At Your Beck & Call

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “Well, good to see you again, Laura. If you’ll excuse me…”

  “Oh, of course. I have enjoyed talking about art with you again. I don’t suppose I can buy you a coffee before you rush off, Hallen?”

  “Is that a date or an appointment?” I said, bitterly.

  I ignored her sharp gasp as I turned on my heel and walked out.

  I knew it was rude, but I didn’t care. I pulled out my cell phone and sent a quick text to Eloise telling her I was taking a month off and not to take any bookings from Sian or Laura—ever.

  She texted back immediately, asking if I was okay. I didn’t reply.

  I grabbed a coffee to go, and sat on a bench overlooking Michigan Avenue as a slow line of traffic shuffled toward the beach a mile away. I felt like hitting something when I saw Laura hovering by my side before she chose to ignore my lack of acknowledgement and sat down next to me.

  “I’m not stalking you,” she said, a hesitant smile in her voice.

  “Feels like it,” I muttered, and took a long drink of coffee.

  There was a short silence where I hoped that this time I’d been rude enough for her to leave me alone. I hadn’t.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, Hallen,” she said, quietly. “Obviously I have, so I apologize.”

  I sighed and looked over at her.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just … a bit stressed.”

  She nodded and stared at something in the distance.

  “It’s very restful here. Santa Monica, I mean. I’ve missed this. Have you always lived in California? You’ve never said.”

  I couldn’t take any more meaningless chat. I turned to look at her.

  “Laura, you’re a nice person, but I really don’t want to talk right now. I can guess what else Sian told you and I’m not trying to be rude, but I’m off the clock.”

  Her expression as I walked away was pained, but I was too angry to care.

  I spent the next three weeks painting, running, always running, and ignoring emails and phone messages. I even dragged out the old surfboard that I’d bought when I was a student and spent some time catching waves, wondering why I’d ever stopped.

  Eloise hadn’t bitched about all my canceled appointments and had passed most of them off to Marco and Benson, another guy I’d worked with in the past. They were glad for the extra money.

  Eloise knew there was something going on with me—well, it was pretty, fucking obvious. I hadn’t canceled more than three appointments in the eight years I’d worked for her—now I’d taken nearly a month off and wasn’t showing any desire to go back to work.

  I holed up at home and concentrated on the latest canvas. It felt good to be able to focus with no distractions, and I even felt bold enough to contact a small gallery in Santa Monica about my work, emailing them some pictures. I nearly dropped my phone when they got back immediately and asked me to stop by with some of my smaller works.

  I thought I was going to be sick as I pulled my leather portfolio case from the back of the car. I hadn’t done anything this personal in a very long time. I was so nervous, I’m not sure I could have found my balls with a map.

  I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

  A woman of about my age was sitting behind a discreet sales desk.

  “Hi, I’m Hallen Jansen. I’ve got an appointment with Patricia.”

  She stared at me for a moment, and I wondered if I’d got the wrong time.

  “Oh, hi!” she said at last, sounding flustered. “Patricia didn’t say you … um, if you could just wait a moment, I’ll go find her.”

  I was rooted to the spot, feeling awkward and like a complete fraud. I almost turned around and high-tailed it out of there, but then an older woman with dyed red hair and an expensive, emerald suit walked out. Her gaze was cool and professional, and I couldn’t help standing a little straighter and smiling at her. I realized I was in danger of slipping into work mode. Christ! Who the hell was I now?

  “Mr. Jansen? I’m Patricia Pendell.”

  “Good to meet you.”

  “Likewise. And you’ve brought your portfolio.”

  “Just some of the smaller ones.”

  She was already pulling the canvases out of my case.

  “Hmm,” she said, frowning. And again, “Hmm.”

  My heart was beating so fast, I seriously considered running for the door, since I thought puking on her shoes would certainly not get me a showing, or have her wanting to put my paintings up in the gallery.

  “I’d like to see your larger works—the ones you emailed me pictures of. How do you usually transport your work?”

  “I don’t. I’ve never tried to show them before.”

  She glanced up, her expression disbelieving.

  “Are you telling me you’ve never had an exhibition? Anywhere?”

  “Not since college.”

  She shook her head but didn’t speak again, and I could see my potential new career slipping away.

  Until that moment, I didn’t even know that’s what I’d been thinking. Whatever it was, it was short-lived.

  Eventually, she pushed the canvases back into the portfolio case and pulled her cell out of her pocket. Maybe she was having me escorted from the premises for impersonating an artist.

  “I’m good for Tuesday morning,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “To see your larger canvases, Mr. Jansen.” She laughed loudly. “I wasn’t asking you for a date!”

  I smiled ruefully, aware of the irony even though she wasn’t. I agreed that I’d make myself available on Tuesday.

  “Although I’m fairly sure I’ll take one or two of the smaller canvases anyway,” she continued. “If they sell, we can talk about taking it further. I see potential here, Mr. Jansen. A solo show, perhaps. I’ll decide on Tuesday.”

  I drove home, grinning like a loon, too hyper to sleep. I worked in my studio until my eyes burned and I collapsed into bed fully dressed.

  But when I woke up late the next morning, my calendar pinged to remind me that Véro was flying in for a few days and Eloise had twisted my arm to come over—just a small, family dinner.

  Despite the fact she was Eloise’s daughter and my first ever client, and even though we’d slept together once, I regarded Véro as a friend. I had no choice but to go. Besides, it would be good to see her and catch up on her news. I sure as shit didn’t have any. Although I hoped that might be a different story by Tuesday.

  I was running late, which was pretty much a cardinal sin as far as Eloise was concerned. Being Catholic, the only cardinal sin she approved of was lust. But over the last few weeks, I’d gotten into a habit of working through lunch and into the evening without taking a break. Today was no exception. It wasn’t until the alarm on my cell phone reminded me again to get my ass into gear, that I even thought about the dinner.

  I threw myself in the shower, scrubbing the oil from my hands, and nearly cut my throat shaving in a hurry.

  I pulled out a pair of khaki pants and white button-down shirt. Even my off duty clothes had to pass the Eloise test.

  Despite speeding most of the way, I was still 25 minutes late. I knew Eloise was pissed—I’d heard the first text drop into my phone as I left the house.

  At the wrought iron gate that marked the entrance to her villa, I punched in the entry code and roared up the sweeping driveway.

  It was Véro who opened the door as I vaulted out of my car.

  “You like to live dangerously, Hallen,” she said, kissing me on both cheeks. “Mom is quietly steaming.”

  I laughed and pulled her into a hug.

  “Good to see you, Véro. You look great.”

  “You, too. How come you’re so late? That’s not like you.”

  “I was working. Painting,” I clarified. “Lost track of time.”

  “Hmm, and there I was thinking you might have a woman.”

  “Nah, too much trouble.”

  Over the years, we’d developed an easy
relationship. We’d never had sex again, and she treated me like an old friend of the family. Any weirdness between us had long since evaporated.

  “So, what’s the occasion, Véro?”

  “Does there have to be an occasion for me to visit my mom?”

  “Usually, yeah.”

  She laughed. “True. Well, Mom wants to make an announcement later,” she rolled her eyes, “but the big news is that I’m pregnant.”

  I stared for a second and I saw her cheeks flush slightly.

  “Goddamn, that is some good news! Congratulations! That explains the glow. So you and Thomas…?”

  “Yep,” she said, popping the ‘p’. “He finally knocked me up.”

  Eloise had told me that Véro and her husband had been trying for a baby for a couple of years.

  “Is he here?”

  “No, he had to stay in New York—work.”

  “You mean he was avoiding Eloise’s style of celebration.”

  “Something like that. Mostly I think he wanted to avoid the whole über-gran thing. Anyway, it’s good to see you. Mom told me you’ve been painting again. Are you giving up the escort work for good?”

  I pulled a face. “I haven’t made any decisions.”

  “Hallen, I’m not going to say anything to Mom.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck, uncomfortable under her sympathetic scrutiny.

  “I just don’t know if I can do it anymore.”

  “Has something happened?” she asked, her face concerned.

  “Not really. Nothing that should matter.”

  “But…?”

  “I bumped into a client on the street…”

  “And?”

  I shook my head.

  “It was nothing. It just kind of got to me.”

  She patted my arm.

  “Hallen, you’re a lovely guy. Mom adores you. If you’ve had enough, just tell her. She’ll understand.”

  Eloise’s voice floated down from the hall, pulling us back to the present.

  “At ease,” whispered Véro, as I automatically stood up straighter.

  She snickered at the expression on my face and tugged me toward her mother.

  “Hallen, you naughty boy!” Eloise cried. “You’re late. You know lack of punctuality is my bête noire.”

  “Yeah, sorry, Ellie. Lost track of time.”

  She smacked my shoulder then hugged me tightly.

  “You’re forgiven, but only because it’s you. Come on in and meet the others.”

  “Others? I thought this was a small family dinner?” I said, raising my eyebrows, knowing full well that ‘small’ was not even kissing-cousins close when it came to Eloise’s style of entertaining.

  “Dear boy,” she said, “forty people for dinner is small.”

  I heard Véro’s quiet chuckle behind me.

  We walked out to the patio, and I could see a number of elegantly dressed couples spilling across the lawns.

  And then I saw her.

  Her smile was rueful as Eloise introduced us, pretending to be unaware that we’d met before, despite the fact she’d scheduled our three dates.

  “Hallen, I’d like you to meet my dear friend Laura. We’ve known each other forever and she’s been away for far too long. I’m so happy she’s back on the west coast. I’m sure you two will be great friends.”

  I wasn’t sure of anything of the kind. Not after the Bergamot Station scene.

  “Hello, again,” said Laura, her eyes a little cool.

  “Goodness! Have you met?” said Eloise, largely for the benefit of the rest of her guests, a handful of whom knew about the agency.

  “Yes,” smiled Laura more naturally, raising her eyebrows. “We ran into each other at a gallery opening a few weeks ago. And then again at Bergamot Station. We were both admiring the same painting.”

  “How delightful!” gushed Eloise, her voice glittering with suppressed amusement.

  “Laura, good to see you again,” I said politely, feeling as if a layer of skin had been peeled off with a blunt knife.

  Eloise smiled archly, utterly unaware of what her ‘introduction’ was doing to me.

  “You see! I knew I was right. You’re both art lovers.”

  And she linked her arms through each of ours and steered us toward the rest of the party, the intimate gathering of 40 people.

  Eloise stayed to chat for a moment then one of the caterers claimed her attention, and I was left alone with Laura.

  “We meet again,” she said, her voice wry.

  “So it seems. You didn’t say you were a friend of Eloise’s.”

  My tone was slightly accusing.

  “Neither did you,” she snapped back. Then her voice softened. “Would it have made a difference? I mean, last time we met?”

  I sighed and looked away.

  “Not the way I was feeling. I’m sorry—I was rude.”

  She shook her head.

  “No, not at all. But perhaps we can start again,” she said, evenly. “As friends.”

  I stared at her questioningly. She seemed sincere, and I felt a whisper of hope.

  Friends? Friends would be okay. More than okay. Was I going to get a second chance with her?

  “Yeah, that would be good,” I said, with gross understatement.

  I was also relieved that she was willing to help dissipate the tension I’d built between us.

  But I was confused, too. Eloise had never scheduled me for one of her friends before and I wasn’t sure what to feel about that nugget of information. I was pissed, but intrigued. Eloise rarely did anything without good reason.

  “So,” I said, trying to behave more naturally, “are you settling back into west coast life?”

  It was the kind of question I used when I was working, but it felt awkward on my lips now that I was standing in Eloise’s house, talking to her old friend.

  Laura seemed to take it in her stride.

  “Yes, I am, thank you. After 26 years in Manhattan, I was definitely ready for a change of scene, and as you know,” she said, her voice slightly strained, “my marriage ended. There are things I miss, but my daughter wants to go to school out here, and my son is already at Caltech.”

  “You must miss the Met?”

  She smiled. “Of course, but we have MOCA,”—a smile—“Armand Hammer and the Getty Museum, so I’m hardly starved for galleries. Do you know the Met?”

  “Yes, I’ve visited. Once,” I said, meeting her gaze. “I was with a client.”

  She blinked, but didn’t falter.

  “That must have been lovely—sharing those wonderful pieces together.”

  Her comment made me smile.

  “Ha, well. She tolerated it because I wanted to go, but no, she wasn’t that interested.”

  “Do you get your love of art from your parents?”

  She smoothly moved the conversation away from the awkward subject of my escort work.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” I replied, drily.

  Laura sighed. “Neither of my children is the least bit interested in art. They take after their father.”

  We were silent for a moment and from across the patio Véro caught my eye, giving me a sympathetic look. She’d been on the receiving end of her mother’s machinations before—she knew a set up when she saw one.

  “Can I ask how you know Eloise?” said Laura, blushing slightly. “I mean, how you met? I’m assuming you’re not…?”

  I raised my eyebrows enquiringly. “Not what?”

  She blushed an even deeper shade.

  “Together,” she whispered.

  I smiled broadly, teasing her with a slow response as I leaned down to return her whisper. “No, we’re not … together.”

  “I just wondered,” she muttered, clearly embarrassed.

  I shrugged. There didn’t seem any point in glossing over it now.

  “I was working as a bartender in West Hollywood. She came in and we started talking.”

  Which was the short versio
n. I left out the fact that Véro had been my first client; my first paid fuck.

  Laura nodded, and I could see that she was burning with curiosity but too polite to ask further questions. That was fine by me—I wanted to have at least one evening when I didn’t have to think about work.

  I sat next to Laura at dinner, as Eloise had planned. I wasn’t sure why she was pushing us together, but she was right in one respect—we enjoyed talking to each other and the conversation never ran dry.

  I began to relax and enjoy the unusual pleasure of an attractive, intelligent woman who wasn’t expecting a pay-off at the end of the evening.

  I learned more about Laura’s two children: Joe was 23 and had transferred to Caltech from the east coast to get a Masters in Electrical Engineering; Maggie was 19 and would be starting a degree in Business in the Fall.

  Laura asked about my painting—endlessly. By the time the other guests began to head home, she’d almost convinced me to let her see my work. Almost. But she didn’t ask for my number before we stood up from the table, so I assumed she wasn’t serious. Besides, I never gave my number to clients—they had to go through Eloise. I still wasn’t sure whether or not Laura was a client. Or hoping to be one again. Not that it really mattered: I’d already made it clear to Eloise that I wouldn’t be taking any more appointments from Laura.

  I didn’t want to examine my reasons for that decision too closely.

  She kissed me on the cheek, and we said goodnight as she followed the last of the guests.

  Eloise watched from the doorway and smiled.

  “Nightcap, Hallen?”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  I followed her onto the deck at the back of the house, and she poured us each a glass of cognac—the good stuff. Eloise didn’t see the point in buying anything less than the best you could afford. I don’t know if she came from money, or had just worked harder than everyone else. She never spoke of her parents—something else we had in common.

  We sat in silence as color leaked from the sky, melting from pink, to purple, to velvet black.

  “Véro says she hopes to catch up with you again before she flies back,” Eloise said, sipping her cognac appreciatively. “She’s very fond of you.”

  “As am I of her.”

  She nodded but didn’t speak again for several minutes.