The Art of Love

by Anne Whitney

  “Fitz's father thinks that he knows what's best for Fitz,” Derek says. “I'm grateful that mine doesn't give a shit about me. He has three other sons that are the perfect replicas he's always wanted, to be conservative nut cases, to one day take over the company and spout off nonsense about how liberals are ruining America. Fitz is the only son his father has, and he still thinks that one day Fitz is going to come to his senses and toss art out the window and go to Harvard like a good little boy. And sometimes I think Fitz might just do it.”

  My ears perk up. "What do you mean by that?"

  Derek looks around, almost nervous, before leaning closer and lowering his voice. “Globe Banking is one of the largest banks on this planet. Fitz was groomed since birth to be a billionaire bank manager asshole. I mean, sure, he's an asshole, but boarding schools in Switzerland and the same upbringing as Richie Rich can only go so far to create the perfect hell-spawn. But he almost had it. More so than my dad ever had a chance of turning this into some day trader.”

  Once the words begin to flow, there is no stemming the geyser of admissions. Derek throws back his drink and orders another from the harried waitress before he goes on.

  "Our Dear Fitzroy was the perfect All-American boy until he was 19 and he dropped out of Harvard and enrolled in art school. Imagine the horror! His dad threatened to cut him out of the will, to cut him off period unless he went back, but Fitz went and got all tattooed and bulked up at the gym and shaved his head and got arrested for public nudity in the name of art. You know, he was even engaged to this girl Emily until then, the perfect blonde Harvard rich girl. And then he went and spent six months on a farm near Albany like some monk, completely silent, studying the human condition or something like that."

  I begin to sink into my seat deeper, feeling myself leaning closer as the story unfolds. "Really?" I whisper.

  Derek nods forcefully. He's even beginning to smile with the glee of the story he tells.

  "Then he comes back to New York, tells his father that he wants to be an artist, and says that his father can have him as he is or Fitz will never speak to him again."

  "Wow," I murmur like an idiot. And suddenly the illusion that I fell in lust with develops a new dimension, changing and shifting like a sand dune in my mind. "I'd have never guessed."

  "So Emily marries this law student and invites Fitz to the wedding for some unknown reason, and he shows up naked with Viridian as his date wearing a PVC cat suit, and there was that whole fiasco. But I know Fitz still has that good boy in him somewhere. That desire that some kids have to be the perfect replicas of their fathers down to the business suit and the trophy wife and the child support payments."

  My appetite vanishes and I push aside the remnants of the tray. I look down at the table top, staring at my hands in contemplation, piecing together the story with the Fitz I know. And I realize it doesn’t make as much sense as I’d hoped.

  “Fitz is a strange person,” Derek says. “Stranger than I am, that’s for sure.”

  I force a slight smile. “You seem pretty well-rounded to me.”

  He rolls his eyes and fakes a laugh. “My parents divorced when I was sixteen months old,” Derek says. “My father doesn’t talk to me, he doesn’t acknowledge me. He didn’t come to my high school graduation or my graduation from Columbia. He gave me my last name and then hit the road. At least Fitz’s father sends him angry letters telling him to stop getting arrested.”

  Derek tips his head back and sighs dramatically. The woman at the table behind him turns around to see what the commotion is about, her eyes narrowing before she turns back to what can only be a date.

  “There are worse fathers in the world,” I say softly. “Fathers who want to ruin your life or kill you or make you their servant.”

  It takes him a moment to realize that I’m talking about myself. Derek reaches across the table and picks up my hand, patting it like a concerned parent. “Sorry about that,” he says with a sad little frown. “I forgot in the heat of the moment.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say, feeling more than a little selfish. I ignore the sensation and move on. “Listen, why don’t we make a date to go shopping for fabric and we can talk more about the sketches and stuff?”

  “It’s a date. If Fitz contacts me again looking for you, do you want me to pass on anything?”

  I shake my head. “Not right now. It’s only been a day. We need more time.”

  He nods knowingly and calls for the check. As I walk back to my temporary home, arms crossed tightly over my chest against the chill, I feel more confident than I have in a long time. I feel like I know exactly what’s coming, and I’m prepared.

  But feelings can be fleeting.

  CHAPTER 21.

  In the space of two weeks, I have helped to make two dresses for Derek and mastered the glue gun like a professional, creating a disco-ball style pair of platforms that give me a touch of vertigo just thinking about them. Derek is never short of ideas for new costumes, some of which I am sure are logically impossible (and I refuse to work with fireworks and barbed wire), but his enthusiasm is contagious. I find that as the week goes by, my mind increasingly fills with fabric choices, skirt lengths and color coordination until I just have to stop what I’m doing and write my ideas down. Rachel doesn’t exactly approve of this during work hours.

  I love having something to focus my attention on outside of work, something to keep my hands and mind busy to fill my evenings and days off. I tell myself that I’m not doing it to distract myself from thoughts of my dad, of Fitz, or of myself, but I gave up trying to kid myself a while back.

  The act of creating a piece of fashion from scratch, taking the journey from a flickering mental image to an intricate item worn by Derek while he performs in front of hundreds of people, is incredibly satisfying. I’d never considered the possibility that all the stitching and altering I’d done to keep myself clothed as a growing child could ever become anything more than that. Now, not only had it become a new hobby, it also provided me with some extra money to go toward my moving out plan, which had sped up greatly since moving into Viridian’s box-like studio. Every morning I woke up in bed next to her with her limbs splayed across my body, and her gaping mouth often drooling on the pillows, precariously close to my face. Fortunately, Viridian didn’t do morning awkwardness.

  After another morning shift at work, I return to the studio with a parcel under my arm. I walked past a fabric store on my way home and caught a glimpse of some indigo silk that completely inspired me. If Derek didn’t like it, then maybe I could put it to good use for myself.

  “Hey V,” I say to Viridian, not noticing that she’s on her cell. She shushes me and rolls her eyes as she points at her phone.

  “Look, you’re getting a bit stalker-ish now,” she says, frustration etched onto her face. “I will hang up on you again... Then I’ll turn my phone off. She doesn’t want to talk to you, Fitz!”

  My heart leaps at the mention of his name. I wish I could say that he’d been free from my thoughts since I left his apartment a couple of weeks ago, but nobody would believe me. Every now and then, I’m struck dead in my steps with memories of our comforting small talk and his body grinding against mine, but while those are undeniably pleasant, they still confuse me greatly.

  I’ve been delaying this for too long now. It’s helping none of us.

  “Give me the phone,” I tell her, holding my hand out.

  Viridian’s brow furrows. She mouths “You sure?” I nod. Hesitantly, she hands the phone over to me.

  “Hi Fitz,” I say. There is a long silence on the other end of the line, disturbed only by breathing. “How are you?”

  “Marina?” He sounds shocked to hear my voice, and even a little nervous. I’m glad he can’t feel my pounding heartbeat right now.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Oh, good. I’m so happy to hear you. The place is so quiet without you here. Are you okay? Is everything fine at--”

 
; “Why are you calling?” I ask, interrupting him.

  “Oh, yeah. Um, you were right. About us. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And I think we need to sort it out face to face. Would you meet me tonight?”

  “I don’t know, Fitz. I agree, we need to sort this out, but I’m not sure I can go back to your apartment just yet.”

  “How about dinner? In a restaurant? Completely neutral ground. I’ll pay.”

  It takes me a few seconds to reply, even though I know that I will, and I must, say yes.

  Keep calm, Marina. You are a grown woman and you are perfectly capable of having a conversation in a public place with a man who turns your brain to goo.

  “Okay, sounds good. Where and when?”

  There is a sigh of relief on the other end. “Great,” Fitz says. “That’s great. There’s a place three blocks down from my apartment called Whiteread’s. I’ll see you there are 7?”

  “See you then.”

  “Marina?”

  “Yes?”

  “I... It’s good to hear your voice again.”

  “I’ll see you later, Fitz.”

  I hang up without waiting for a further goodbye, amazed by how calm I managed to remain throughout the brief conversation. No stammering, no blushing, no childish awkwardness. That may be a new record for me. I’m not quite bursting with confidence yet - I’m not sure that will ever be possible - but I’m feeling prepared for the talk.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?” Viridian asks in her most maternal tone.

  “Yeah, it’ll be okay,” I insist.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Honestly, V, it’s fine. Have you heard of a place called Whiteread’s?”

  “He’s taking you to Whitereads?”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Do you own any thousand dollar heels?”

  ‘Neutral ground’ turns out to be one of the most exclusive - and expensive - restaurants on the Lower East Side. When Fitz had suggested dinner, I had imagined somewhere a little more suited to his style, meaning a place he could go in without a shirt. Viridian informed me that this particular establishment came with a strict dress code, one that required clothing as fancy as the ostentatious cars parked nearby. Even with my new wardrobe, I struggled to find something suitable for the evening and settled on a black mini dress with a white stripe across the hips. It’s backless, but with the right shoes, makeup and trench-coat, Viridian insists that it’ll get me through the door without much fuss.

  “Hi there,” I tell the maître d' at the front entrance, who looks at me with a touch of suspicion. “I’m supposed to be having dinner here with my friend. His name is Fitz?”

  “Is that his first name or surname?” he asks me in a droll tone, scanning his bookings.

  “Oh, his surname’s Cottrell-Iver, if that helps.”

  Suddenly his expression perks up and he flashes a welcoming smile in my direction.

  “Ah, of course. Right this way, ma’am.”

  He leads me through the labyrinth of tables occupied by diners who wouldn’t have looked out of place on the first class decks of the Titanic. I can practically smell the money mingled in with the undeniably delicious aromas of the evening’s dishes. Discomfort doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel as I am guided toward a small candlelit table by the window, where Fitz’s attire leaves me gawking like a fool.

  “Mary,” he says, standing to greet me. The maître d' asks if we need anything, groveling just a little too much, before scuttling off.

  “You’re wearing a tie?” I ask, wondering if I’ve fallen asleep briefly and entered a particularly surreal dream. Not only is Fitz wearing a skinny black tie, but his entire outfit is coordinated and neatly put together, tucked in shirt, polished shoes and everything. Even his fluffy hair has been tamed. I can’t see any of his tattoos. All in all, he looks very professional.

  He looks normal.

  “Um, yeah,” he replies sheepishly. “Apparently, some places aren’t so keen on the whole public nudity thing. You look beautiful.”

  I smile but don’t reply as he pulls out my seat for me. We browse the menu in silence and our orders are taken quickly. I’m not that hungry and the prices leave me feeling incredibly out of place, so I decide to order some spaghetti to play it safe.

  “This isn’t your usual kind of scene,” I say, inspecting the gleaming cutlery in front of me. I have no idea what half of these many forks and knives are used for.

  “I know. You did want to see something normal for a change. What could be more normal than dinner in a nice restaurant?”

  “This isn’t a date.” I emphasize. “We’re just here to talk.”

  “Marina,” Fitz says in a nervous whisper. This is so unlike him. All the smug pretentious swagger has fled his body in an instant. Now he’s like me, with shaking hands and a complete inability to find the right words to say. Eventually he finds his voice. “You were right.”

  “I was?”

  “Yes. So right. It’s true, I don’t know you, but you don’t know me, either. I haven’t really been entirely honest about myself. This thing between us... Whatever it is, it’s not really... I mean... God, okay, starting again.”

  Awkwardness does not suit Fitz, although it does confirm that he is actually human. I sip at my wine glass full of water to alleviate the tension.

  “Marina,” he says again, taking a deep breath. “I like you. I really do. Whatever you say or do or dress in, I like you. I know you’re going through a tough time and I can’t begin to pretend I understand it all, but I do understand how you feel about being someone else, and not knowing who you really are anymore. I swear.”

  I don’t have any suitable answers to his cryptic statements. How could he really know? I would never be so smug as to presume that I’m the only person to ever suffer through tough times, but sometimes I wonder if Fitz realizes just how privileged he is.

  He takes out a photograph from his jacket pocket and slides it across the table, where I inspect it. The picture shows an older man dressed in a tuxedo standing proudly next to a skinny teenage boy in a badly fitting suit. There is a definite family resemblance, although the younger man has curlier hair and an expression of discomfort on his face. It takes me awhile to realize the geeky teenager is Fitz.

  What was it Derek said about Fitz? I ask myself, eyes flickering from the photograph to the impeccably dressed and suddenly eager to please Fitz. About some people having that desire to please their fathers?

  “That’s me,” Fitz confirms, taking the photo back and sliding it into his pocket. “From the Summer before I went to college. Harvard. Originally, I had applied to business and economics like my dad, and then I was going to join the banking business. It was all planned out for me. Basically, my entire life was set out from birth.”

  Our food arrives, interrupting Fitz’s confession. I straighten up in my seat and smile politely as our generous portions are served up, along with a bottle of wine, although I’m unsure alcohol is a good idea for the pair of us tonight. The dish is delicious, as expected, but my appetite is gone and I’m more occupied with prodding the spaghetti with my fork to keep myself from fidgeting as Fitz continues his admissions.

  “I went there,” he continues. “I spent a whole year with my head in books on applied mathematics and Keynesian economics, and I was bored out of my mind. But that was how it was supposed to be, right? It made everyone else really happy to see me doing so well at the most prestigious school in the country, so it couldn’t be bad, could it? It was just going to be me and my dad and Emily, my... She was my...”

  “Your fiancé?” I finish. He looks surprised for a moment but nods.

  “Did Derek or V tell you?” He asks.

  “Derek. He didn’t say much, though. Just that you had one for a while and she married someone else.” I leave out the part about him turning up to her wedding naked. It doesn’t feel appropriate right now. “Please, go on.”

  Fitz takes a large gul
p of white wine, completely ignoring the food on his plate. I can see echoes of the eager to please teenage boy in the baggy suit sitting in front of me, the sketchy form of the young man he used to be. Maybe he still was that boy.

  “During our summer break, I went to this art gallery on my own, just to get away from the house. I’d always loved art, but it had just been a hobby and nothing more. I knew it wasn’t going to amount to anything more serious than that since I’d already gotten into Harvard. Anyway, there was this artist there. She was just sitting in this room, this completely empty room, and singing this old folk song. No accompaniments or anything. It was just her alone in this bare room singing a song. At first, I just laughed and wondered why the hell it was art. It was some lady singing, so how could that be put in a gallery along with paintings and stuff? But as I walked through the gallery, she was all I could think about. She haunted my thoughts for days. I ended up going back to the gallery every day for a week just to sit in that room and listen to her.”

  “And that’s how you became an artist?”

  “Not quite, but I knew that I’d found my passion. I became obsessed with being an artist, with creating something that would have the same effect on someone else that that artist had on me. I met these amazing artists and just fell in love with everything. After that summer, I couldn’t go back to what everyone wanted from me.”

  “Did you tell your dad?”

  “No,” he laughs. “Didn’t tell anyone, not even Emily. I looked into art school behind their backs. When they did find out, it didn’t go down well. Dad demanded it all end, of course, but I couldn’t just let him have his way again. Not this time. I wasn’t his to mold anymore. I... Yeah, I went a bit crazy. I decided to make my first piece of art: Myself. I got seventeen tattoos in the space of six weeks, I shaved my head, I worked out. I evolved. I wanted to look like someone who people couldn’t help but look at.”