Buzz. “Let the robe fall off your shoulder. Great.”

Ellen slid the robe
down and revealed her modesty.

“How about more
breast?”

Ellen took a deep
breath and exposed her breast slightly.

Tick, tick, tick. An
eternity. Finally
 …
Buzz.

Mr. Ponytail walked
up to her. “Okay, let’s open the robe. You ready to let it slide down? Here.”
He pulled on the robe and Ellen tried to hold it. “It’s warm now, relax.
Enjoy.”

Enjoy! Ellen stood
naked with only a scrap of a robe draped across her body, her ugly body—no,
Sam’s body! It didn’t matter whose body—she felt them all looking, judging her.
They were thinking nasty, cruel thoughts. They were examining her body. Were
they laughing? Did they have any idea how uncomfortable this was? How
torturous? She pulled the robe across her breasts and private zone, allowing it
to drape to the floor. “Perfect, hold, just like that.”

Tick, tick, tick.
The ticking droned on endlessly.
Why don’t I feel beautiful? Why can’t I
allow this to be pleasant? Sam would. Sam loved her body—flaunted it. Why can’t
I be that person? Why can’t I pretend?

Buzz.

How can I be
doing this?
What would anyone say?
She changed positions, carefully
covering her modesty with the robe, allowing only glimpses as she adjusted into
each new position.
What would her children think if they knew?
But they
wouldn’t know. She fought with her guilt as she continued. It was a challenge
to push herself, to allow herself. Part of it was freeing, like daring yourself
beyond your comfort zone. She began to feel a pleasure stirring, experiencing
the fact that she could do this, that despite all her morals and upbringing,
she could be bad, just this once, and she could be someone daring and risky,
someone adventurous and bold, and no one need ever know.

***

At the break, Ellen
pulled the robe on and walked past the sketches lying on the tables and on the
easels. She tried to avert her eyes from the shameful drawings. She spotted
one, captivated by its softness, by lines flowing into curves, thick and rough,
then thinning to delicate wisps. Smudges of charcoal telling of shapes blending
together, forming a hip, a leg, a mound of sensuous flesh. The sum total was
more than the body. It was beauty, revealed in its curves and light and
shadows. Life and pleasure at play, full of its vitality. And she was part of
it, forever tied. Ellen smiled as she wrapped her sash tight. Someone handed her
a cup of coffee and she nodded, saying “Thanks,” and continued walking around
the room, looking at all the abandoned work, laying open, available for
viewing.

Each one told a
different story, the same pose but with a dissimilar look or feel. Each one a
calling out of vibrancy and life or whispering seduction and longing through
different shades, different textures, different angles—but all, an expression
of her, of Ellen in this body.

She touched her neck
and shoulder, her breasts and waist, feeling every curve. And as she stood,
closing her eyes, she realized the joy of embodiment. She understood the
connection between body and soul. They could see it. It was more than a carcass
of skin and bones, more than sexy or fat, thin or ugly. It was an expression of
life, of being human. She studied the drawings on the wall of all the other
bodies: old bodies, fat bodies, thin bodies, male, female. Each one a story.
Each one a secret, begging for release and understanding.

There was a stirring
in the coffee room and people started filing back into the studio to their
easels and tables. Ellen smiled at them. They no longer looked like evil
voyeurs; they were, instead, archeologists, looking for treasure, searching
every angle and curve, and upon finding it, sharing it with the world. As she
walked toward the platform, undoing her sash, she decided she would give them
more. She would help them in their discovery. She would reveal a part of
herself, a part of Ellen. They would discover that hidden deep within this beautiful
body was more beauty and passion, more torment and longing than they could ever
imagine.

The challenge was to
bring it to life
 …
uncover it
and bring it out into the open. She stood naked, eagerly waiting to see what
they might discover and expose, to see what secrets they’d find and share with
the world, to see a part of Ellen brought to life.

***

After her hair
appointment, Sam headed home. She hoped Jonathan would be there but as usual,
Sam ate dinner alone. As she stared at her plate, she wondered if Jonathan
would ever dine with her again. They were far apart these days, and with all
his talk of unions and walkouts, of closing divisions and factories, he seemed
agitated and angry. Nothing she did pleased him, and she found herself missing
conversations and touch. Missing everything she had before.