by Watson, Meg
“It’s just the underpainting,” I said, more defensively than I meant. “This isn’t what they’ll be. It’s just the start.”
I stepped back, hoping he would turn away and follow me, but he didn’t. He stepped closer.
“They’re so raw…”
“I know,” I said quickly, fighting an urge to tug on his arm. “That’s what they are, exactly… They’re too new to be looked at, really. Can you just… Here, let’s talk over here.”
He pointed. “What is this part… This pattern?”
“Actually, you know what? I don’t really talk about in-progress things,” I admitted nervously, my voice rapid and staccato. “It’s like… unwrapping a wound too early, you know? I’m sorry… I don’t mean to be the overly sensitive arteest or anything…”
“That’s cool. You’re entitled,” he said affectionately and turned toward me. As soon as he was facing away from the paintings, I felt my stress go out like the air from a balloon.
“It’s wonderful how fast you got to work,” he said, putting his arms around my shoulders and pulling me close. I melted into his embrace, vividly aware of the tension in my muscles and bones. I felt like an over-tightened string on a guitar.
“And I see you got your new furniture.”
I nodded, saying nothing. The workmen had practically tiptoed in then assembled it in place, all while I ignored them from across the room, painting and probably talking to myself like a loon the entire time.
“Are you OK?” he asked into my hair.
I sighed, wanting to say yes, and definitely not wanting to give into the urge to lash out at him. But then, who would I be? Just the pawn?
“Actually I think I’m just hungover from painting,” I averred. “Bridget says I am not fit company until I’ve had at least two days to recover.”
There you go, Jack. That was your chance to leave.
He pulled back, scowling into my face with concern.
“No, I don’t think that’s what it is.”
All right. You asked for it.
I took a deep breath. Where to begin?
“Did you know everything from my studio was on the jet?” I asked in a rush, my words tumbling across a single breath.
He pressed his lips together, hard, then nodded.
“Did you know about this house? Everything?”
“Declan buys houses all the time,” he said.
“Don’t try to dodge me, Jackson. You knew about all this?”
He paused, then nodded again. His arms dropped and hung at his sides.
“Is it really that bad?”
I quirked an eyebrow. “Wow, you guys really are cut from the same cloth, huh? You know that’s not the point.”
He shook his head. “We’re nowhere near the same cloth,” he said softly. “And you’re right, that’s not the point.”
“I don’t feel like you’ve been honest with me.”
Filling his chest with a deep breath, he closed his eyes.
“Margot, nothing is set in stone,” he said. “You’re here to work; you said so yourself. And look… you’re working. And it’s brilliant. I can see that already.”
I seethed silently. While I knew he wasn’t entirely to blame, he was the closest person to lash out at.
“It’s late. You must be starving… Peter is here. Are you coming to dinner?”
I shook my head. “No,” I sulked.
His shoulders slumped. “Well,” he said gently, “let me know if you feel like eating. I can always bring you something.”
“I don’t feel like eating, Jackson. I feel tricked.”
His bit his lips closed, nodding almost imperceptibly.
“You knew about all this, didn’t you?”
“I tried to tell you,” he said simply.
“When? When you told me I ‘didn’t have to sign anything?’”
He shrugged and shook his head, his eyebrows knitted together. “Then and other times… You can make up your own mind. I didn’t want to tell you what to do.”
“Really? Why not? So you wouldn’t influence the outcome of your little game?”
He looked at me, his gaze intense and hurting but I didn’t care.
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair to whom? You? Well who’s supposed to be worrying about what’s fair to me?”
“You’re the only thing I’ve been thinking about this entire time, Margot, and I think you know that,” he said defensively.
“No, apparently I don’t know anything!” I yelled, my voice vibrating the canvasses like drums. “Apparently I’ve just been bumbling along like some broke-as-fuck basket case, doing whatever you guys wanted, falling right into every trap you laid for me. What a fucking joke this must be for you, huh? See the little monkey dance?”
“It’s not like that.”
“You guys must just sit around and laugh and laugh your asses off, huh? Let’s see if we can get her to trash her career! Let’s see if we can get her to leave her friends! Let’s see if we can get her to burn her fucking life to the ground!”
“Margot, stop!” he snapped, walking toward me. I flinched back and he stopped, confused. As my breath came out in ragged, frustrated grunts, I watched his hands trembling at his sides and wondered if he meant to hit me or hold me.
“Please stop it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe you’re right… This was all a mistake. Why don’t you… Listen, I’ll be back in the states in a few days. Why don’t you go home, and I will be there.”
“I came here to work, Jackson. For the ten-thousandth fucking time. I came here because I thought it would be good for my career…”
“I know,” he said with a guilty edge to his voice.
“Do you know? Really? Or do you just think I’d follow you anywhere for your entertainment?”
He took a deep breath, his eyes beginning to flash with frustration. “Margot, honestly it was never like that for me. And I know you’re upset right now. I get it. This isn’t like you. The offer to go back to LA stands--”
“How do you know what is ‘like me’ or not? You barely even know me!”
He winced like I’d slapped him. Voices in my head begged me to apologize, to take it back, but I stubbornly resisted. Slowly he stood up straight, his eyes dimming to a steely grey, then reached into his jacket pocket.
“This is open-ended,” he said evenly, and dropped an envelope on the duvet. “You can do whatever you want.”
I turned away from him as he left the room, wanting so much to chase him but not even knowing what I would do with him if I caught him. Then I took the envelope and threw it on the side table and flung myself diagonally across the big, empty bed.
***
The next day or two, I was glad for the silence. I lived with the paintings, cultivating them, coaxing them layer by layer into what I needed them to be. I felt like I was in a race. They needed to be finished before the next time anyone wanted to barge in and rip the dressing off the wound. That was too hard. It made me say terrible things.
Things I hadn’t meant. Well, hadn’t entirely meant, anyway.
For a few days, or two days, I couldn’t be sure, I left my attic studio only to pad down to the bathroom or kitchen and swipe food from the abundantly stocked refrigerator. Once I surprised Mike in my flimsy t-shirt and panties, closing the fridge door with an apple pierced between my teeth.
“Can I… make you something, Margot?”
“Me?” I mumbled around the apple. “Oh I’m sorry I didn’t know anybody was… Hey, you’re here. In Amsterdam.”
He nodded and dropped a canvas bag on the wide marble counter.
“Have you tried the food here? Inedible. Declan brought me.”
I glanced down at my armful of packaged chocolate cookies, cakes and fruits, embarrassed by my frat-boy-quality selection.
“Well,” he scowled, “looks like you’re all set there.”
“Yep!” I answered brightly and slunk away, hoping I d
idn’t have too much ass cheek hanging out.
As soon as I was back in my studio, I was humming again. Munching snacks as I stared at the paintings one by one, then stepping back to see them all together, I built up a list of changes in my mind. A to-do list.
I ate and then painted, attempting to parse my changes judiciously and not advance past the optimal point for stopping. There needed to be a dither in the layers that wasn’t buffed out or obscured by fussy perfection. I needed the rawness to bleed through.
I heard voices in the hallways sometimes, prompting me to pause in mid-stroke like some nocturnal raccoon caught in the middle of a garden raid. But no one came in. I felt some relief that apparently our business obligations had miraculously synced up. They were busy. I was busy. Perfect.
At some point much later, I sat down crosslegged on the bare floorboards and just stared at them while the sun set. The room flamed bright orange as the last rays of sunlight crept across the ceiling angles.
They were done. Well... they were “complete,” or at least I thought so. I wasn’t entirely sure. I needed a day or so to simmer, then look at them again. But they were past working on, at least for now.
I tipped over where I sat, staring at them sideways from a fetal position until the room went dark.
***
Declan woke me by flipping on a light and dropping a box on my bed.
“Whoa,” I said into the floor, then pushed myself up on one elbow.
“Oh, geez, I didn’t even realize you were in here. I thought you’d gone out,” he said apologetically. “You’re going to be late, you know. We do fashionably late well enough, but you’re like really late.”
“What are you talking about?” I mumbled, standing up on unsteady, fatigued legs. Apparently sleeping on a three-hundred-fifty-year-old attic floor was not as rejuvenating as I had presumed.
He quirked an eyebrow and shifted his weight to one side. I noticed that he was wearing a beautiful, sleek suit in midnight blue. The slim cut of the trousers showed off his perfectly male physique to its best advantage. If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have demanded that he let me draw him.
“Your party, highness.”
“That’s Friday,” I replied automatically.
“Yes.”
“Today is not Friday.”
He cocked his head at me.
“It’s not, though,” I insisted.
“Suit yourself,” he sighed. His finger trailed along the top of the box. “I brought you a present.”
“I would like to talk,” I said suddenly, surprising myself.
“No time,” he shrugged. “I would love to talk. Love to. But your admirers await your presence.”
“No, I--”
“Ahp!” he said brusquely, holding up his hand, Stop.
Seriously?
“Come down when you are ready, Margot,” he said suavely, flashing me a magazine-quality smile. “I can’t wait to see you in this.”
Cary Grant-style, he turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him. Pushing at my fluffy rat’s nest of hair, I walked to the box and gave it a sullen poke with my finger.
“Whatever you are,” I informed the box, “you are not worth it.”
When I opened the door to my room, box pinned under my arm, I could hear voices and someone playing the piano. A lot of voices. It sounded like the party was in full swing.
How long was I asleep? Had I really lost the whole week to work? It seemed impossible, but then again, not impossible at all. Other than Bridget calling me incessantly to remind me that I was late for whatever next thing I was late for, I didn’t really have to keep track of time. Days just blended together.
I got in the shower and washed everything with the sweetest smelling soap from the dish, hoping that would reinvigorate my attitude. I wasn’t really ready to communicate with people. I hadn’t even thought about what I could say to them. How badly could I screw this all up?
The box lay conspicuously on the counter and I stared at the word GUCCI in subtle raised letters while towelling off. Taking a brush to my hair, I tried to beat it into some kind of Bohemian art form while deliberately avoiding any inspection of the rest of me. Back in LA I had been scrawny, verging on scary. After a week of intense work, I was probably moving closer to feral.
When my face was more or less presentable, I finally flicked the corner of the box up, poking inside it like maybe it was full of gerbils or something.
The shoes were laid atop the thick tissue paper: dark blue leather sandals with a stacked heel and ankle strap. I smirked and wrinkled my nose, knowing Declan probably got a kick out of asking a personal shopper for a shoe that I would be least likely to sprain my ankle in. I set the sandals aside and pulled open the tissue paper, then bit my lips together to stifle a low moan.
The dress was beyond gorgeous. It was a thing of art. Embroidered chrysanthemums against a midnight blue silk chiffon twinkled in the light. With trembling fingers, I reached out to stroke the metallic threads before picking the bodice up gingerly and letting the whole dress flow out in front of me. The silk tumbled to the floor like a liquid, the flowers gradually turning to a constellation of tiny stars.
It fit perfectly, of course, though it showed me as gaunt as I was. I smoothed my hands over my hipbones and gave myself another hard stare in the mirror. After thinking I might not, I put on the M pendant and watched it glimmer for a few long seconds.
“You can do this,” I muttered to my reflection. “Now man up and do this.”
The voices got louder as I descended the front staircase carefully, my fingers clutching the bannister. A trio of charcoal-suited, tall men silenced their conversation as I approached and gave me brief nods in greeting. I smiled and returned the gesture, realizing that it was very likely that most people here spoke Dutch and I could perhaps get away with some safe, silent grinning.
From the foyer, I spotted Declan across the parlor, posing with his elbow on the mantlepiece. As he spoke he gestured with a martini glass. I realized that our outfits were perfectly coordinated, dark blue Gucci creations. We looked like movie stars.
He smiled brilliantly and tossed his head like he was on stage, apparently telling some kind of joke or story. The crowd of people around him was cherry-cheeked and rapt, and he seemed to glow brighter in their happy stares.
Do I even need to be here? I wondered. Looks like he has the adoring fan thing down pat.
“Ah, there she is!” he declared suddenly, his voice booming like it was a line from a play. He extended his arm and the crowd of people literally parted so I could approach him.
Jamming a rigid smile over my teeth, I took careful, slow steps across the antique rug and inserted myself into the void under his arm. He squeezed my shoulder and angled me outward so everyone could see me.
Trying to pose like a porcelain doll, I smiled at each guest until my teeth went dry. There were so many people in the room it was a glaring mashup of dark suits and shimmering sequins, shoulders and glittery hair pains. I couldn’t have been more dazzled if a band of paparazzi suddenly descended from the chandelier on wires and started popping flashbulbs.
He kissed the top of my hair affectionately as a round of polite applause broke out.
“They love you. Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he muttered at the back of my ear.
“I don’t think I can do anything else,” I muttered back through the rictus of my fake smile.
“Haha, don’t sell yourself short,” he said. “Deep down, you crave this. You know you do.”
I pulled back slightly, shooting him a quick, secret scowl.
He shrugged imperiously. “What,” he said. “You’re going to deny it?”
I flared my nostrils and looked away, resuming my porcelain doll act while people said polite things in Dutch.
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” he whispered, tugging me closer. “And you’re sold out, my dear. You should give me a little credit for knowing you, maybe eve
n better than you do sometimes.”
“Sold out what?” I asked, plucking a flute of champagne from a silver tray a young, pretty woman offered me.
“Everything.”
“Everything what?”
I felt his breath come out in a sigh. It trickled across my bare shoulder. Stepping away from him slightly, I turned back to meet his eyes. He blinked at me passively, a supreme smirk twisting one corner of his mouth.
“The paintings, Margot,” he said impatiently.
I shook my head. “I don’t have anything to show.”
“Oh, I think the last week was very productive.”
My mouth fell open.
“No,” I growled, just above hearing. “Those are not ready to show. They’re not even done.”
An older, shiningly wealthy couple had sidled closer to us and Declan cut his eyes toward them.
“It’s a little late for that,” he said quickly, brushing me off before turning to the new fans that so obviously required his attention.
I clutched the stem of the champagne glass in my hand and stepped away from them, almost tripping over the back hem of my dress. People backed away from me politely, continuing their conversations as I turned slowly in place.
He wouldn’t have, I reasoned.
Through the double doors at the end of the room, I heard the piano music and still more guests. Stunned but curious, I began to walk toward them.
Smile, Margot, I reminded myself as I stilted forward.
I smelled them first: the warm, savory perfume of linseed oil combined with the piney tang of turpentine. As I crossed through the doors, I saw the hip-high velvet rope that had been set up along the walls.
No, no. No, no, no.
The guests grinned and offered stiff bows in welcome. A few ladies clapped their hands politely and stepped aside, presumably so I could stand there instead. Right in front of them. My paintings. My beautiful, still-bloody, just-born paintings.