Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage

by Altbridge, Tanya

  Tom looks my paintings over without a word, tilting each one this way and that, moving them closer to his eyes, then further away.

  “Good work,” he says, quietly. His gaze shifts to me. “But why do you look like a car ran you over, more than once, even?”

  “It wasn’t a car. It was life,” I sigh.

  “That bad? Let’s take these inside and then go and have dinner. You can tell Uncle Tom what’s bothering you.”

  We bring the paintings inside and lock up the gallery. Tom brings me to a tiny restaurant nearby with a bar.

  “What will you have to drink? You look like you really need one.”

  I remember how I acted after two margaritas and decide to refrain.

  “I think I’ll just have water. Otherwise I won’t make it home.”

  “As you wish. I don’t need to drive anywhere, so I’m going to drink.” Tom heads over to the bar and comes back with a cheerfully-colored orangey drink, decorated with a rainbow-striped umbrella and a slice of pineapple.

  “Why don’t you need to drive? Do you live nearby?” I realize I know absolutely nothing about him.

  “I live right there in the gallery. Well, not right in the exhibition hall, nobody’s coming to see me, but in the back. There’s a small apartment back there, more like a cubbyhole, really, with a shower and a tiny kitchen. That’s where I live.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Rachel let me live there when I first moved to LA, and I liked it. She doesn’t charge me rent – she’s an angel, what can I say! – and it also saves me a ton of time. I get up in the morning and I’m already at work. Lovely!”

  Tom starts to tell me about himself. It turns out that art is in his blood, you might say. His father came from a long line of expert art restorers. His grandfather had worked at restoration, and his great-grandfather, and on and on. Tom’s father was famous, renowned in the museum community. When somebody needed something very expensive and rare restored, he was the one they called. Tom’s mother was an art historian who had written many books about art. They lived on the East Coast.

  “You know how some kids love comic books? Well, I always loved paging through books with reproductions of famous paintings. I spent the best years of my life doing that. I could look for hours at those books, thinking up stories about all the paintings. Even before I could read enough to see what the titles were.”

  Tom’s father was often away on long trips, and he would take Tom with him. He lived in France for a long time, and even learned French there. “I can order coq-au-vin or pot-au-feu in a restaurant with no accent at all, can you believe it?” he boasts.

  Meanwhile, he orders me some food, and when it comes, he insists that I eat it. “Go ahead, girlfriend, listen to my sweet stories and eat, or else I’m going to stop entertaining you with this pleasant conversation.”

  I eat. I really haven’t eaten for a long time, and to my surprise, the food tastes wonderful. I like listening to Tom and watching him. He knows how to raise one eyebrow to express surprise, and my whole life I’ve wanted to learn that trick, but never could. Tom is talking now about how they lived in Germany and how he went to school there.

  “Do you know the drills they put us through? Ein, zwein! Ein, zwein!” Tom sips from his brightly colored drink. His cheeks are gradually taking on the same hue as the liquid in his glass.

  “So you speak German, too?”

  “Well, really, I’m multifaceted, like...” He wrinkles up his forehead hilariously, trying to think of the word. “Like a diamond, that’s what!”

  It seems that Tom has always wanted to sell art rather than make it. Tom’s mother asked Rachel to take him on as an intern for the summer after his freshman year in college. She and Rachel were old friends. After that Tom worked for her every summer, and after graduation, he moved to Los Angeles for good.

  “Why didn’t you find a job somewhere out there on the East Coast, closer to your parents? They must miss you. If I had a mom and dad, nothing would make me move so far away from them.”

  “No, they split up. My mother has a new family now.” Tom looks down into his glass. Must be a sore topic.

  This is a familiar story. It means that Tom is one of us. The lonely castaways. It’s probably even more painful for him. I never did have a family like that, with both a father and a mother. I don’t even know what it’s like to have two parents who love you and care for you. I could only dream about that when I was little, jealous of the other kids. Tom used to have it all – a happy childhood, and loving, fascinating parents who showed him the whole world. Losing your family is a difficult thing, at any age, and under any circumstances. My thoughts ran full circle and returned right back to where they had started: what about me and Paul? What about our family? What would happen to us?

  “There! You’ve finished eating, so now it’s your turn to entertain me. I’ll order myself a little something before I fall under the table.”

  “What do you want to know?” I ask, after he orders his dinner.

  “First tell me why you look like you’ve spent two weeks in a maximum security prison getting beaten and tortured instead of two weeks in a cabin in the mountains by the lake. Who has hurt our little Emmy? Tell Uncle Tom, let me wipe away your tears.”

  “Nobody hurt me. I hurt myself.” I let out a big sigh. “I got confused, Tom. My relationship with Paul – my husband – is in a terrible place. I don’t know what’s going to happen to us. This commission for the mural is like manna from heaven, the easiest way to escape. I really need to go away, to figure everything out.”

  “Something happened between you and John,” says Tom. He’s not asking, he’s stating a fact, even nodding his head, as if encouraging me not to object, but to go along with his assertion. I don’t have the strength to argue or even stretch the truth, really, and I just let my head sink into my hands and close my eyes.

  “That little shit did seduce you.” Tom’s voice holds no note of condemnation. He’s just stating the obvious.

  “How do you know?” I look up at him.

  “Well, it’s not too hard to guess. Last time I saw you two together, he was staring at you like a hungry hound dog looking at fresh meat, and now you’re having trouble with your husband, you don’t know what’s happening next, and you need to get out of town.”

  “Wait, you don’t know the whole story yet. The thing is that Rachel – ”

  Tom doesn’t let me finish.

  “Just a minute, let me guess what you’re going to say.” I nod. “Rachel seduced your husband while John was fucking you in the mountains.”

  My mouth drops open in surprise.

  “Why so astonished? What have I been telling you this whole time, honey? I’ve known them both forever. And they don’t try very hard to hide their habits and their passions. Neither one of them feels they need to. They accept each other just as they are, bless them, and they are quite satisfied with themselves. If anyone doesn’t like it or wants to judge them, that’s their problem. So! Rachel loves young blonds. And it doesn’t cost her anything to lure them into her bed. One time I myself was a witness – an unwilling one! It was an accident!” Tom puts a hand out in front of him, as if to ward off any reproach from me, but no reproach comes, so he continues.

  “I don’t know who made those big swollen lips of hers.” Tom uses his fingers to sketch out Rachel’s lips in the air in front of his own face. “Obviously, whoever it was is a master of his art. She walked up to this young man and kissed him with those lips, and he was immediately ready for anything, I think, no more preparation needed. And then she slid down his body, undid his pants, and took him...” Tom hesitates, because he is now being painfully honest with me. Seeing how critical it is for me to know what happened next, he continues. “Well, she took... him in her mouth and started to suck, and the poor guy went into convulsions, almost immediately.”

  “Right there in the gallery? Where everyone could see?” I asked.

  “There are curt
ains. If you close them, you can’t see in from outside. And that table, where my computer stands, is pretty big. Plus there’s the little couch. Anyway, they had plenty of room to play.”

  “And what were you doing there?” I can’t help asking.

  “Nothing! I live there, girlfriend, remember? She didn’t know I was home that evening. I was supposed to have gone to meet a customer, who got sick and canceled at the last minute. Anyway, I snuck out of there, quiet as a mouse, before they spotted me, and came right over here. I drank till closing time, and I still had unpleasantly erotic dreams that night.

  “There’s something of the witch in her. I like her very much, though. She’s a good woman, kind, and she takes care of her artists like they were her own children. She’s never been one of those petty busybody types, never bitchy. Doesn’t gossip or judge anyone. Even though she knows piles of famous people and she could tell piles of rumors about them. But no, her gorgeous lips are sealed! Even if you try to draw anything out of her, she avoids the question, smiles mysteriously, and changes the subject. And she is just perfect with her husband, John. You might even say she loves him. Of course, I’m not one to judge what’s love and what isn’t.” Tom stops abruptly, as if he’s lost his breath. He plants an elbow down on the table and props his head up in the palm of his hand. His green eyes peer out at me carefully from behind his glasses.

  “Me neither, I guess,” I say, thinking about what he said about love. “I thought that I loved Paul. That I would never need anyone but him. Now I’ve done completely inappropriate things with somebody else’s husband, and, to my great embarrassment, I enjoyed it.”

  “Well that’s the most important thing!” Tom laughs. “Enjoyment! As far as I can tell, for John and Rachel, love and feelings are for the soul. On the other hand, enjoyment and pleasure – that’s for the body. They don’t get those two things confused. Never seems to work for me, no matter how hard I try.”

  “Then don’t try, if it’s not working.” I put a hand on his elbow. “Look at me! I’ve tried it, and this is how it’s ended up. Now all I want to do is escape to the other end of the world.”

  “Come on, now, don’t lose hope. And don’t beat yourself up. You did such good work there, guided by all that passion, that no matter how things end, it’s going to have been worth it. Here, by the way, is your check from Seattle. I’ve already packed up the paintings and sent them off. You may kiss me right here.” Tom points primly at his cheek. I give him a huge hug and lean into him.

  “Thank you, Tom! If I can ever repay you somehow, it would be my pleasure.”

  “Oh, dear, that would be my pleasure, too! If I ever have two men chasing after me and I sleep with both...” Tom closes his eyes dreamily. “That’s my kind of trouble!”

  Chapter 18. Returning Home

  After talking with Tom, eating dinner, and getting that check, I feel much better all around, and I head home to Paul. Whatever will be will be.

  There are no lights on in our windows. Isn’t he at home? It’s late already, after midnight. Tom and I lost track of time talking. Maybe he’s with Rachel? The very thought makes me sick. But then I remember that Tom said Rachel is in San Francisco. Maybe Paul went there to see her? To San Francisco?

  I open the door, drag my suitcase inside, and switch on the light. Paul is sitting at the kitchen table. He lifts his head and looks at me wearily.

  “I thought you weren’t coming.” His face looks haggard, but he never takes his eyes off of me.

  “I went to the gallery, to bring them the paintings. After that Tom and I went to dinner and we started talking. Should I have called or texted you so you wouldn’t worry?”

  My question hangs there in the air.

  “I thought you were with John.” When Paul speaks, his voice is flat and dull-sounding.

  “Well, when I drove up and saw how dark it was in here, I thought you were with Rachel. See what they’ve done to us?” I ask, beseechingly. “How are we going to go on if we can’t stop thinking this way?”

  “They didn’t do it to us. We did it to ourselves. And how we get out of this situation is all up to us, too. I told you everything was finished with Rachel and me. Whether you believe me is up to you.”

  “Perfect!” I snap back at him. “Remember what I told you about John? That I’m gonna get together with him every chance I get?”

  I start to cry. Something inside me has broken. I stumble to the bathroom and brush my teeth while the tears run down my face. Then, still miserable and covered in tears, I take a shower and burrow down under the covers in bed. Soon Paul joins me. He turns to me, takes me by the arm, and strokes my head, and I move closer to him, nestling into his chest. I’m still sobbing. Paul kisses my hair and keeps stroking my head. “Sweetheart, sweetheart, it’s going to be okay,” he whispers. And finally, miracle of miracles, I fall asleep.

  It’s the best, deepest sleep I’ve had for many days. Now I remember what it feels like to sleep well and wake up with a clear head in the morning! Revived and refreshed, I bounce out of bed like a brand new woman. Really, nothing in the world can compare with eight hours of sound sleep.

  Paul is in the kitchen, already dressed and cooking breakfast.

  “Have you been up long?” I ask him.

  “No, maybe half an hour. I finally managed to sleep right. Almost eight hours straight.” Paul is speaking out loud, but he sounds as if he’s talking to himself.

  “Yeah, I know. That hasn’t happened to me for a while, either.”

  We look at each other and we both smile. Paul is so handsome when he smiles. He has an adorable dimple on one cheek.

  Over breakfast, I tell him about my recent career breakthroughs and show him the check for the paintings. Paul is appropriately impressed. Then I mention the offer to paint the office wall in Seattle.

  “When are you leaving?” Paul immediately looks up.

  “I don’t know. I just gave Tom my sketch yesterday. Tom seems to be taking over as my agent. He tells me when and where and for how long.” I’m finding it hard to look straight at Paul’s face. His bright blue eyes are drilling holes through me.

  “Is Tom really any good as an agent? I thought his expertise lay elsewhere,” Paul says. He’s not looking at me anymore, and the muscle in his cheek is pulsing.

  “Tom is a phenomenal agent. He’s already sold a bunch of my paintings, without any help from me, for good money. And next week he’s going to be meeting with the customer who wanted the landscapes. He has a real eye for art and he’s a born salesman. I’ve had amazing good luck with him.”

  But as soon as I pronounce those words about luck, a mental balance sheet flashes before my eyes – with one column each for good luck and bad luck. So far, actually, the good luck has dominated. Why, then, do I feel so unlucky?

  “How’s it going with your screenplay?” I try to change the subject. It feels wrong that Paul hasn’t made any objection to my trip.

  “You know, I decided to have the athlete and the coach make up.” Paul looks at me expectantly, and then turns back to the stove to flip the pancakes.

  I take the bait. “Why?”

  “Because they’ve been together for so long, they know everything about each other, and they’re friends. They are miserable without each other. They don’t want to let any stupid girl ruin what they have. So they get together, have a man-to-man talk, punch each other in the nose and make up. Afterwards, they have to get back to work because they’re training for the Olympics.” I can only see his back. Such a handsome, muscular back! And his faded old shirt fits him so well!

  “They beat each other up? Why?” I wonder who he’s talking about now – the characters in his script, or us?

  “Well, they feel better afterwards. Had to let off some steam, you know? You can try it, too, if you want.” Paul puts a plate of pancakes before me and sits down across the table.

  “You want me to try breaking your nose?”

  “Sure. Hit me, make it hurt.”
>
  But just looking at him makes me hurt. We’re so close, in this familiar kitchen of ours, and yet so out of place. “Are you going to hit me, too?” I ask glumly.

  “No. I have no desire to beat you up.”

  “I don’t, either. I don’t ever want to hurt you. Anyway, I don’t think it would make me feel better.” I dig into my food as if I haven’t eaten for years.

  “What am I supposed to do to help you feel better, then?” Paul’s voice is calm, but the tension in it is audible. I lift my gaze up out of my plate and see his hands, clenched so tight into fists that his knuckles have gone white.

  “There’s nothing you have to do,” I try to tell him with my mouth full. I almost say that he’s already done all he possibly can, but at the last minute, I decide not to. Instead, I finish chewing, and then add, “Now I need to somehow think this through, and figure out myself what to do. Without any help.”

  Paul nods silently.

  We don’t talk most of the rest of the day. It’s not a tense silence. We eat, then I help him with the dishes. I need to wash the clothes from my suitcase, and Paul goes with me to the laundromat. We just don’t feel like talking, so we don’t. It’s enough for us to be near each other, see each other, know that at any moment one of us could turn our head and call, and the other would answer right away. Our silence stretches between us and connects us like a thread. We hold onto it like we’re holding hands. When I check my phone, there is a message from Tom: “The client approved your sketch. Could you leave on Monday?” I show the message to Paul, who reads it without saying anything.