Laura’s eyes narrowed, as if searching for the sarcasm she knew was hidden by my air of helpfulness.
“Did he do one, too?” Yasmine asked, looking puzzled.
My grin became wider.
“Well, yeah. Lichtenstein based this painting on Cézanne’s 1899 study.”
“Oh, so this is a copy,” she said. “I thought it was an original painting.”
“It is. It’s a copy and original. Like I said, gotta love Lichtenstein.”
“How clever of you,” Jack smiled, coldly. “It’s lucky that the explanation is printed at the side of the painting.”
I shrugged. It was true, but I didn’t need the museum’s wall plaque to explain a work of genius.
Laura bristled immediately.
“Hallen is an artist!” she snapped.
My eyes slid over to hers. I’d never admitted as much, having only told her that painting was a hobby.
She flushed slightly as she sensed my gaze, but her chin was held high.
“How nice for him,” said Jack still smiling, although I could see the effort it was taking.
I smiled back and tightened my hold on Laura’s shoulder, a move that had Jack twitching uncomfortably. I could tell that he was dying to tell me to get my hands off his ex-wife. But he couldn’t. I leaned down to kiss her shoulder then stared straight back at him, an obvious challenge.
I knew I shouldn’t wind this up any further—the whole scene was upsetting Laura. Yasmine just looked bored.
“Come on, baby,” I said, steering Laura away. “We haven’t seen the Rothkos yet. Nice meeting you Yasmine, Jack.”
Laura’s back was stiff with anger, and I had to practically drag her away.
“God! He makes me so mad!” she hissed.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I said, blandly.
She looked up at me, her expression sharp. I smiled back at her and she suddenly relaxed, her whole body sagging against me.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “That was just horrible. My son, Joe, told me that they were in LA. I’ve been dreading running into them. But not in an art gallery! It’s the one place I thought I’d be safe. And he was so rude and dismissive.”
Her voice wavered, and I suspected she was on the verge of tears.
“Laura,” I said, gently stroking her arm, “he was jealous.”
“What?” she sniffed.
“He was jealous. He saw you with another man and he couldn’t stand it—it was written all over him.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so. Believe me.”
She sighed. “Not that it matters.”
“Do you still care about him?” I asked, dreading her answer.
She thought about it for several seconds.
“He’s the father of my children, so yes, I’ll always care. But whatever else we had between us … no, that’s gone.” Then she slapped my arm, pretending to be annoyed. “I can’t believe you called me ‘baby’! Did you see the look on his face? I thought he was going to tell you to meet him outside!”
I chuckled quietly. “What, pistols at dawn?”
She laughed softly. “Yes, probably!”
Then she sighed and looked up at me.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that, Hallen. I’m sure meeting ex-husbands isn’t in your job description.”
I smiled, even as I felt a stab of disappointment that she’d reminded me I was being paid for my services.
“Actually, Laura, I think it is. If you read the small print, there’s a paragraph about white knights and damsels in distress.”
She laughed disbelievingly. “And you’re the white knight?”
Another stab.
“Only on Tuesdays,” I said, struggling to hold my smile. “It’s lucky you got me on the right day.”
She laughed again. “Yes! Lucky me!” Then her smile faded. “But seriously, Hallen, thank you for helping me back there. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied.
We stayed for another half an hour, but it was clear to me that Laura’s thoughts were elsewhere. I tried to engage her attention a dozen times, but in the end I gave up.
“Would you like me to take you back to the hotel, Laura?”
She looked at me sheepishly.
“I’m sorry, Hallen. I’m not being very good company, am I? To be honest, it’s really taken the wind out of my sails seeing Jack like that. Would you mind if we called it a night? I won’t ask for a refund on the last hour.”
My spine stiffened at her words.
“Thank you,” I said, at last.
She frowned at my tone but didn’t comment.
We caught a cab back to her hotel, but she wouldn’t even let me see her to the door, insisting that I stay in the taxi.
And she didn’t mention wanting to see me again.
I’d been painting for hours every day, pleased with my most recent work. It seemed to flow with a freedom and honesty that had been missing over the last few years. The colors I could see in my mind were slowly transferring themselves onto canvas. As I painted, adrenaline accelerated through my body leaving me exhausted but with more completed work than ever before.
I hadn’t heard anything of Laura, and each day that went by I became more certain that whatever I’d felt had been one-sided or imagined. We’d had three amazing dates—but then silence. I would have liked to contact her, but Eloise didn’t allow her escorts to fraternize with clients.
After three weeks, I’d come to the conclusion that I’d never see Laura again.
But I was wrong.
The circumstances were quite different. Just not in a good way.
I’d been up before dawn and driven out to Rancho Palos Verdes, hoping to capture the play of light on the ocean as the sun rose. It was the best time of day to capture it, with the burnt gold of the coastal chaparral and views across to Santa Catalina. I’d taken fifty photographs and sketched for several hours before the urge to fix the image in oils became too strong.
All afternoon, I’d worked to bring the canvas to life. But now I was cursing like a drunken sailor: I was out of Naples Yellow and I was getting low on Cerulean Blue, and I hated, hated having to stop when the work was really flowing. Right now, I had no choice. I scooped up my car keys to run downtown and make an emergency trip to the art store.
Thank God they were open on a Sunday. I hoped Susie was working. Even after the slight awkwardness of seeing her at the gallery opening some weeks before, I would prefer being served by her—she knew the materials I liked to use. It would make it much quicker. And I still hadn’t picked up the new brushes I’d ordered.
Of course, I couldn’t park anywhere near the store, and had to jog four blocks. I was relieved to see her standing behind the main counter, grinning widely at me.
“Hey, Susie!”
“Hallen! How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages! I thought you promised to take me for coffee!”
I smiled and shook my head. She didn’t give up.
“Yeah, been busy.”
“Painting?”
“You know it! Susie, I need Naples Yellow and Cerulean Blue. And throw in some Indian Red and Paynes Gray. Have you got Winsor and Newton?”
“Sure, kept some to one side in case you came in.”
“Oh, God, you are the best. Life saver!”
“And don’t forget your brushes.”
“Did I mention how grateful I am?”
“Grateful enough to buy me that coffee?”
I glanced at the short line forming behind me.
“You know I’d love to, Susie, but I’ll get lynched if I take the best assistant out of the store right now. Rain check?”
She sighed. “You always say that, Hallen. One day I’ll be available and you’ll have to buy me a damn coffee!”
“Look forward to it, baby,” I said with a wink, slipping into work mode without meaning to.
“Get outta here!” she laughed.
I left the store with my supply of oils and brushes, and was thinking about how I wanted to finish the canvas. I could see it in my head—I just needed to concentrate and bring it into focus. And then I heard…
“Hallen, darling! Hallen!”
Fuck.
Sian Te was one of my regular clients. We hooked up about once a month, sometimes more depending on her schedule, although she’d canceled our last appointment because she’d been called out of town.
She worked in mergers and acquisitions, and usually invited me along to do some meet and greet with her clients when there were fundraisers or social events. My job was to charm the women, talk sports and do the guy thing with the men, have dinner and then go back to her hotel to fuck. Hard—sometimes rough. She was attractive for a woman in her fifties, but cold and rather controlling. Also indiscreet. I’d been debating whether or not to tell Eloise to cancel future bookings, but hadn’t made any firm decision.
“Sian, hi,” and I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “You look great.”
She caught my wrist in hers as I pulled away.
“I’d look better with you on top of me,” she pretended to whisper. Then she straightened up. “Laura, meet the very lovely Hallen. I’ve told you all about him.”
I ignored Sian’s tone, as did her friend. Laura. Shit, that Laura.
My heart began to race and I couldn’t help stealing several glances at her.
She looked beautiful, dressed casually in wide leg pants and a pale green tank top.
Occasionally, I bumped into former clients while out on appointments. Sometimes they ignored me but usually there was a polite smile. Sometimes, like Laura, they pretended not to know me.
I understood, but I didn’t like it one fucking bit.
“Hello, Laura. Good to meet you.”
I held out my hand then realized it was covered in blue and yellow paint.
I gave an uncomfortable laugh as I withdrew my hand, frowning while I rubbed my fingers down my jeans.
She laughed, too, but it was nothing like the husky tone I’d heard before. I could tell that she was feeling just as ill at ease—perhaps more so.
I was even more irritated when Sian laid a possessive hand on my chest, stroking me, as if I was some fucking pet. Maybe I was more annoyed because that’s exactly what I was to her.
“Well, beautiful,” she said, cocking one eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite this casual before.”
I glanced down at my ripped jeans, and old Fife Flyers t-shirt smeared with yet more paint.
“Except, of course,” Sian continued with a leer, “when you’re a lot more casual.”
She laughed throatily, a malicious glint in her eyes.
For the first time in a very long time, I felt embarrassed by her insinuation.
Laura showed she had more class than her friend by skating over the comment.
“Are you an artist, Hallen?” she asked, raising one eyebrow, daring me to contradict her now that she’d caught me with the evidence, nodding at the tubes of oil paints I was carrying.
“Ha, well, depends on who you ask,” I replied, playing along with the illusion that we were strangers meeting for the first time.
She smiled warmly, as if she was trying to convey some meaning beyond her words. “I do admire people who have creative talents.”
“Hallen has many talents,” snorted Sian. “Or maybe I should say one big talent. Oh yes, he’s definitely creative! In fact, you wouldn’t believe how creative we can be when we get together. Is there anything we haven’t done creatively, beautiful?”
I felt my cheeks flush, and a small frown of disapproval appeared on Laura’s face. Sian was enjoying herself.
I stood up straight and took half a step backward so Sian’s hand fell away from me. I was not going to lose my shit in front of her.
“Well, I’d better get going. Enjoy your day, ladies.”
Laura smiled again, but Sian didn’t even wait until I was out of earshot before I heard her loud laugh.
“He fucks even better than he looks.”
Bitch.
It stung. It really fucking stung. Not so much the words but her dismissive tone. I could take it when I was prepared, when I was working, but not on my own time, not like this. Not in front of Laura.
When I got home, the impulse to paint had vanished. I was left with the sick realization, the proof of how people like Sian saw me—just a cheap whore, a prostitute who could be treated like shit whenever the mood struck her.
My empty stomach rolled and I picked up my half-full bottle of tequila. But then I stopped. No fucking way I was going to give that bitch power over me.
Instead, I changed into my running shorts and headed for the beach.
I pounded along the sand, venting my anger for what had been an intensely humiliating scene. I knew I was blowing it all out of proportion and I had to get a grip. Sian hadn’t said anything that was untrue, but my blood felt superheated and my skin burned with her comments. I ran through the water, trying to cool the rage I felt.
But the look of disgust on Laura’s face taunted me.
I hated that look. I was sick of it. Sick of people judging me like that.
And I realized how much I’d enjoyed being free to be me.
I pushed myself for another four miles then staggered back to the house and collapsed in a sweaty heap on my couch. I reached for my phone and ordered pizza. Healthy, yeah, but somehow I couldn’t care less. Then I reached for the Patrón Silver again and drank straight from the bottle. I drank to become numb. I drank to forget who and what I was.
Waking up the next morning was painful. I didn’t often drink until I passed out, and hardly at all since my early days of escorting, but I’d needed something to dull the pain. Alcohol was good for that. For a while.
I forced my aching body out of the front door to take a swim in the ocean. Nothing like cold water to chase away a hangover, although I didn’t stay in long. Then I spent a quiet Monday morning trying to sketch the scene from my regular coffee shop, ruthlessly forcing out any other thoughts. Eventually, tired of my own company, tired of my bastard brain, I headed out to Bergamot Station at Santa Monica. It was one of my favorite small galleries. I found it soothing and inspiring at the same time.
I was immersed in an abstract canvas that made it seem as if the viewer was underwater, the gauzy blue and greens giving a floating sensation. I was analyzing the composition and also wondering whether the canvas had been prepared properly—some of the paint seemed to be flaking already. It was a pity because it was going to look like shit after a few more years.
“Hello, again.”
I turned to see a woman watching me.
Laura.
She was wearing a pale blue sundress that flowed gracefully around her, made almost transparent by a thin finger of afternoon sun that also highlighted the few grays in her hair.
I stiffened slightly, and I think she noticed because her smile wavered.
I pulled myself together enough to return a half smile. Truthfully, I resented a further intrusion into my private time. Particularly as she’d witnessed yesterday’s humiliating scene. I was trying hard not to show it but I could feel myself fraying at the edges under her penetrating gaze.
“Hello, Laura.”
“How nice to see you again, Hallen.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I don’t want you to think I was ignoring you … well, I just thought it was better that I didn’t say … Sian is not very discreet and she was already being … I mean … the way she … what she said and…”
My lips thinned as she spoke, and trying to keep a pleasant expression was hard work. I simply nodded at her, not wanting to risk a comment. She was still a client—at least as far as Eloise was concerned. Right now, I didn’t care if I never saw her again. That’s what I told myself.
Laura paused, obviously uncomfortable. I turned back to the canvas.
“Have you been to this gallery b
efore?” she asked, hastily changing the subject. “Oh, sorry, silly question. You’re an artist—of course you’ve been here before.”
“Have you?” I said politely, slipping into work mode, answering a question I didn’t want to answer with another question.
“Yes, I always enjoy seeing the exhibitions here—it’s a favorite stopping point. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you enjoy it as well.”
I nodded again, but didn’t reply. I was inwardly furious that my private life was bumping into my escort work for the second time in as many days. That’s all I’d ever be to her—a whore paid to fuck.
Hiding my anger and disappointment, I turned away from her. There was another uncomfortable pause while Laura waited for me to speak. Eloise had taught me to fill awkward silences, but I was off the clock, so I just stood staring at the abstract painting in front of me, waiting for this woman to leave me the hell alone.
“Sian will never go with me around galleries,” Laura said, with a light laugh, attempting to fill the conversational vacuum. “But perhaps you’ve been able to persuade her?”
“No.”
I took a couple of steps away to look at the next canvas by a different artist but she followed me.
“Oh, this is spectacular,” she breathed.
“Yes, it hurts to look at it.”
“Hurts? Why?”
I sighed. “Because I’ll never be that good.”
I immediately regretted telling the truth. It was too personal, and she’d made it clear what she thought when she pretended she’d never met me in front of Sian.
“You don’t know that,” she said, earnestly. “You’re young—you’ve got a lifetime to see how good you can be, to explore the possibilities.”
I shook my head but couldn’t help a small smile at her optimism. I hadn’t met many divorced women who seemed so determined to see the positives in every situation, particularly when it came to the future. Maybe it was easier to be optimistic for other people.
“I just enjoy seeing the talents of others,” she continued.
Her words froze me. Was she referring to yesterday’s encounter outside the art store? I was suddenly tired of pretending that every word she said didn’t feel like a surgical incision.
At Your Beck & Call Page 25