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

by Altbridge, Tanya

  Why now? What makes me suddenly want to stop drifting dumbly with the current? Why do I need to make this movie my own? Since the John and Rachel adventure, something had woken up inside of me, something new, independent, and confident. There is a new me emerging from my cocoon. I remember the past two days with Paul. Even then I was different. I made my own decisions, I did only what I wanted to, and I was so much happier for it.

  Was all that because I loved Paul? Or had I just wanted to prove to him and to myself that I could be uninhibited and sexy, and that I could experience pleasure and give it to my partner just as well as Rachel could? I don’t know. I’d rather not deceive myself, and I definitely don’t want to lie to Paul. One thing I’m sure of is that I don’t want to teach school any more. After this job in Seattle is finished, I’m going to quit. Yes, next year was supposed to be covered in my contract – but too bad. I’m not going back, no matter what. They’ll find somebody to take my place. I want to paint, and that’s what I’m going to do.

  That decision immediately makes me feel fifty pounds lighter. I hadn’t realized how much my dread of going back to school in September had been weighing me down. Now I’m so much more confident, both as an artist and as a woman. I don’t plan on ever being satisfied again with just what I already have, playing out a role written for me by someone else, drifting with the tides.

  I switch on the radio and hear some popular song with a catchy refrain. It takes no time at all to learn the words and I start to sing along. Out loud! Ha! Good thing there’s nobody else in the car. At home, Paul won’t even let me sing in the shower. He says the sound of my singing voice turns his stomach. But I’m alone here and I can do whatever I want. If I feel like singing, I sing! Freedom! Yessss!

  I drive all day, taking short breaks to eat, and when my eyes start to glaze over, I find a motel somewhere in Oregon. The whole two-day trip, I’m in a constant state of excitement. Soon, just beyond the horizon, something extremely important and interesting is coming in my life.

  I realize I’ve never spent so much time alone before. Even at school, before I met Paul, there were people around me constantly. I always had to follow certain rules and say certain words. Now, here in the car, I feel like I’ve broken out of prison, escaped my execution, and been given a second chance at life. I can either take advantage of that or let the opportunity pass me by.

  Hey, I’m even starting to develop a new hobby: talking to myself. I choose to go ahead and give that voice the floor. For the first and maybe only time in my life, I am going to say exactly what is bothering me. (I try to go easy on myself, though – I don’t want to cause too much offense).

  I’m pissed off and it’s time I had a good scolding.

  “You’re 24, not a little girl anymore,” I start. “You had a good education and you’re a good artist.” Here, the flow of my thoughts stumbles a bit. Can I really call myself a good artist? Well, yes, I can, I decide, after thinking it over for a few minutes.

  “One of our teachers once told us that you can’t be an artist without a crazy amount of self-confidence. He was right. You’ve always had so much doubt, Emmy, you’ve been afraid of making decisions, and can you see where that’s gotten you?”

  “To the point where I have a job, a roof over my head, and a husband. I was living my grandmother’s dream,” I answer.

  “Yes, but meanwhile, you’d never sold a painting. This is your life, you know, not your grandmother’s.”

  “Good point,” I concede to myself.

  That other, new, me continues the attack. “Snow White and Cinderella?” she laughs. “Your real role model is Sleeping Beauty! You’re trying to do the same thing, living without ever waking up!”

  “I drink a lot of coffee. I’m obviously trying to wake up,” I object. I feel bad for my old self.

  “Look, this time, it was Rachel and John who decided everything for you. Your only job was to put up with it and weep. Rachel sold your paintings and found you a job (That was Tom! I interrupt myself. Okay, but you met him through Rachel). John led you through a couple of erotic education sessions. That’s what we’ll call them. Now Paul says he wants you, and you jump his bones in a split second, no second thoughts.”

  “No, you’re wrong – it took more than a second. I thought it over carefully. It was a conscientious decision. I totally wanted to do it too, and it was amazing for both of us.”

  “So now what? Finish your job in Seattle and go back to him? Live happily ever after, and forget about everything that happened?”

  I give that some careful consideration. It is obvious to me that I can’t just forget about what happened to us, no matter how hard I try. In that case, maybe I shouldn’t try? And what is this “happily” business anyway? Right now I’m anxious about all the uncertainty, and I feel wounded after all I’ve been through, but I’m painting better than ever. So there you have it. Me and my anxiety, alone on the road to a place far, far away from home: Seattle. My heart keeps skipping beats with this anticipation of new, unknown experiences, and oddly enough, I feel happier now than I did a few months ago, at home with Paul, going to teach every day and painting in brief spurts just for myself.

  Whatever is going to happen next, I make a decision that from here on, I will be truthful with myself. As much as I can, anyway. I don’t want to go back to Paul just because that would be the easiest thing to do, either for me, or for him, or for both of us. I’ll go back to him only if I’m one hundred percent certain that he is the only one I want to be with, that there is nobody else I could possibly need. I also want to be certain that I’m not just a familiar, reliable old pal to him. Instead, I want to be the woman he can’t live without.

  Chapter 22. In Seattle

  That’s what I’m thinking as I drive into Seattle. Strange as it sounds, it’s not raining. The weather is beautiful, and the sun is shining all around me. After what seems like forever, I find the office building where I’ll be working. It takes me even longer to find a place to park my car.

  The office where this Mr. Montgomery works is right in the center of downtown, in an extremely tall building that at first glance seems to be made solely of windows. A security guard is stationed at the front doors and he doesn’t want to let me in. I explain that I have an appointment on the eleventh floor with Sue Green, Mr. Montgomery’s assistant. The guard looks me over distrustfully, head to toe. I peer just as intently back at him.

  He’s young and handsome. Enormous broad shoulders, with a shock of black hair on his head. About my age or even younger than me. When he stands up to make a phone call, probably to Sue, I catch a very pleasant glimpse of his ass – pleasant, because he has the kind of visibly strong, round butt it’s easy to envy. Out of the blue I find myself imagining him naked, and I’m ashamed at my thoughts. Fortunately, two minutes later, a middle-aged woman scurries out of the elevator in my direction.

  She reaches out a hand to me to shake, still in mid-stride. “I’m Sue. Nice to meet you, Emmy. Let’s go upstairs for a minute. I’ll show you around and give you some instructions, and then I’ll let you go. You must be exhausted.” She smiles and looks me up and down. “My God!” Sue throws her hands up in the air. “Look how little you are! You could be in high school! I pictured you differently.” I hadn’t pictured her at all, but that doesn’t change anything. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere till I finish. Enough talking about my size! Okay, I’m never going to play basketball – what am I supposed to do, drop dead? I straighten my shoulders and hold my head high.

  We emerge from the elevator on the eleventh floor. The remodeling project is in full swing all around us. Sue explains that Mr. Montgomery recently bought the whole floor for his office space and is redoing everything. He likes an austere, businesslike style. “Ascetic” is what Sue calls it. My paintings and the mural are supposed to liven the decor up a little. Those paintings contain only three colors: gray, white and black. Pretty gloomy. If those are going to liven things up, how dull is the re
st of it going to be? Not my problem! The customer is always right, after all. My job is straightforward: I paint.

  Meanwhile, Sue is maneuvering quickly and dexterously between scaffolding and construction workers, over the canvas covering spread across the floor.

  “This is where you’ll actually be working,” says Sue, pointing to one wall.

  From what I can see, this will be the main foyer. There are elevators on two sides, and between them, one wall entirely occupied with windows. That means I can expect plenty of natural light. I’ll be able to create something really fascinating here. Ideas are already bubbling up in my head. I push them aside and direct my attention back to Sue only when she mentions my employer’s name.

  “Mr. Montgomery wanted to meet you as soon as you got into town to have a talk about your sketch. He’s perfectly happy with it overall, but he’d like to add in some of his own ideas. I’ll schedule your meeting for tomorrow morning, 8:30. That’s when he usually comes in to check on the work here.”

  Ugh. I am not used to getting up so early anymore. Incidentally, where am I going to spend the night? An important question, and one that hadn’t even occurred to me before. Way to go, Emmy... a great start to your independent life!

  “I found you the perfect little place to stay,” says Sue, as though reading my mind. “A room with breakfast included. Here’s the address.” She hands me a card. “It’s a little far from here, but you have a car. It’s a charming place, very quiet, and I know the people there – they’re great.” I get the feeling that Sue would really like to just pat me on the head.

  She steers me into a small room where there’s a desk with a computer. “This is my temporary headquarters. Mostly I work at home, or at Mr. Montgomery’s house. I think I’m allergic to these paint fumes.” Sue closes the door and offers me a chair. After we finish all the paperwork, I am the proud owner of a spot in the parking garage and a pass to the building. There’s a photograph on the desk, of Sue surrounded by young men and women.

  “That’s my family,” explains Sue, when she sees me looking. “Two daughters and a son, with their boyfriends and girlfriend. They’ve all left home now, so my husband and I are empty nesters. Anyway, I won’t keep you here chatting – I could talk about them all day. You need to go and rest. You’ve got a big job ahead of you after that long drive.”

  Sue explains in the clearest possible terms how to get to my hotel, and we part company. Downstairs, I proudly flash my pass at the guard.

  “See? I’m here on business, not just for fun.”

  He laughs and waves me through the door.

  The hotel really is a fair distance away. After settling in and unpacking I text Paul and Tom that I’ve arrived and everything is fine. I’m on my way to find some dinner when I get a response from Paul:

  How’s Seattle?

  Me: Big.

  Paul: Do you like it?

  Me: Too soon to say. No rain though.

  I think about the meeting with my employer, coming up tomorrow. I’ve never created anything according to a client’s specific instructions before, and I have no idea if I can even paint what somebody else wants to see painted. Probably I can. Can I act the way somebody else wants me to act? Sure. Not to mention the fact that they’re even going to pay me to do it. There’s a new text on my phone.

  Paul: When are you coming back?

  Me: Don’t know.

  Paul: Are you coming back?

  There we go, right to the root of the matter. What should I tell him? I’ve vowed to be truthful and stop playing hide-and-seek with myself, right?

  Me: Can you talk?

  Literally one second later the phone rings.

  “Hi, how are you?”

  “Fine,” replies Paul, but his voice sounds gloomy.

  “You asked me the hardest possible question. I’ll try to answer it as honestly as I can. Just listen to me, okay, and let me get this out.” Then I start to tell him what I decided on my way here, that I need to learn to live my own life and make my own decisions, and that I don’t want to just drift anymore.

  When I’m finally done talking, Paul is quiet for a while. Then he asks, “Can you at least say approximately how much time you’re going to need?”

  I consider it. “Why do you want to know? I don’t know. It’s hard to say. Maybe ten days, maybe ten months.”

  “Ten months is a very long time. Okay. It’s just that this will be easier on me if I know how long I’m supposed to wait.”

  “What if I decide that I want to be alone?” I finally ask, dreading the answer.

  “Then I’ll come up there myself and explain to you that you’re wrong.” Paul pauses, then continues. “I got it. And I agree – you’ve spent practically your whole life belonging to somebody else. You need some time to get used to your new self and figure out what kind of life you want. That’s fine. It’s something you need to do. As far as our relationship goes, though.... I’m positive that you and I need to stay together. Forever. If you don’t figure that out on your own, I’m going to have to go find you and make you see it my way.”

  That helps me feel better. Paul is never going to let me down. I can always count on him. Now I know that there’s not so much of a rush, and I don’t need to make any drastic decisions any time soon.

  Chapter 23. Working

  First thing in the morning, I head out to meet Mr. Montgomery. I’m wearing my oldest, shabbiest jeans, keds and t-shirt. There’s a lot of dirty work ahead of me, so there’s no point putting on clean new clothes. I just hope my employer takes it the right way instead of assuming I’m a slob, like the guard stationed at the entrance does. Again, today, he looks me over suspiciously. I whip out my new building pass right in front of his nose. I’m an artist, dammit, on my way to paint a wall, which is a difficult thing to do in a gown by Chanel.

  Mr. Montgomery, or Greg, as he asks me to call him right away, turns out to be a solid-looking man of average height, about forty years old, with short, chestnut-brown hair. He is fashionably unshaven, and his brown eyes are set deep in his face behind a small pair of glasses with rounded lenses. My old rags look especially lousy next to his spotless designer suit, but I have no idea whether he even notices my clothes, or what he thinks about them if he did. Reading any emotion on his face is a difficult job. Evidently he is an extremely busy person with many jobs to juggle all at once: calls to make, remodeling work to supervise, and now here I am, so he has to discuss the mural with me, too. The only thing his facial expression reveals is the utmost concentration.

  When it comes to my creative work, he has only one favor to ask (that’s how he puts it – a favor, not a request): he wants it to be as abstract as possible. Hearing that delights me, because I had been thinking along the same lines myself. It is clear what he wants me to change in my original sketch, and why.

  I get down to work in a fantastic, carefree mood. The sun is shining as brightly as ever, and it lights up my workspace. Hadn’t Tom said that in Seattle there was nothing but rain? Not a single drop yet! While I’m working, I enter a sort of trance and almost forget about lunch. Tomorrow I’ll have to try to bring something with me to avoid taking too much time off. Today, I take the elevator down to the lobby, where that same security guard is on duty, the one I so shamelessly mentally undressed yesterday.

  On my way out, we nod greetings to each other. When I come back in, he asks me who I am and where I’m from. That’s how I get to know Eric.

  Eric tells me he’s a former Marine, now working for a security firm. He has an amazing smile that covers half his face when he’s not putting on a vicious, stern look. He also has that delicious-looking ass, something in which I have a hard time hiding my interest. Eric offers to buy me lunch and eat with me during his break. Perfect! That means I wouldn’t have to waste a lot of time going somewhere every day, so I happily agree.

  For several days straight, I’m immersed in my work. Late at night I crawl into bed and sleep like the dead. Once, before I
crash for the night, I check my phone and see a text from Tom: “Do you have your passport with you?”

  Actually, I do, strangely enough. When Paul and I got married, we dreamed of saving up some money and traveling abroad. Neither of us had ever left the country or seen the world. We made imaginary plans and even ranked our possible destinations: places we’d visit first, where we’d go next, and which countries would have to wait. I would come home from work feeling tired and, truth be told, depressed. We would sit down to dinner and fantasize together about where we would go and what we would see. I loved poring over maps, reading the unfamiliar names and imagining undiscovered places. Those names promised a different kind of life, one much more attractive, full of adventure and encounters with fascinating people. I got myself a passport and always carried it with me, as a commitment to my hopes for better times and a symbol of our future together.

  “Yes I do. Why do you ask?” I answer Tom.

  “Still want to go far-far away?” he writes back.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a job in Vancouver, but I need to give them an answer by tomorrow evening.”

  Now I’m worried. This is serious stuff – a job in Vancouver is a step beyond two weeks in Seattle. It’s a whole other country! Not exactly an exotic foreign land, but still...

  “What kind of job?”

  “Assistant in an art gallery. Kind of like what I do. The pay isn’t huge but there’s an apartment in the gallery and you can get it at a discount. There’s also a studio so you can paint.”

  “What’s the competition like?” I ask. Don’t ask me why, but I already want to go. I keep thinking that the farther I get from Rachel and John and what happened between us, the better I’ll feel.

  “I don’t know. Lorna, the gallery owner, asked me to recommend someone, because her assistant is about to leave. Want the job?”