by Lauren Wood
“I still think it makes me look incredibly pathetic,” I told her. “But…if it’s what you and my brother want…if it will help, and get everyone off my back…Then…okay.”
She jumped with a squeal and a little dance. “It really will make him so happy. And you’re really doing wonders for me and my job. And don’t think of it as being pathetic. Think of it as a rare opportunity to…”
“Yes, Jada,” I rolled my eyes. “You already gave the ‘rare opportunity’ spiel. Really, you have to work on your pitches. They’re repetitive.”
“I always figured if you don’t get through to someone the first time, just repeat it until it sinks in,” she smirked. “Now, I have a photo shoot set up for you tomorrow, which will be a blast. Top dollar make-up artists and stylists. Designer clothes. I bet you can even convince them to let you keep an outfit or two. In fact, I insist on it. Tell them it’s for your dates. Make them give you the whole wardrobe from the shoot.”
I raised a brow. “Trying to butter me up now? You must feel really guilty about all of this.”
“Only a little,” she laughed. “Oh! And we have a team of dating profile experts to help you revamp your own profile and to help you sift through potential dates. Just imagine how many people out there would kill to have that kind of help with their dating lives!”
“And yet here I am…thinking I’d kill to get out of this thing,” I griped. “You’re sure you want to do all of this for me?”
“It’s not just for you. I kind of have to do it to save my own ass at this point. This whole campaign was my idea after all. And it was Jack’s idea to feature you in it. So we’re both riding on the results of this. But also…take a look at these numbers.”
She pulled something up on the computer screen and turned it around for me to see. “These are how many people who signed up for Heartstring when we first featured you in the campaign. Based on social media feedback, this is how many people who have threatened to cancel their memberships after they saw you didn’t find a serious partner yet…And this is how many people we suspect have already canceled for that very reason. And this is our projection for how many new sign-ups we expect when we relaunch this new part of the campaign.”
The numbers were high, I had to admit. “Wow, so no pressure or anything,” I gulped.
“No pressure,” she insisted in a shrill, nervous tone. “Just…you know. Don’t be impossibly picky. And…give it a fair chance.”
“Whatever you say,” I sighed. “This has been fun, Jada. But seeing as how I just got back into the country, and this endeavor of yours sounds like it’s going to be very time consuming…Can I go now? I have a salon appointment.”
“Absolutely! Just don’t let them make any major changes to your look. All the stylists for the shoot and the profile experts are expecting to be working with how you look right now.”
“Just a spa treatment,” I assured her. “Which I need even more after this meeting.”
I swung my designer bag over my shoulder and headed for the door. I was less than thrilled about all of this, but at least Jada and Jack were happy. For now anyways. But I was beginning to wonder if love was in the cards for me. And what would happen if this whole ridiculous campaign just proved that it wasn’t?
2
Isabella
I was kicking myself as I left the Heartstring building after my meeting with Jada. I was normally considered to be pretty intimidating, and I was good at getting what I wanted. So how did someone as sheepish and sensitive as Jada keep managing to convince me to do these ridiculous campaigns for the company?
Deep down, I knew it had nothing to do with her. I was a sucker for Jack, and everyone knew it—especially him. Which meant his wife knew it too. And they were all too willing to use that in their favor to get me to agree.
The reason behind it didn’t make the end result feel any better though, and I was having major regrets as I walked toward my car and driver waiting out front. They were eating at me so much that when I reached out for the handle, I stopped. I had a better idea.
“No thanks,” I waved them on. “I’m going to walk today.”
My driver looked surprised. Taking spontaneous afternoon walks wasn’t really my style. But it was a beautiful sunny day and I needed something to clear my head and cheer myself up.
The car drove off and I started walking, but not straight home. I meandered along the sidewalks to nowhere in particular until I ended up near the park, in the arts district.
I was no stranger to fancy galleries and big openings full of expensive, coveted works by the top artists working at the time. But I had never personally explored the arts district, nor was I necessarily a huge art lover…as far as I was aware. But I started to explore the area anyway, thinking this was what I needed. Something fresh and new and foreign. After all of my travels, I was starting to feel like I had seen it all, and those qualities were getting harder to find in anything. Nothing surprised me anymore.
As I walked down the narrow sidewalk, surrounded on either side by artists and their easels and makeshift walls put up to show off their work, I found myself being drawn to one painting in particular. It was of a woman looking out a window. Her body was turned toward the view, but her face was turned toward the artist. She was nude and didn’t wear any make-up. She looked so free and at peace. She looked happy.
It seemed ridiculous to be jealous of a model in a painting, but nonetheless I was transfixed. I stood there, envying her, unable to look away.
“Could I interest you in a portrait?” a man’s voice appeared suddenly.
I turned around to see a tall, rather striking gentleman standing there. He smiled at me and his brown eyes sparked with something mischievous and daring. At first glance, he reminded me of some kind of conman, but maybe I was just prejudiced about broke artists peddling their work on the street corner.
“Oh,” I replied, looking back to the painting. “Is this one of yours?”
“Indeed it is,” he nodded, circling around the easel to face me from behind the painting. “But I was asking about painting your portrait. Do me the honor of posing for me?”
I looked around at the other passersby who had been roped into sitting awkwardly on stools, frozen in waiting as an artist scribbled sloppy renderings of their features on cheap paper. I wasn’t falling for it.
“No thank you,” I answered, turning to walk away.
“I’d do it for free!” he offered. “No charge. I just find you to be…captivating. And I’d like to paint you.”
I faced him again, laughing. “You think I’m so vain that once you’ve painted me, I’ll just have to own the piece. So I’ll end up paying you for it anyway.”
“Not at all,” he insisted. “What I said before stands true. I just think you’re a very alluring subject, and I want to capture what I see in you.”
I raised a brow, feeling curious. “How much do you usually charge a person? The people you don’t find so alluring and captivating.”
“One hundred bucks.”
“You’re a horrible businessman if you’d pass up a chance to make a hundred dollars without even trying to get me to pay before offering to do it for free.”
“You’re right,” he grinned. “Because I’m not a businessman. I’m an artist.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Of course, the woman in the painting I liked was nude. And I considered the likely possibility that his whole spiel was just how he conned women into taking their clothes off for him. I wasn’t falling for it, but he ranted on regardless.
“I create based on what I find inspiring. Sure, I try to squeeze some money out of it too. Just to get by…so I can pay my bills and have more time to do what I love. But money isn’t my motivation or my end goal. I do this for the love of art. And my love for painting. You’re too good of a subject to let pass me by.”
“I hate to break it to you, but money is kind of a necessity in this world. And sorry to disappoint, but I’m not going to
sit for your portrait.” I glanced over the painting that originally drew me in one more time, feeling a tinge of regret. Because it really was lovely. Maybe if the guy didn’t seem so cocky and arrogant, I would have gone ahead and bought it.
But instead I turned to leave once again, determined to get away from him this time. “Have a great day though. I’m sure someone even more inspiring will come along.”
I carried on down the sidewalk, feeling his eyes burn into my back as I went. I didn’t make the same mistake of lingering around any of the other booths again. I didn’t want to get stuck in another unwanted chat with a pretentious artist trying to get my money for art I didn’t need, or even really want.
At the end of the rows of art displays were several food vendors, and I stopped to buy some ice cream to eat on the way home. Just as I reached out to pay the man for my cone, the pesky artist’s voice appeared again.
“How about I buy you a drink to go with that?” He leaned next to me with a smile. “I know of a great bar around the corner that makes a cream cocktail that’s perfect for washing down ice cream.”
My face wrinkled. “Oh, it’s you again. Where did you come from?”
“My treat. What do you say?” he answered eagerly.
I finished paying the man and walked away with my ice cream, only for him to follow me as I went. Was it possible that this guy was a creepy stalker or serial killer?
“You just up and left your booth?” I asked. “Aren’t you afraid someone will steal your things? Or that you’ll miss out on a sale?”
“Another artist is watching it for me for the rest of the day. We all look out for each other around here.”
“Sounds like you’re just asking to be stolen from,” I quipped. “And it’s a good thing you don't consider yourself to be a businessman, because this is just another example of how horrible of one you’d be.”
“You’re not hurting my feelings any,” he smirked. “But you would be if you turned down that drink. How about it?”
I studied him for a moment, thinking he was pretty good looking. There was a certain charm to him. But serial killers could be attractive. In fact, it was better for them if they were. It made it easier for them to lure in their victims and talk their way out of getting caught if they were ever suspected by the cops. Why else would he be so insistent with a woman he never met and knew nothing about? It’s not like we met in some swanky club where people went hoping to hook up. We met on the street corner!
Then it dawned on me. I knew exactly why he was so taken with me.
“You only want to paint my portrait and buy me a drink because of the whole Heartstring thing,” I accused.
“The what?” he puzzled.
“Nice try. Heartstring, I said. You don’t recognize me from the website or any of their ads?”
He shook his head, looking clueless. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But you could tell me all about it at the bar. Come on. I’m thirsty.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. It was tempting to spend time with someone who genuinely didn’t seem to know who I was from Jada’s stupid campaign.
“Where is this bar?” I asked skeptically, ensuring he wasn’t just trying to lure me off into some dark alley away from the crowd.
“Right over there,” he pointed. Sure enough, there was a pub on the corner of a busy street up ahead.
“Okay,” I sighed. “One drink.”
He held out his elbow for me to slip my arm through. “Shall we?”
I tilted up my nose and walked ahead of him, not giving him my arm. He brushed it off and ran to catch up to me.
The Irish pub he led me into was small but cute with stained glass windows and dark wood tables, floors, and walls. It smelled like booze and peanuts and was nothing like the fancy spots my friends usually dragged me along to. I had to admit, it was refreshing to go to a new kind of place.
And everyone seemed to know my mystery man. They all smiled and waved at him as we walked by. I gathered his name was Dawson by their greetings. And the bartender delivered his drink of choice without him even having to ask.
“You must spend a lot of time here,” I noted with a tone of judgment in my voice. I always suspected that most artists were alcoholics or drug addicts.
“What’ll the lady have?” the bartender asked.
Dawson turned to me with his brow furrowed. “I never got your name.”
“Isabella. But some people call me Izzy.”
“Isabella,” he repeated in a dreamy tone before turning back to the bartender. “Izzy here will have a White Russian.”
I scrunched up my nose. “What’s that?”
“You’ve never had a White Russian?” He laughed, leading me to a booth in the corner. “Vodka, coffee liqueur, and cream over ice. It’s a perfect drink for the afternoon, especially paired with something sweet like ice cream.”
I sipped the cocktail once the bartender delivered it and was impressed with how good it was. At least that would make my impromptu drink with a stranger worth it.
“To think…I’ve been drinking vodka all these years and never had one of these.” I looked back up at Dawson. “So do you make good money selling your art on the streets?”
“Some days are better than others, but no. Not really,” he smirked.
“Then why do you do it?”
“I told you. Because I love painting. Most people don’t become artists for the money. They’d be sadly disappointed if they did.”
“Not the ones I know,” I argued. “They all seem to be doing pretty well for themselves, but of course they show their work in actual galleries. Not in the park.”
“Good for them. But once people know who you are and a gallery is representing you, they expect you to make a certain kind of art and to meet a demand. You’re not doing it for yourself or for the love of art anymore. It becomes just like any other job and squashes your creativity.”
“But you get a nice place to live and you meet all sorts of interesting people,” I pointed out. “Celebrities, even. Wouldn’t you want actors and big politicians hanging your art in their homes?”
“The people who have bought my work are just as important to me, even if none of them are household names,” he said, sipping his beer. “Oh, you’ve got to try something.” He waved to the bartender. “An order of scotch eggs please.”
“Scotch eggs?” I questioned.
“You’ve never heard of those either? Be prepared to be amazed.”
The bartender returned a while later with a tray of hard boiled eggs wrapped in sausage, breaded and cut in half. There was a tangy sauce to dip them in, and once again…he was right. They were delicious and unlike anything I had ever had before.
I studied him as he took big bites, closing his eyes to savor the taste each time. He seemed to be enjoying his cheap beer just as much. Meanwhile, I had already drank down most of my cocktail and was only nibbling on the eggs a little at a time. They were rather big, and I thought I’d look ridiculous if I took a huge bite. Dawson didn’t seem to care though.
“You drink too fast and you’re too polite of a diner,” he scolded. “You have to take a big bite so you get all the flavors at once, and then you have to chew it slowly so you can enjoy every second of it.”
“I thought the only rules for eating were to have good table manners,” I defended. “And it would be bad manners if I tried to eat like you are.”
“You’ve got it all wrong. The only rule for eating is to enjoy the food,” he shot back. “That’s my philosophy on life too. The only rule is to enjoy it.”
Maybe there was a time when I would have agreed with him, but after spending my whole life doing nothing but enjoying all the pleasures my wealth could afford…I was realizing now it wasn’t such a sustainable way to live.
“I think your logic is flawed,” I told him, drinking down the last of my cocktail.
“How about another?” He tipped his head toward my empty glass.
I conside
red it for a moment, since it had been an enlightening time with him so far. But I decided I should quit while I was ahead with my new favorite cocktail and snack, and leave. What would he and I really have to talk about after a while anyway?
“No thanks, Dawson. It was nice meeting you though. Try not to choke on your big bites of food or get all your stuff stolen in the park. And thanks for the drink.”
“Nice meeting you too, Isabella,” he smiled, looking disappointed. But he accepted his defeat gracefully, at least.
I grabbed my jacket and purse and walked out, not looking back. I knew I’d never see Dawson again, but at least I did something different than usual with my afternoon. Maybe that would be enough to cheer me up.
3
Dawson
I ordered another beer and watched Isabella walk out of the bar. She was a beauty with long red wavy hair in perfect waves like a movie star, with pale porcelain skin and big green eyes to match, though I noticed she usually kept them hidden behind her expensive sunglasses. She was a painting just waiting to happen, but what could I do? I couldn’t very well force her to sit for a portrait anymore than I could force her to join me for a second round. I was kind of amazed she agreed to the first drink, to be honest. She seemed too good for a guy like me.
“You struck out,” old man Rudy teased from the next table.
“You may see it that way. But I got her company for a little bit. That’s good enough for me.”
He grunted and chugged his mug of beer, slamming it to the table as he wiped dripping streams of it from his mouth and chin. “That’s what’s wrong with you men today. No romance. You don’t fight for the women you love. Back in my day I would have asked a woman like that to marry me right off the bat.”