by Mel Gough
He is Mine
Mel Gough
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to others. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Published 7 September 2018
© 2018 Mel Gough
Cover: Black Jazz Design
Contents
Part I
WASHINGTON, D.C., 1995
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part II
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK, 2012
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
SIX MONTHS LATER
Thank you!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Mel Gough
Part 1
WASHINGTON, D.C., 1995
Viv flops down on the sofa with a wince. She pulls her legs up and hugs them to her chest. Her knees are sore, and there’s a dull throbbing in her toes and ankles. The bodice of her sweaty dance costume sticks to her sides, and she shivers.
“I’m hungry,” she moans, pressing her face against her knees.
“Soon, Vivienne,” Mother mutters distractedly from the armchair. Her eyes are glued to the television. She presses the Rewind button on the remote for the VHS player yet again. The image on the screen flickers backward. Then she stabs the Play button. After a moment, she points at the little moving figures on the TV. “Look at that!”
Viv raises her head, peering over her knees. She watches herself doing a pirouette, then a jeté. The tiny Viv on the TV is the tallest of the three girls going through the exercises, and the skinniest. Viv is proud that she also looks more mature than the others, even though they have all just turned eight. Her long, blonde braid catches the ballet studio light, shining silver-gold.
“Arms,” Mother exclaims. Viv flinches, and the pleasure of watching herself turns sour. “You need to work on those arms! They look like string cheese!” She glares at Viv, who shrinks under the anger. “How many times have I told you: Arms soft but controlled. You flop around like an octopus!” She waves her hand in Viv’s direction, irritated. “Sit up straight!” Shaking her head, she turns her attention back to the screen.
Viv complies at once. She scoots to the edge of the sofa and makes her back extra straight, even though her spine protests. She grimaces but says nothing.
Mother grunts as the Vivienne on the screen makes a wobbly landing on the next jump. “You’ll never get away with that at the Opera National,” she mutters. Her eyes are cold as she glances around again. “If we even get you in there.”
Tears sting Viv’s eyes. She did her best this afternoon; she really did. She’s done her best every day these last three weeks, and she’s well ahead of the other girls training to get into one of the best ballet schools in the world. But it’s never good enough for Mother. It almost bubbles from her mouth, how Mother’s words make her feel, and how much every part of her body hurts. But Viv knows that confession would just bring her Mother’s scorn, and maybe a slap.
So instead she says again, “I’m hungry. Please, can’t I have a sandwich?”
Mother sighs. The disappointment radiates from her eyes. But she gets up from the cream leather armchair, her slim, athletic body graceful. “Come on, then.”
They go into the kitchen, where Mother selects two small apples from the bottom drawer in the fridge. As she rinses them under the tap, she asks, “You want to go to Paris, right?” Her voice is less terse now.
“Of course!” Viv exclaims. She clambers onto a stool at the breakfast bar. “Really, I do!”
“Then you need to work harder!” Mother cuts the apples into slices. She puts the narrow wedges in front of Viv one by one. “You’ve inherited my talent.” Viv gets a rare smile. “I’m very pleased about that. And you’re pretty. You can thank the gods that you got your father’s light coloring.” She pauses and touches her own chestnut hair, which she wears in a loose bun at home. “But that’s not good enough, not to get into the Opera National de Paris.” Mother says the exotic name with reverence and perfect pronunciation. She reaches across the counter and strokes Vivienne’s hair, then tilts her chin upward. “You have to be the best!” Her green eyes are beautiful like emeralds, but they are also hard as ice. Viv nods.
“I’ll work harder, I promise,” she says. How she could, Viv isn’t sure, but Mother clearly wants to hear it. Then she ventures, “Can’t I have a PB and jelly sandwich, though?”
“Of course not!” Mother lets go of her face. “Until la première sélection next week, you’re not eating bread!” But she goes over to the cupboard and gets the little bag of cashew nuts she hides in there for emergencies. As she counts out ten nuts next to the apple slices, Vivienne watches her mother’s slender fingers. The big diamond ring she got from Papa on her last birthday sparkles on her right hand.
Viv will never be as graceful as her mother, or loved enough by any man to be given such a gift. Mother thinks Viv can be the best, attend the best ballet school in France, and be celebrated as the daughter of the famous Annushka Petrov, but Viv has her doubts. As she chews her apple slices, making them last as long as possible, Viv vows to herself that she will try harder tomorrow. She’ll dance until her toes bleed and she can do the perfect jeté.
1
Brad stretches and rubs his eyes. He squints up at the ceiling; the first rays of morning light just start to creep along the plaster above his head. He sighs. This is his weekend off; his next shift isn’t until Monday. But he’s an early riser by design more than by desire. As if the day can’t start without you, Aiden used to mock him.
Aiden. Like every morning these last two weeks, Brad stretches his arm across the mattress, finding the sheets cold and undisturbed. He can see the empty pillow from the corner of his eye without moving his head. An equally empty spot in his heart aches in response.
Nothing has changed in the last eight hours. It still hurts. That fact established, Brad rolls out of bed. As he pads into the bathroom, he thinks about his very short To Do list for the day. A couple of phone calls to return, gym, then lunch. He promised to meet Maria, his friend since his high school days in Baltimore, at their favorite sushi place. While he pees, Brad contemplates whether to cancel that date. But he’s made excuses to Maria for two weeks; unless he meets her soon of his own free will she’ll send a search party. Going to Hibino will be less painful than another week of ignoring her texts and calls.
Brad steps over to the sink to brush his teeth. He hates to drink coffee before his mouth is clean, so he always makes time for two rounds with the electric toothbrush. Aiden used to roll his eyes at what he considers a waste of toothpaste
.
As he moves the oscillating bristles from one side to the other, Brad studies his face in the mirror. His spirits plummet. Even after a good night’s sleep there are dark circles under his chronic fatigue-dulled brown eyes, and his skin is sallow. Ever since Aiden walked out on him, each good night’s sleep is followed by two or three with hardly any. And it’s no use kidding himself. The last few weeks, he feels much older than thirty-seven, and the lack of sleep shows.
Not that his face would ever have won a beauty contest. His jaw is too square, and his brows are too full. Combined with the crooked nose, broken in a bar brawl during his first year on the beat in Baltimore and never properly set, he looks like the worst cliché of an Italian gangster. On better days, he tries to cultivate the image of sophisticated athlete, but lately that doesn’t even convince him.
Grimacing at his reflection, Brad spits out the toothpaste and rinses his mouth. With wet hands, he brushes over his short dark hair to flatten it into a semblance of order. On his way back into the bedroom he grimaces again.
What he sees hanging over the bed is another reminder of Aiden, the biggest and most obnoxious of them all. The huge canvas was a sore spot between them from the moment Aiden bought it from his friend three years ago. “Kyle’s the next Jackson Pollock,” he’d enthused, his eyes bright with what Brad hadn’t yet clocked as maniacal exuberance. “In five years, this will be worth a fortune!”
All Brad has ever seen there on his wall is ten feet by five feet of blotches and untidy scrawls. He just doesn’t get it. As he leaves the bedroom and descends the stairs, he makes up his mind. That wannabe Picasso needs to go.
Over coffee, Brad’s mood improves. Out of the kitchen window it looks to be a brilliant, warm day, much nicer than they have any right to expect in mid-March. Sipping his strong, black coffee, Brad decides he will meet Maria. She’s his closest friend, and she deserves to hear his sorry tale, as much as he can bring himself to share. She’s a good listener, even if she has a way of twisting his arm into revealing much more than he intends.
He also decides not to skip breakfast, which has become another bad habit. If he doesn’t eat something now he’ll be ravenous and irritable long before lunchtime. His mood swings are bad enough.
After a bowl of fruit, cereal, and yogurt, Brad gets dressed in his workout clothes. The gym is a five-minute walk from his brownstone on Garfield Place he’d never be able to afford on his salary. When his batty Aunt Hedda died six years ago, Brad inherited her house and a small life insurance settlement, enough to foot the renovations and ensure he’ll get a more comfortable retirement than a career with the NYPD can provide.
After a strenuous workout at the gym, he would usually exchange a few words with the other regulars in the locker room while getting dressed, but ever since Aiden left, words don’t come so easily. And Brad needs to conserve the ones he does have for Maria, who won’t let him off the hook until she has as much detail about the breakup as possible.
Back home, Brad sends a few texts to friends who have left frantic and worried messages these last two weeks, apologizing and promising to call soon. He returns a call to his dentist, who wants to reschedule an appointment, puts in a load of laundry, and straightens up a bit before acknowledging that he’s all out of excuses for putting off one more call. Standing in the kitchen, he dials Aiden’s number from memory.
Brad expects the call to go to voicemail, but to his surprise Aiden picks up on the fourth ring.
“Brad.” Even on the one word, Brad can hear the coldness.
A flustered silence follows. Brad hasn’t prepared for anything other than leaving a brief voicemail message. He casts around for some niceties. “Hey, uh… hi, Aiden. You okay?”
“Since when do you care?”
“’Course I do…” Brad’s legs feel shaky. He hadn’t expected Aiden to be so hostile. He pushes himself away from the kitchen counter and goes into the living room, where he drops onto the sofa.
“What do you want?” Aiden asks. The man Brad met five years ago, who could easily fill their whole day with chitchat, is gone. Brad should’ve realized it, but it still hurts. And he deserves Aiden’s hatred.
“I, err…” Brad clears his throat. “That painting in the bedroom… I was wondering…”
“You want to be rid of it.” Aiden knows him well. Brad can hear his breathing get heavy and fast, and his heart aches. He’s hurt Aiden yet again.
Maybe he can take it back. But before Brad can backpedal, Aiden speaks again. “No problem. You home tonight?”
“Yeah.” The thought of seeing Aiden gives Brad a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach.
“I’ll have someone pick it up then. Six okay?”
Aiden’s voice is emotionless. Brad’s stomach drops. Aiden won’t come himself. He can’t decide if that’s worse than seeing him.
Being excluded from Aiden’s hurt is new, and it stings. They know each other’s emotional life intimately, and Aiden’s refusal to show his anger and pain shakes Brad. It hits home: There’s really no way back.
“Sure…”
“Was there something else?” Aiden sounds impatient. He wants this conversation to end. Brad rubs his face.
“No, I… no, there wasn’t.”
“Good.” Aiden’s relief is palpable.
“Bye,” Brad says, but the line is dead before he gets the word out. He drops the phone into his lap. What did he expect? Aiden never wants to see him again, and Brad can’t blame him. But it hurts. Unbidden, the last words he said to Aiden’s face return for him to dwell on once again. You destroyed us, and I don’t have the energy to put us back together again. Not anymore.
He rubs his face and gives himself a shake. Then he looks around the room. It’s not just the painting; Aiden is still everywhere in the house. The green wall paint, the strange, antique-shop floor lamps, the sofa cushions—all were chosen by Aiden and paid for by Brad. He’ll have to at least get rid of the lamps and the cushions.
With a sigh, Brad gets up to change for his lunch date. Maybe Maria will agree to help him redecorate the house.
2
The lights flash right in her face, a cacophony of visual explosions, burning into her retina, blinding her. Robbed of one sense, her hearing makes up for it. She knows how this works; it’s her world.
“Vivienne, over here!”
“This way, Viv!”
“Over the shoulder, that’s it!”
“Beautiful!”
“Miss Aubert!” “Viv!” “That’s it!” “Brilliant!” “Here!” “Yes!” “Wonderful!”
Yes!
She smiles, widely, brilliantly. She turns, first this way, then that. She stretches her neck, imagining a string pulling up through the crown of her head, until she can feel the vertebrae crack. Comme une cygne, she hears Mademoiselle Pelier’s voice. Like a swan, yes! She remembers; she still knows!
One slender foot in the fifteen-hundred dollars Manolo Blahniks stretched out before her, then a half step to the side. The silk of her dress, cream and pink, glides cool and smooth against her hip bone. Her arms look like they just hang by her sides, but in reality they’re poised, almost bras bas, getting ready for the first position. She cocks her head to one side; she knows how beguiling that looks. She drinks in the shouts, the clamor for her attention.
Yes, this is it. She’s alive here. She’s herself.
“Vivienne!”
Her husband’s voice cuts in sharp over the clamor. Viv looks around, finding Victor a few steps off to the side. His face is a tense mask in the harsh light. There’s impatience in the creases on his high forehead and boredom in his light blue eyes behind the wireless glasses. Usually, his receding hairline and salt and pepper coloring make him look distinguished. Tonight, he looks like a deranged, menacing professor. His gaze is colored with some other emotion. Distaste? Jealousy? Viv’s smile falters, but she hitches it back up before anyone can notice.
He beckons. “Enough of that. C’mon already!
”
With one last smile, evenly distributed for the benefit of the bank of photographers, and a little curtsy, Viv saunters along the red carpet and catches up with Victor under the huge screen opposite the press pen that reads “Hollywood Philanthropic Association’s 15th Annual Benefit Gala – February 18, Beverly Hills Hotel.” He turns and glares down at her for a moment, then walks in long strides toward the entrance to the Crystal Ballroom.
Viv is now put out for real. What’s wrong with him tonight? He knows how important this bit is, to be seen and photographed from all angles. He’s the one who taught her. Has he forgotten? “If a week goes by without your face in at least one major celebrity column, you might as well be dead.” That’s the mantra he taught her while walking the red carpet during the press circuit of their first blockbuster together.
To everyone’s surprise, Queen of the Underworld was the most critically acclaimed Sci-Fi movie of the previous year. So his strategy works. The success of that movie, Victor’s most ambitious project, in which Viv played the title character, opened their door into the highest echelons of Hollywood. When Harlan Chow, media mogul and one of the richest movie producers in town, suggested they share a table at the benefit gala tonight to discuss the possibility of financing Victor’s next movie, Viv and Victor knew they were in.