by Louise Bay
“Can I get you a cup of coffee or a glass of water?” Rosemary asked.
Grace smiled and shook her head, a strand of hair escaping from the way she had it fixed up. “No, thank you.”
“Nothing for me, Rosemary,” I said, rushing her out of my office. “Please close the door.”
I rounded my desk, heading toward Grace. How should I greet her? A kiss on the cheek? A nod of the head? Instead, my hand smoothed over her back and I guided her toward the conference table. “Please take a seat.”
“So, I’m here,” she said, her eyebrows raised as she sat down and finally looked at me.
I sat, returning her gaze. “Thank you for coming.” Did she not want to be here? I didn’t want her to think I was pressuring her. I wanted her to be as pleased to see me as I was to see her. Perhaps I should focus on our business relationship. “Tell me about the exhibition you mentioned when I last saw you.”
Grace paused before she said, “It’s for an up-and-coming artist.”
I knew she had a proclivity for rising stars. Was this one an ex-boyfriend, too?
“I think this will be his second exhibition out of art school. There was a really traditional feel to his last show, so I’m hoping you’re going to like it.” She gave a little half shrug as if to say What more do you want me to say?
I nodded. “If you think it’s worth my while.”
“You don’t have to come along,” she said. “I could go on my own, do a bit of research, take a few photos on my phone and then report back. I don’t know too much about the work, to be honest. I have to see it—it could be a disaster. I don’t want to waste your time. I know how busy you are.”
Didn’t she get it? The exhibition was just a reason to spend time with her. The art was secondary. “I’ll pick you up.”
She frowned. “You don’t need to do that. It’s not like it’s a date or something. I can meet you there.”
Not like it’s a date or something. The last time I’d been on a date was in high school, and I hadn’t realized it was a date until I arrived at the movie theater to discover it was just me and Jessica Warner. I’d kissed her, because why not? To this day, it had been the only date I’d ever been on.
Grace’s hands were folded neatly in her lap, belying her sexiness. If I was going to take anyone on a date, it was going to be Grace. “I’ll pick you up,” I said. “We can research together. Now, what about dining tables?” I asked, not ready for our meeting to be over.
“Maybe,” she said.
I didn’t understand. “Maybe?”
“If it’s small. And pretty like yours.”
It took a few seconds for me to realize that she was talking about her having a tattoo. “You think my tattoo is pretty?”
“Pretty wasn’t what you were going for?” She grinned at me.
“If you like it, I’ll take it,” I replied and her cheeks pinked.
“There’s a place in the East Village that is supposed to be good, but you’ll have to come with me. I’m not doing it alone.”
Her wanting me to accompany her anywhere should scare me. I’d spent my whole life determinedly independent but somehow the thought of her needing me wasn’t as frightening as it should be. But I had to make an effort to keep the corners of my mouth down—I liked it.
“It would have to be small,” she said. “And I like the idea of words. No Mickey Mouse head or anything.” She was talking fast like she did when she was nervous.
I hadn’t expected her to say yes to the tattoo. And now she was offering it, I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. I’d buy whatever she wanted—tattoo or no tattoo. I liked her just as she was. She didn’t need to add anything to her already beautiful body.
“What about this afternoon? I’m sure you’re busy around here, but I might lose my nerve if I wait.” She curled a strand of hair around her ear. “So?” she asked. “Are you busy?”
“Always,” I replied. Her shoulders sank a little. Relief? Disappointment? I wasn’t sure. “But I’m the boss, so I can—”
“Okay then,” she said. “We should go.”
“We don’t have to,” I said. “I mean, it was a big ask—too much. I never thought you’d actually—”
“You need a dining table, Sam Shaw,” she replied.
“I’ll buy one, but you don’t need to get a tattoo. It was a stupid idea.” If she’d never wanted one, who was I to tell her she should permanently mark her perfect skin?
“A deal is a deal,” she said, her hands squeezing together on her lap. “And it seems the risks I’m taking in my life are paying off.” She took a breath and nodded. “So why stop now?”
Grace trailed her fingers along the thick blue binders of designs set against the back wall of the tattoo parlor. “Any idea of what you’d like?” the guy behind the counter asked. There were only two people in the shop. One guy was easily four hundred pounds with a long gray beard and a pirate-like hoop earring through his left ear. He sat in the corner, minding his own business, while a younger guy with a ponytail watched Grace as if someone so beautiful had never crossed his path.
Grace turned and looked at me. “Your choice,” she said.
What? She couldn’t be giving me such a responsibility. “No way. I’m not choosing your tattoo. You have to live with it …” I nearly said “until you die” but I didn’t like to be so cursory with those kinds of words. I knew how close death was to us all. Did my parents have tattoos? I’d never noticed any. And now I’d never know. My chest grew tight. I didn’t like to think about them, about the impermanent nature of life. Jesus, this seemed like a bad idea. “This is too permanent, Grace. We should go.”
She took my wrist, pulling my hand from my hair. “I don’t do things I don’t want to. Please, Sam.” The lilt of her words and her skin against mine soothed me. “Choose something.” Didn’t she realize that what she was asking me to do was too much? I could imagine Angie maybe asking. Or perhaps a married couple, but I’d know Grace such a short time and we were nothing to each other. Not really.
She slid up onto the purple reclining tattoo chair and watched me. “Come on. We haven’t got all day. We’ve got dining furniture to shop for. Pick what you think would look good.” She smiled and it lit up her face. Right then I would have done anything she’d told me to do.
I shook my head in mock exasperation. I’d choose because she asked me and not because I wanted to. Maybe because I wanted to be something to her. “Okay, lie down, Princess, and I’ll come up with something.”
One of the binders was open on the wooden desk at the back of the room and I began to flip through it. What should it be? A quote about art? She’d said I should pick what I liked. Did she trust me that much?
I glanced over my shoulder at her and she was watching me as I watched her. I wanted to go over and touch her, kiss her, hold her.
I took a breath. I knew what the tattoo should be.
Lowering my voice so she wouldn’t hear, I explained to the tattoo artist what I wanted. Just two words in cursive font. It wouldn’t take long and shouldn’t hurt too much.
“You want yours where I have mine?” I asked. She nodded and turned on her side as she lifted up her blouse, revealing the side of her ribs. Her alabaster skin was so perfectly flawless. It shouldn’t be marked. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. “I told you, I’ll buy whatever you want.”
“Yes, I want to do this.”
I pulled up a chair. “Can I dare you not to?” I didn’t want her to do this for me. Or not because I’d asked her, not as a deal anyway.
“No,” she said. “I’m committed.”
“What happens if I’ve asked him to tattoo a gigantic turd on your ribcage?”
I expected her to laugh but she just looked at me. “I trust you.”
My heart twanged. She trusted me so easily—too easily.
The buzz of the machine starting up interrupted my inner conflict.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
The tattoo artist stood at her waist, and I sat to his right, opposite her head.
I leaned forward and took her hands in mine. “Squeeze tight.”
As the pen touched her skin, she crinkled her nose, shutting her eyes, but she didn’t make a sound. The tattoo I’d chosen wouldn’t take long.
“Grace,” I said. “Look at me.” I wanted her to see the confidence I had in her.
Our eyes locked and with every moment that passed, the connection between us grew. I willed her pain away and she trusted me to do that for her.
“There you go,” the artist said as he turned off the machine a few minutes later. “All done.”
Grace grinned at me. “I can’t believe I got a tattoo.”
I couldn’t believe it either. And she hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t complained even a little bit about the pain. Strong as steel.
“How does it look?” she asked.
I stood and leaned over her. Her skin was slightly red but it looked beautiful. I wanted to reach out and trail my fingers over the marks. They suited her so much. Each word had meaning to me. The text was small and neat and pretty—just as I’d asked.
“You want to see?” I asked. “I can take a picture on my phone.”
I took out my cell, took a shot of the tattoo, then stepped back and snapped one of her face. She looked so gorgeous, I couldn’t resist.
“Hey,” she said. “Give me that.”
I swiped so the photo showing her tattoo was on the screen and handed it to her.
She trailed her fingers over the words as she whispered, “Ultimate bliss.” Glancing up at me, she said, “That’s lovely, Sam. Where does it come from?”
“You’re all done,” the artist said as he finished dressing the tattoo. Grace sat up and I gave him some cash.
“No, Sam. I’ll pay.” She had that same look in her eye Angie got when I’d offered to pay for her IVF.
“No you won’t. I persuaded you to get a tattoo, and I got to choose the design. I’m paying.”
After I handed over the cash, we stepped out onto the sidewalk.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It really was my pleasure.” I liked that I’d spent money on her.
“Ultimate bliss?” she asked. “What does it mean? You didn’t say.” She looked up at me as we began to walk north.
I shoved my hands into my pockets. It just fit her—as if it were meant for her. “It’s from a book.”
“You’re quite the reader,” she said. “Is it the same book that you got your quote from?” she asked.
I nodded. “It is, actually. From the same passage, even. You said you wanted me to choose and for it to be like mine.” As I said the words out loud, I realized our two tattoos bound us forever in a way, even though I spent a lot of effort on making sure I didn’t have any ties. She’d always have my choice on her skin. I ran my hand through my hair. Perhaps I should have chosen something less important to me.
“I like it,” she replied. She seemed genuinely pleased. It wasn’t the reaction of a princess at all. Maybe being connected to her like that wasn’t so bad.
The sounds of the city filled the silence between us as we walked, to where, I had no idea.
“You’re not going to tell me which book?” she finally asked.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” I replied. I didn’t want to tell her how that book was the story I’d clung to in foster care. Or that it had given me some glimmer of hope that things would eventually get better.
As if she knew I couldn’t give it, she didn’t push for more of an explanation.
“You’ll tell me more. Soon,” she said.
I wasn’t sure if it was a question or not but I glanced across at her and nodded.
“You look beautiful,” I said to Grace as she locked the door to the gallery while I waited on the sidewalk.
I’d chosen my suit carefully that morning. And I’d made sure I was on time to pick Grace up. I knew going to the exhibition this evening was a job for her, but for me tonight was about spending time with her. Was this what dating felt like?
“Thank you, Sam Shaw.” She looked at me from under her eyelashes and her cheeks pinked a little in a way where I wanted to reach out and feel their heat. “We’ll walk. It’s just a block from here.”
I stuffed my hands into my pockets to stop myself from reaching for her as we started off along the street.
“How’s your tattoo?” I asked.
“Actually, it’s kinda great. The redness is gone. From a distance, you can’t see it at all, but then as you look closer, it almost seems to reveal itself in layers. First you see it’s writing, then you read it, then you understand it.”
God, I really liked the way she saw the world. I really liked her.
“You know what I mean?” she asked, beaming up at me. Every time she smiled I had to resist an urge to kiss her.
I nodded, but didn’t say anything. I wanted her to keep talking. I wanted to know more about her.
“I’m reading your book. I hope you don’t mind,” she said, her eyes fixed ahead of her. The street was busy with people pulling down roller shutters and walking to the subway, but we existed in a bubble, where it remained calm and peaceful and all the noise and activity was separate from us.
“My book?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. She was reading it. “It’s not my book, Princess.” It wasn’t like I had ownership over it or anything.
“Maybe it’s not. Maybe it is.”
Maybe? I wasn’t following her. It wasn’t my book—millions of people had read that book.
“I’ve never read it before,” she said. “I kind of knew of the story—the young man, falsely imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit—that he fights to survive, to escape.” She squeezed my hand. “Reading it, I understand why you like it.”
Before I had a chance to ask her what she meant, we’d arrived.
“Here we are.” She nodded at a group of people at the entrance of a store. “This is us. If you don’t like it, we can leave. Just let me know.”
The place was full of people and their clothes seemed to be unusually bright. Perhaps I was just used to suits. People gripped drinks in jam jars, as they talked animatedly and periodically glanced at the walls. The guests were much younger than at the auction, although the glasses and moustaches were similar. It was a far cry from the auction and that smell of old money.
“It’s quite the crowd, isn’t it?” Grace looked up at me as we made our way toward the back of the gallery. I placed my arm around her waist to keep her close.
“Popular guy, I guess,” I replied.
“Yeah. Buyers will be put off, though. Someone lost control of the guest list, but that could be good for us. Plenty of pieces without red dots.”
“Isn’t more people good for sales?”
“Only if they’re here to buy rather than take advantage of the free bar.”
“What do you think?” She spun around three hundred sixty degrees and faced me. “Just give me your gut instinct.”
I scanned the room. The paintings had an industrial feel to them. They were masculine and looked like they could have been set pieces from Alien or The Matrix, lots of black and dark green and dark blue. I tried to pick one out from another but they all seemed quite similar. They didn’t seem like Grace’s taste. “You like them?” I didn’t like to say that it seemed like a case of the emperor’s new clothes. How hard could painting like this be? I was pretty sure if someone handed me a paintbrush and a canvas I could come up with something that wasn’t too different.
“Let’s take a closer look,” she said instead of answering. We moved toward one of the smaller pieces surrounded by fewer people. She stared at the canvass intently, first close up, her long neck straining forward and then stepping backward, her head tipping fr
om one side to the other. To see how it would look on a wall? I should have been looking at the painting, but all I could concentrate on was Grace and the way each of her movements were so uncensored but they still showed her body off as if she were being photographed.
“I don’t feel it,” she said, clutching her fist at her stomach. “I think maybe I should, but I don’t. Do you?”
What was I supposed to be feeling? “I don’t think so,” I replied honestly.
“You know when you saw the Lautrec? How did that feel?” she asked.
I tried to think back. “I thought they were colorful and clean and … straightforward. They weren’t trying to be anything they weren’t.”
She laughed and I cleared by throat, wanting to cover up my embarrassment. “No,” she said, grabbing my arm with her two hands. “That’s good. I’m laughing because you’re describing everything these paintings aren’t. And I agree with you.” She squeezed my arm and the sparkle in her eyes relaxed me. “But even if I didn’t agree with you, you’re allowed to like art for whatever reason you like it. Don’t ever feel judged.”
I twisted the arm she was gripping and took hold of her hand, wanting to keep her close.
“But now we’re here, let’s try those over there,” she said, looking over the heads of the crowd at some paintings on the other side of the room.
We made our way toward the far wall.
I was beginning to think it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if tonight was a date.
“Technically, the artist is quite talented,” she whispered. “But I’m not sure that’s enough if neither of us are feeling it.”
“But he’s talented?” I wasn’t sure how she knew he was talented. I was still pretty confident I could knock out some paintings like these in a couple of hours.
“Just the way he layers the color and uses the illusion of light. You see here.” She pointed to the top right-hand corner of the canvas, which had several splashes of yellow paint flecked across it. “It’s promising—like a homage to Rothko and Turner. But it’s too clinical—there’s no passion.”