The Art of Love

by Anne Whitney

  Fitz picks up the newspaper from the table and scrunches it tightly into a ball.

  “You don’t have to talk about this ever again if you don’t want to,” he tells me before shoving the paper into the trash can. “You can forget it right now and begin a new life as someone completely different if that’s what you want to do. Or, I can go to Spokane and kill him.”

  I stare at him, mouth agape. “You don’t have to do that.”

  He turns back and sits down beside me. With one arm, Fitz pulls me close, letting me put my head on his shoulder as I fight back the tears.

  “That man is never going to hurt you again,” he says in my ear. His hand lightly flows over my curly mess of hair. “You can trust me when I say that.”

  As much as my head tells me I can’t trust anyone, my heart lets me believe him. I close my eyes and feel at peace, safe and secure for the first time in my life, and I let the worries of the world fade away into the rush of morning.

  CHAPTER 11.

  The rapid tapping at the door causes me to flinch. Part of me doubts I’ll ever feel fully safe again, even as Fitz reassures me that nobody knows I’m here beyond our tight circle of friends.

  Friends. I wonder if they’ll remain so after all this.

  When the door flies open, Viridian marches toward me and engulfs me in a tight hug. It takes my breath away for a few moments, but I soon reciprocate, taking comfort in her floral scent and eye-watering floral blazer, the color of her name.

  “Oh sweetie,” she sighs. “When you’re ready. You don’t need to tell me anything if it hurts too much. I believe you.”

  Such devotion remains foreign to me, but having Viridian welcome me despite everything swirling around my crumbling life brings me immense comfort. I barely even notice the guest she has brought with her until she begins speaking to Fitz.

  “Long time no see,” she says as they shake hands. “I’m guessing this is the emergency?”

  “Yep,” Fitz replies. “Thanks for making it on such short notice.”

  “You know how hard it is to turn V down.”

  Viridian eventually pulls back, allowing me the opportunity to breathe. Her guest is a tall woman, as tall as Fitz thanks to her shoes, with thick rimmed glasses, wavy black hair and assorted bags around her feet. She extends her hand to me and we shake.

  “Nice to meet you,” she says politely. “I’m Carrie Leung. Do you want to start now or should we discuss ideas first?”

  I’ve had no time to think about this at all. I need to completely change my look from the tight lipped, bushy-haired schoolgirl in the headlines, but fashion and beauty have always confused and scared me in equal measure. I can make my own clothes, but practicality and comfort always beat style, particularly with the disapproving stares I lived with, judging every stitch I made.

  “You know what?” I decide swiftly without much thought. “I’m going to let V decide.”

  She raises an eyebrow but looks positively thrilled.

  “Are you sure about that?” Fitz asks warily. I nod.

  “You only live once,” I reply.

  Viridian claps her hands.

  “I know just the look. Go and change into something comfortable while I discuss things with Carrie.”

  I rush off into the bathroom to switch from my crumpled dress into some sweatpants and a navy t-shirt that’s seen better days, the things I usually wear as my pajamas. By the time I return to the plotters, a chair has been set up and Viridian is unraveling some towels.

  “Take a seat, my dear,” she says with glee in her voice. “This is where things get interesting.”

  If I thought my first makeover with Viridian took a long time, this one makes it seem like a sprint in comparison. Once again denied the luxury of a mirror, I can only guess what is happening to me as Viridian sections off chunks of my hair whilst Carrie mixes together a foul smelling chemical concoction. With a brush, she begins to apply the mixture to my hair until my entire head is covered in the stuff. My scalp tingles and begs to be scratched, but I daren’t lift a finger. I can only stare with bemusement as Carrie brings out a roll of tinfoil and wraps it around my head like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey.

  “I’d give it an hour or so,” she explains to us all. “Your hair’s pretty dark, so it requires a good soak, for lack of a better term, to lift all that color.”

  I nod, choosing to trust the pair of them over panicking. It makes a change.

  For the next hour, the four of us chat about anything and everything, but the topic of the headlines and my father never comes up, something I’m eternally grateful for. I’m positive that bringing it up would only make me burst into tears again and I’m exhausted as it is. Not only do Fitz and Viridian not care about my baggage, but they’re going out of their way to help me unload it. Having true friends really lives up to my dreams.

  Eventually, it’s time to remove the foil, which is just as well because the strange burning sensation is driving me bonkers. After the foil is off, my hair is rinsed with the shower head over the bathtub, some sort of conditioner is applied and washed out, and I’m back in the chair for yet another strange potion of dye. I catch a glimpse of a chunk of my hair and notice its vaguely cartoon yellow tinge.

  “Relax, sweetie,” Carrie says, noticing my horror. “That’s just the base. We’re putting in the toner now.”

  Eventually, my hair is deemed a suitable color for Viridian and Carrie’s plans. I assume it’s some kind of blond but can’t confirm. Fitz seems enraptured by the entire operation, with occasional distractions from his buzzing phone.

  “Derek is one his way,” he announces. “He’s bringing you some new clothes.”

  “When we say clothes,” I say. “Do we mean the sort of stuff Zinnia wears?”

  “Not quite,” Fitz laughs. “Derek’s a stylist for a magazine, so he has access to a shit-load of free stuff, none of which is ever to his or Zinnia’s tastes, but since you need a new look...”

  I pray that Derek doesn’t dress me in ball gowns and Wonder-Bras. I’m ready for a change, but I’m not at that level yet. Through the mental images of feather boas and the Legendary Ladies, I am only dimly aware of scissors snipping away massive chunks of my hair. Oddly, I don’t freak out as I see my hair fall to the floor around my feet. It’s liberating in its own way, and exactly what I need right now. Apparently, I have hair like my mother.

  While the scissors don’t bother me, the buzzing of the electric razor does put me on edge.

  “I’m not going bald!”

  “You would look fabulous with a crew cut,” Viridian insists, taking hold of my hand. “But not today. I promise, you’re going to look amazing. Isn’t that right, Fitz?”

  He silently nods, moving around me slowly, circling me like prey. Once again, I feel as if I’m part of one of his performances. An installation in his self-portrait always in progress. His calming eyes keep me focused as the razor shaves the back of my head, moving to the sides. A literal weight has been removed from my head. I had no idea I was carrying around so much hair.

  “Derek’s here!” Fitz says. “I’ll go let him in downstairs.”

  Before he runs down the stairs, he lingers by the doorway, watching my changing expression as Carrie finishes with the razor and snips away a few extra hairs. I can’t have much left now.

  She stands back to admire her handiwork with Viridian, both of whom look pleased as punch.

  “Man, Leung,” Viridian says, sounding highly impressed. “And I thought I was good.”

  “It’s drastic,” Carrie admits. “But she wears it well.”

  I move my hand upwards but Viridian slaps it back. I should have expected that. She pulls away the towel and brushes a few flyaway hairs from my shoulders.

  “Right. Makeup!”

  I groan. Surely the hair is enough?

  “Less of the whining, honey,” she warns me. “This part is crucial. I even brought some free samples for you so you can get used to putting it on yourself.�
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  As Carrie cleans up the carpet of damp bleached hair that covers the wooden floor, I bite my tongue as Viridian pulls out the dreaded tweezers and casually begins to yank out individual eyebrow hairs. It hurts more than such a small action really should, but I repress my wincing and moans.

  It’s all part of the plan, I remind myself. The new you. The untraceable you.

  By the time she’s finally done, Derek and Fitz have entered the apartment with countless shopping bags and my vision is blurred with tears. They stop in their tracks upon seeing me, eyes wide and mouths open, and I can feel my paranoia seeping back.

  “Guys, please don’t do that,” I murmur to them as Viridian begins to apply the makeup. There is silence throughout this period as she completes her tasks, brow furrowed in concentration. While Derek quickly regains his usual composure and begins to pull pieces of clothing from the bags, Fitz seems stuck in silent mode. Once the makeup job is finished, his smile has grown exponentially.

  “Your turn, Derek, darling,” Viridian says, clearing up her makeup.

  I quietly follow Derek into Fitz’s bedroom, ready for this all to be over. I swear it’s taken most of the day and I have to be at work at 6pm. I doubt Rachel would make an exception for lateness, even under my surreal circumstances.

  I don’t pay much attention to the clothes I put on that Derek has hands to me. They fit well enough, although the top constricts me in a way that makes it appear as if I have cleavage. When he holds out a pair of cork wedge heels, I groan.

  “Relax, you don’t need to walk anywhere in them. This is for display only. You’ll learn how to use them eventually, if I have anything to do with it.”

  I relent and slip into them, wobbling a little with the change in balance. With everything complete, once again Derek is speechless, and even a little teary eyed, which just makes me feel weird.

  “Girl,” he says. “There are no words.”

  “That’s reassuring,” I mumble, trying to stand straight.

  “Okay, guys!” Derek calls out. “It’s time!”

  Carrie and Viridian squeal in the manner that women and artists are prone to do when makeovers are involved, but it’s Fitz’s reaction that worries me most. He’s still silent, still wide-eyed and gawping, as if he’s in awe at what he sees. But that’s stupid. Why would he be?

  “Turn around,” Viridian tells me. I shuffle in a circle and come face to face with a stranger.

  Instead of a mop of untamed mahogany curls trailing down my back, I’m left with a short, chic platinum blonde bob cut bluntly at the base of my ears, the nape and sideburns shaved to the skin. The bangs are harsh and end mid-forehead. It’s straight and sleek, not even long enough to hit my chin.

  My eyebrows are neat and perfectly frame my eyes, now decorated in heavy liquid eyeliner with dramatic shades of pink, just like my lips. Against my pale skin and newly pale hair, my bright blue eyes pop like a ghost in the dusky light of the afternoon.

  Derek’s fashion choices are completely unlike anything I would have picked for myself. They hug my body instead of concealing it. The hot pink bandage top cinches my waist and gives me a bust, while the black sequin blazer perfectly matches the dangerously tight black pants that resemble leather.

  I survey myself in the mirror and don’t recognize the woman that stares back at me.

  That’s not Marina Phillips.

  Then again, that’s the whole point.

  “Oh wow,” I say. It’s not enough to describe my feelings, but I cannot think of anything more eloquent that will. Carrie and Viridian high-five whilst I continue to take in what I see. There are vestiges of my old self in this new look - the awkwardness is still there, an old friend in strange new times - but I doubt anyone reading the papers this morning would be able to tell that I am the poor kidnapped little girl from Spokane. I wonder if my father would recognize me.

  “See, this is why you should always trust me,” Viridian says, taking my hands again. “Do you like it?”

  I nod, because I truly do.

  “Hey, Fitz, would you shut your mouth please?” Derek laughs. “You’re not a farmyard animal, for Pete’s sake.”

  Fitz eventually complies and comes toward me, still a little dazzled.

  “Holy shit,” he finally manages to say after too much silence. “My god, you look... You look brand new.”

  “Is that good or bad?” I ask.

  “Amazing. You look totally amazing.”

  Viridian and Derek share an amused look, but Fitz doesn’t seem to notice. His reaction makes me smile, although I wonder if my new look is truly good or bad. Am I suddenly his type?

  “Thanks again, Carrie,” Viridian says, hugging her friend.

  “It’s always a pleasure. Hey, I didn’t catch your name? What is it?”

  I turn back to the mirror and gently touch my new hairstyle. Fitz is by my side, his gaze taking in every inch of what I have become.

  Good question, Carrie.

  CHAPTER 12.

  The calendar reads Thursday, but it feels like no time at all has passed since I saw my old face staring back at me from the front page of the Times and had a new one created for me.

  In the space of a few days, I have become an entirely new person. Every person I meet knows me as Mary Fenton, age 22, born February 16, 1991 in Portland, Oregon. I hold a degree in art from Oregon State University. I have come to New York to become an artist and have found work as Fitz’s part time assistant while I save for graduate school waiting tables.

  Mary Fenton is a woman who knows no bounds.

  Mary Fenton will never be me, and all the dye and makeup in the world will not change that.

  I can’t get over how I look. Even my body has changed. The worry has zapped my appetite, and in the space of a few days I’ve already lost a size. Marina Phillips should be dead under the rug, but she’s not. She’s still alive and well, a frightened girl trapped in the wrong woman’s body.

  “Mare, come on before you miss the call!”

  I swing open the door and walk out of the bathroom. Fitz waits with a smile on the couch, his cell phone sitting on the coffee table like some sacred object. The tight black pants I wear - another product of Derek’s shopping spree for my new look - cut into my hips as I settle myself beside him. The white tank leaves little to the imagination, leaving me blessed not to be buxom.

  “You’re going to get it,” I tell him. A genuine smile appears, even as I doubt my ability to care about things anymore. Not with my father hunting me down.

  “The American Modern Art Museum show is a tough gig to crack,” he says. It’s the first time I’ve truly heard him sound nervous. “This is the end all be all of career-making moves.”

  “And that’s why you’re going to get it,” I say playfully.

  “A thousand artists apply for five spots. You have a better chance of being murdered.”

  “Really?”

  “I have no idea. I just made that up.”

  The clock ticks closer to 4 PM, the time the selected will be notified by phone. I put my hand on Fitz’s knee out of pure instinct, only to be taken by surprise when he slides his hand over mine. We stay like that for a good few seconds, utterly comfortable in each other’s company. The past week or so has been a constant bombardment of new experiences like this one. I wonder if my new look really does have the power to totally transform me. Marina Phillips quickly panics but Mary Fenton just takes things as they come.

  “If I don’t get this,” Fitz says, “I hope you’re prepared for a few days of hardcore moping.”

  “I’m sure I’ll survive, but don’t think I’m going to start cleaning up after you just because you’re a brooding artist who cannot art under these terrible conditions.”

  “Can you use ‘art’ as a verb?”

  I shrug. “No idea.”

  He opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the phone. His hand tightens around mine and we remain stuck in our positions for a couple of seconds before
I shake away my hand and motion for him to answer, which he does.

  “Hello?” He says as casually as he can, although the person on the other end can’t see his nervous foot tapping as I can. “Yes, speaking... Yes... Yes...”

  His voice rises an octave and he keeps repeating the word ‘yes’ with increasing excitement. I knew he would get it!

  “Thank you so much!” He exclaims. “You’ll never regret this decision, I swear! Okay, thanks again. Thank you. Bye!”

  As he hangs up, he leaps to his feet and punches the air, holding his phone high above his head as if it were a trophy. I clap like a seal as he jumps up and down in a frantic celebratory dance. The neighbors in the apartment below probably won’t be happy with the stomping and shrieks of joy coming from the pair of us, but I couldn’t care less.

  “Holy shit!” he screams over and over. I’ve never seen him so jubilant and it’s a sight I enjoy immensely. His happiness is infectious and I grin wildly as he pulls me into a hug.

  “See, I told you,” I manage to say as we spin around. The most prestigious modern art museum in the country, maybe even the world, has opened its doors and welcomed Fitz, something that millions of artists would die for. And I’d be coming along for the ride.

  I don’t know the first thing about being an artist’s assistant, and I have no idea how I‘m going to fake being an art graduate since I have absolutely no qualifications of any kind to my name, but I knew Fitz would steer me in the right direction.

  He pulls back and smoothes down his hair. I do the same, still not used to my new style. My head feels so much lighter, for one thing.

  “Fuck, I really didn’t think I’d get it. What the hell do I do now?” Fitz begins to ramble. His rapid speech makes words blur together and I have trouble keeping up. “I can’t just submit any old naked crap to these people. It’s got to be brand new naked crap, and revolutionary naked crap at that! I have to think about this one. Oh man, do not mess this up!”