by Golden, Kim
“Ready to face the world?” she asked her reflection.
Of course there was no reply.
“Have you ever seen Man Ray’s captivating pictures of Kicki de Montparnasse?”
“Yes I saw them when I was study—”
“Now those monochromatic studies are true examples of photographic masterpieces,” Tyler pronounced as he craned his neck forward to peer at the black and white photograph they were standing before. “These pictures—” he made a dismissive gesture at the five large framed prints on the wall “—they’re pretty…even gritty, but they lack mystery.”
How could Tyler say that? She was certain he looked at them and saw nothing more than landscapes. He was certainly treating the photographs with the same unbridled disdain for anything he deemed second-rate.
Chris had warned her that this would happen but she’d been so sure that photography lovers would look closer and see so much more.
“I think it’s like a puzzle,” she said as she took in the balance of light and shadow. He’d made her body resemble driftwood, obscuring her face with netting and branches of witch hazel. The vee of her crotch camouflaged with moss and wet sand while her legs and arms were decorated with bits of birch bark and wet pebbles. How long had she lain naked like that on the damp, chilly beach they’d driven to one wet Scottish afternoon.
“There’s more to this than meets the eye,” she added as an afterthought.
“Oh for God’s sake, Jessica, it’s a landscape! What more could there possibly be to interpret?”
“It’s not a landscape, it’s a woman’s body.”
“I’ll give you that there’s something very feminine about it but it is not womanly.” He smiled at his own wit. “This isn’t art. This is…well, it may as well be in a fashion magazine.”
“I think it’s beautiful.”
“Of course you do,” Tyler said. He glanced down at the program listing all the works featured and the artists who’d created them. She watched with a smirk as he crossed out Chris Pagrotsky’s name. “You’re a woman who likes pretty things.”
“I’m a woman who knows a good thing when she sees it.”
She didn’t look at him. She already knew his face would be wearing that trademark smug smile he saved for occasions like this when he thought his opinion was godhead. Instead, she left him standing there in front of the nude study of her body, dusted in sand and sheets of birch bark and pebbles. It was so obviously a woman’s body—her body that he had never seen naked but that he wanted to—but he couldn’t see it. She grinned, enjoying this secret that was hers and ventured further into the mazelike gallery, leaving him to deliberate with an older woman whom he’d sneered at earlier as new money but whom he was now perfectly willing to chat with since she too disliked Chris’s work.
She’d never sleep with him. She saw that now.
She was looking for him, pretending to admire the other art on display though she could not focus on anything other than the thought that he might be there. The deeper she went into the gallery, the more she was certain that he was there. How could he not come? Had he hoped that she’d show up to see these pictures he’d never shown her? Maybe he’d forgotten about her… She hoped with all her heart this wasn’t true. She still dreamt of him. Perhaps he still saw her in his dreams too.
Then she heard his voice. She’d recognize it anywhere. That warm, slow gravelly voice like honey being poured over rocks. That was how she’d once described it to Aisha who’d scoffed and snorted, “Nobody sounds that good!” But Chris did.
He was just on the other side of the room, his attention focused on the woman beside him. He hadn’t changed. Well, not much. His hair was neater than she’d ever seen it, and the clothes he wore looked expensive and well-cared for—not like the frayed jeans and scuffed work shoes he’d worn in Edinburgh. The woman he was with was touching his arm, letting it linger at his elbow. She looked to be in her late forties and wore her shoulder-length wine-red hair swept back of her angular face. She was thin, so thin she looked like nothing more than muscle and bone, and the snug-fitting dress she wore accentuated the effect. She was smiling at Chris as though he were a child to be indulged, and Jessica could hear her saying, “Quite a few people are interested in you.”
A couple stopped in front of her, debating whether she should approach the woman [whom she’d learned was the gallery owner] and express interest in buying one of Chris’s photos. A feeling of pride welled up inside her. He deserved this. She knew how hard he’d worked, slaving during the day for Fergus then spending his nights and weekends working on his own photography. Sometimes she’d begrudged him, wanting him to spend more time with her though she’d often secluded herself in the library with her own work. Now she saw the fruits of his labor and was glad that he’d given her the time they’d had.
He rubbed his hair and was turning. She backed away. She didn’t want him to see her. Even after two years their separation was still fresh in her memory and she didn’t feel ready to talk to him…not yet with all these people milling around. It would mean stilted, uncomfortable small talk. They’d avoid saying anything meaningful.
Instead she retraced her steps until she was at the front of the cavernous gallery again. She could see Tyler standing by the bar nursing a ginger ale. Then she noticed one of the gallery assistants walking around with a black book, jotting down the names of prospective buyers. She spirited over to him and, as soon as he was free, said, “I’d like to buy one of Chris Pagrotsky’s photographs.”
“Very good. Which one are you interested in?”
She described the one she wanted. Luckily it was still available. She opened her small handbag and pulled out her checkbook. The photograph was $700, a worthy investment she thought. The assistant jotted down Jessica’s personal details then said, “We’ll be contacting you next week about delivery.”
When the assistant sauntered off, Jessica watched as he placed a discrete sticker on the photograph’s frame, alerting potential buyers that this piece was taken. By the time Tyler approached her and said, “What do you say we leave this place?” she was giddy with childlike excitement.
She’d found him.
Chapter twelve
Thought You Were Over Her
“So how many did I sell last night?” Chris asked Sylvie excitedly. This was his first vernissage, not counting the small group shows he’d done at University of the Arts, and the glowing comments that had so far been bestowed upon him fizzed and bubbled in his head like champagne.
“See for yourself, darling.” Sylvie extracted the orders book from her desk drawer and nudged it toward him.
She stood and came round to his side of the desk, then sat on the edge and crossed her slender legs. Though she was forty-five she had the body of a twenty-year-old. There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh on her. Her delicate build, roped with lean strong muscles, brought to mind her younger years as a ballet dancer. A shattered kneecap that never healed properly put an end to her career as a dancer.
“I must be dreaming,” Chris grinned up at her. The numbers spoke for themselves: he’d sold eleven of the twenty photographs he’d exhibited while the other artists had only managed to secure the interest of a total of four paintings. “Maybe I should pinch myself!”
“I can think of something far more interesting than a simple pinch,” Sylvie purred. She closed the orders book and set it on her desk. Then she eased into his lap and ran the wet tip of her tongue along the curve of his inner lip.
He moaned against her mouth, feeling the slow buzz of his body responding to her touch. She was wiggling her hips against him, rubbing her crotch against his. Over her shoulder and through the tinted glass surrounding her office, he could see her assistants tidying up the gallery for another day of business. Though he knew the glass was so heavily tinted that they couldn’t see them, he couldn’t stop himself from imagining that they could see what was going on. It wasn’t as though they didn’t know. Everyone knew that he and
Sylvie were unofficially together despite her assurances otherwise. In the six months that they’d been dating, he’d endured overhearing enough “boy-toy” comments to realize what everyone thought of him.
Even last night, he’d walked into the tail end of a hurried conversation and caught “…of course he’ll make it, Sylvie’s sleeping with him…”
The comment had annoyed him enough that he’d defended himself to the art critic in question, an older gentleman whom Sylvie had warned him to suck up to as his reviews could make or break a career. But Chris was tired of listening to people say that the only reason he was getting anywhere with his career was because of his relationship with Sylvie. Hell, he’d been working towards this goal since high school, and he wasn’t going to let anyone think he was just freeloading.
Just thinking about the gossip and disdain sometimes directed at him robbed Chris of his desire to make love to Sylvie right then and there. Besides, one of her assistants was heading toward the office door with a heavy-looking package in her arms.
Sylvie, sensing the slackening of his desire, stood and smoothened out her dress. She flashed a bright smile at Chris and patted his cheek. “You were such a hit last night, darling. I always knew you were on your way up.”
She clicked her way over to the office door and opened it. “Just come in with it, Susannah. No reason to skulk around the door. Yes, yes, just set it down on my desk. Oh! Be a love and order in some caffe lattès for everyone.”
Once Susannah was gone, Sylvie focused on opening the awkward-shaped package. “I met this artist last summer in the Cape. She’s been begging me to take a look at some of her work…”
It was a sculpture of a girl reclining on what looked like a fallen tree branch. The girl was naked, her hair obscuring her face. The artist had captured perfectly the soft definition of her muscles. Why did it remind him so much of Jessica? He glanced away, pretending to read the address label on the packaging.
“Will you represent her?”
“Perhaps. This piece is promising. I may have to take another trip there and see what she’s hiding in her studio.”
“It’s a beautiful piece of art,” Chris said, standing now. “I like the anonymity of the model and how at ease she appears.”
“Mmm. It’s lovely, absolutely stunning.” Sylvie walked around the desk, examining the sculpture from every possible angle. “Perhaps I’ll go there this weekend… be a darling, Chris, and give me a few minutes alone. I need to call her and see if we can synchronize our schedules…and give the order book to either Susannah or Gary.”
Chris nodded and did as he was asked. With the order book tucked under his arm, he headed for the front of the gallery. Susannah was only just returning with the coffee order. Gary was circumventing the gallery with a feather duster, dabbing at the frames and removing imaginary dust.
He accepted a cup of coffee from Susannah and asked, “Do you think Sylvie will mind if I take a look at the buyers’ names?”
Susannah shook her head no. “Go for it. Everyone does it. Sylvie likes to keep those names to herself but we always give them out to the artists.” Then she went off in search of Gary, calling out that she had a triple-shot decaf espresso with his name on it.
Chris set his paper mug on the counter top and began scanning the list of buyers. Suddenly he stopped… Jessica Lawson… it couldn’t be the same one, he thought. Perhaps it wasn’t even worth thinking about. They’d burned the bridge that had connected them. Even if it was her, there was no way anything would ever come out of it than perhaps a friendly drink or maybe lunch for old times’ sake.
He tried to concentrate on the next name on this list, but he kept returning to Jessica’s. Her address was listed. It was a West Philadelphia address, not far from Presbyterian Hospital, he thought. Was it the same neighborhood she’d grown up in, or had she told him she was from Germantown? He couldn’t remember those details, but the sweet sound of her laugh and the cheeky smiles she used to give him were still fresh in his memory. No matter how much he’d tried to forget her nor how many other women he slept with, she was still the one who’d taken his heart hostage.
Why hadn’t she said anything to him last night? How had he missed seeing her? He’d circulated, just as Sylvie had recommended, mingling with the guests and potential buyers, charming hesitant buyers with a smile. There’d been a man at the bar, a black man who’d boasted to Chris that the photographer was trying too hard to be the next Robert Frank or Annie Leibowitz without much success. Chris hadn’t bothered to mention that he was the photographer in question; at least the man wasn’t accusing Chris of owing his success to how well he satisfied Sylvie in bed. Instead, he’d pretended to agree with the man, until finally the man had nodded at someone just behind Chris and said, “Well, perhaps his next vernissage will be better.”
Was he the sort of man Jessica was dating now? Maybe she was married to someone like him. It didn’t even bear thinking about. That she could be married to someone else… why did he care? She’d dumped him? And not only that, on an airplane just hours after swearing to him that everything was okay between them! He’d stormed out of the airport, only pausing long enough to hug his mother and snarl out brief answers to all her questions about Scotland and how everything had gone, with the promise to himself that he would erase Jessica from his mind. He’d kept telling himself that she was the last woman in the world he’d ever want to see again, and that she was most likely correct in her belief that they would have never lasted in the States. But he didn’t think it had anything to do with race and more to do with her own insecurities. But no matter how many times he banished her to the darkest corners of his mind, she crept forward again, reminding him of that first night when he saw her sitting in the Bull and the Bear and how he’d been smitten almost instantly.
All it had taken was one look and a winsome smile on her part and Chris would have gladly run through fire for her.
He was still staring down at Jessica’s entry in the order book when Susannah returned. She peered down at the page. “Is everything all right?” she asked in between sips of her coffee.
Chris nodded. “I was just surprised… I know one of the buyers.”
“Really? Which one?”
He tapped Jessica’s name with his index finger. “She’s an old friend. Haven’t seen her in a long time.”
“Since you know her, maybe you can make my life easier by delivering the photo she bought to her,” Susannah suggested. She was sorting through the post now, one of the many jobs she did that Sylvie often complained about but never did anything to change. “Gary and I have to deliver the others, plus that cumbersome statue…” she gestured towards a confusing slab of metal and concrete with what looked like electrical cables sticking out of it at odd angles. “Someone finally bought it last night…thank God.”
“I might just do that,” Chris said and closed the book. “It would be… interesting to see her again.”
He turned and regarded the door to Sylvie’s office. The amber-tinted glass wall was opaque enough that he couldn’t see her sitting at her desk, but he could imagine her there nonetheless. What would she say if she knew he was personally delivering a package to a customer?
As if she’d read his thoughts, Susannah added, “Don’t worry about Sylvie. I won’t say anything about it to her.”
Then Susannah gulped down some coffee and hurried off with a stack of mail for Sylvie.
Chris ventured over to the series of photographs featuring Jessica. In one, an intentionally blurred portrait taken when she was lying in his bed with plain white hotel bed linens draped over and around her, a fetching secretive smile set the mood. Her head was tilted away from the camera, but her eyes were fixed firmly on him, inviting him to return to the sanctuary of the bed and her arms. One hand lay close to her face, her lips brushing her fingers, while the other rested on top of the sheet covering her breasts. Sunlight dappled her dark skin and cast soft shadows on her fingertips and mouth.
On the day he’d taken that photo, they’d gone to Glasgow to help Fergus with a photo shoot. To thank them for giving up their weekend, Fergus had treated them to a suite at the best hotel in the city. After several hours in a weed-infested cemetery the freezing rain with a sulky model incapable of following Fergus’s explicit directions, Fergus had thrown up his hands in defeat and roared, “Fuck it! Let’s just head back to the hotel instead of standing here freezing our bollocks off!”
Chris and Susannah returned to their luxurious hotel room and, after drawing a warm bath, slid into the oversized tub together. They made love in the rosehip-scented steam, water sloshing over the edge of the tub and splattering on the tiled floor. That was the first time they both admitted they loved each other, and the surprise of their discover left them giddy and lightheaded. On impulse, though neither could afford it, they ordered a bottle of champagne from room service and reveled in the newness of their love for one another.
“At least then she didn’t care what anyone thought,” he murmured to himself. “Back then she wanted the world to know we were together.”
chapter thirteen
A Familiar Face
On Friday one of the gallery representatives called Jessica at work and asked if the portrait could be delivered that evening. She glanced down at her calendar. She was supposed to have drinks with Tyler but she wasn’t in the mood for it. Ever since the vernissage, he’d been so pushy with her and it was a side of him that she didn’t much appreciate. She crossed out his name with a red pen and assured the gallery assistant that delivering the portrait that evening would be fine.
A bubble of excitement welled up in Jessica’s chest. It was coming tonight. As soon as she’d seen the portrait hanging there, she knew she had to have it. She hadn’t been very sentimental when they were in Scotland, hadn’t saved ticket stubs from the movies and plays they’d seen, nor napkins upon which he scribbled notes to her. All that she had was an envelope of poor quality photographs taken by Gillian during the many evenings he’d spent in their flat. For the last two years, they’d remained stashed away at the back of her closet, an unwanted reminder of her folly. After the vernissage, she’d finally dug out those photographs and studied them. They looked so happy and complete together, as though Plato’s theory of androgens searching for their other halves were true. Until she met him she’d felt adrift, lost not only in Scotland, but in her life. And then he found her, and for the first time she’d understood what it meant to be happy.
