At Your Beck & Call

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t because my former student informed me,” she said, briskly.

  “Uh yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t think. I’m just surprised that there are so many people here.”

  She sighed theatrically. “How someone with talent like yours can be so bad at self-promotion…”

  “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately,” I admitted.

  She smiled. “I’m just glad that I got to hear about it. Be glad you have an unusual name.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes, until I was pulled away for another interview. I promised to stay in touch, but as far as I was concerned, that depended on the outcome of the present show.

  I was mulling it over, thoughts taking a dark turn, when my former clients and current friends, Peggy and Cindy arrived.

  It was strange to see them together. I’d known them both for at least six years, but there was no reason for them to have met each other before, yet here they were, acting like old buddies. Their matching white hair made them appear as elderly sisters.

  I walked over to them and was immediately hugged hard enough to make breathing an issue.

  “There you are, sweetheart,” said Peggy, tugging on my elbow for her turn of the hugging. “We’re so proud of you!”

  I smiled to hear her say ‘we’, but Cindy nodded enthusiastically, one arm still wrapped around my waist.

  “Yes, indeed! I’ve been trying to persuade you to do this for years! What changed your mind?”

  “Getting old, I guess,” I smirked at her.

  She gave me a small push and slapped my arm gently.

  “Don’t be cheeky! Not when you’re talking to someone whose next birthday will teeter precariously close to 75.”

  “You don’t look a day over 50,” I said, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

  They both laughed and steered me over toward the reception table so I could autograph their exhibition catalogues.

  I was still grinning from ear to ear when Eloise arrived with a happy shout, enveloping me in a huge hug that made everyone around us smile. People assumed she was a family member and in some ways she was. I hadn’t told my own mother about the evening. I guess I just didn’t want to let her into my world now that I’d moved on.

  We kept in touch, but I rarely told her what I was doing, and I’m sure that she was happy to invent an answer, on the rare occasions when she was forced to remember that she had a son.

  My dark mood was lightened when Patricia pointed out that the renowned landscape artist Spiridon Manos had arrived with his grandson, Christos, who was making a name in his own right as a painter of stunning nudes. I knew him slightly, but more by reputation.

  I watched them out of the corner of my eye as they examined a seascape, talking animatedly, while Patricia walked over to schmooze and socialize. I downed another glass of champagne quickly, forgetting my decision to stop, but when I looked up again, Christos was watching me.

  He strolled over and held out his hand.

  “It doesn’t get easier, does it, man? Watching people putting a dollar value on your work, talking bullshit when they don’t know shit about shit.”

  He grinned at me, and I relaxed slightly. He was an artist; he understood how it felt to stand and smile, while your skin was stripped off your body—people analyzing your emotions laid bare in oils. I wasn’t used to revealing the real person inside, and I didn’t like how helpless it made me feel.

  “Nope, it sucks,” I agreed.

  He laughed loudly.

  “Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about, they’re lapping your shit up.” Then he passed me another glass of champagne. My fourth? Fifth? How did that happen? “But this will help.”

  I was eager to talk to another artist, but then Patricia claimed me again for one more interview.

  Christos grinned, raised his glass and disappeared back into the crowd.

  I’d been talking and smiling for nearly two hours and had a headache beginning to pulse behind my eyes when I noticed a woman with light brown hair smiling at me. I couldn’t place her but she seemed familiar. I guessed she was a couple of years younger than me, but that didn’t rule out that she’d been a client. I immediately felt uncomfortable. Usually I had a pretty good memory for faces, and I knew I’d seen her before—but where?

  She walked toward me smiling, a glass of champagne in her hand.

  “Hello, Hallen. You probably don’t remember me.” She didn’t pause before she continued. “My name is Melissa Pinchek. You took me to my high school winter formal nearly eight years ago.”

  So, that’s how I knew her. She had been a client. I scanned her up and down, trying to shape a memory of an awkward girl into the confident woman in front of me.

  “Melissa! It’s great to see you. You look fantastic!”

  It was true. She’d lost weight and was wearing casual clothes that were expensive and well cut. Her hair was glossy and simply styled.

  “It’s good to see you, too. You look just as gorgeous as ever. How’s it going tonight?”

  I shrugged and winced. “I don’t know. Okay, I think. It’s the first time I’ve put myself out there like this.”

  She raised her eyebrows and I realized what she must think, bearing in mind everything she knew about me. Or thought she knew. It was the exact reason I hadn’t wanted to invite any former clients.

  “Yeah, I know how that sounds…”

  I rubbed my eyes, trying to push the headache away. I felt her touch my arm.

  “I don’t mean to embarrass you, but when I saw the name, I knew it had to be you. Hallen is not a common name, after all. And I remembered you’d said you were trying to be an artist. I had to come. Besides,” she paused, “there’s something I’ve wanted to say to you for a long time.”

  I looked at her cautiously.

  “I wanted to thank you.”

  My confusion made her smile.

  “It’s true. The way you encouraged me to stand up to those school bullies that night. It helped me become an adult and showed me that I didn’t have to continue being a doormat. And you know what? The following summer I bumped into Mercedes at the mall—and she apologized to me. She said she was sorry that she’d been such a bitch and she’d done a lot of growing up. Well, we were never going to be bffs, but … we had coffee and came to an understanding. She’d felt under so much pressure as homecoming queen and all that—like she had an image to live up to—which included being a bitch. What I said to her that night, it really sank in.”

  She smiled at the memory.

  “And she wanted to know about you, of course. I said we broke up during my freshman year but we’d stayed friends. I’ve often wished that were true—that we’d stayed friends. The best thing my mom ever did for me was to pay you to take me to the dance. Probably the only really nice thing she ever did for me … and you were just so … amazing. I’d never have gotten the courage to say what I did without you being there, supporting me. My life would have been very different—it made me grow up. I realized I didn’t have to be miserable because of other people. That night changed me—gave me confidence to be who I wanted to be.”

  I blinked at her in surprise and felt a spark of pleasure.

  “I’m an intern at Deloitte now—guess being a math nerd wasn’t so bad after all—and I have a very sweet boyfriend.”

  “I hope he treats you right, you deserve it.”

  “He does. Thank you.” She paused. “And you’re doing well. I mean, look at all this! Wow! You’re so talented. I’ve bought one of your pictures.”

  She pointed toward the Tuna Canyon painting. It had been priced at $4,500. I felt the delight of my first sale drain away. Bought by a former client. I didn’t want that. It felt tainted. Turns out I hadn’t run as far as I’d thought. But there was nothing I could do about it.

  “That was … more than generous of you. You didn’t have to.”

  “Are you kidding? All these years I’ve wondered what you were doing and hope
d for a chance to thank you. It’s a small thing. I’m so happy that you’ve achieved your dream, Hallen. You helped me achieve mine.”

  She threw her arms around my neck and gave me a big hug. I kissed her on the cheek and she let me go with a sigh.

  “I still love James Blunt,” she said. “And you’re just as cute as I remember.”

  She smiled, waved and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Another admirer?” said a soft voice behind me.

  Laura.

  I tried to work out if her comment was a condemnation, but her tone eluded me.

  “I hope you don’t mind me coming here tonight,” she continued, her eyes studying my face, “but I really was interested to see your paintings. And I didn’t think I’d get a chance otherwise.”

  I gave a tight smile.

  “Not at all. Thank you for coming.”

  She raised her eyebrows and gave me an appraising look.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sorry, just … headache.”

  “I have some Tylenol if you need it?”

  “God, yes! Thank you.”

  She hunted through her purse and pulled out a packet, pressing two small pills into my hand. I washed them down with champagne, ignoring her disapproving glance. I thought she was going to say something about that, but instead she inclined her head toward the painting hanging nearest to us.

  “Tell me about this one.”

  It was the landscape that Melissa had just bought. My different lives kept on overlapping. My brain was officially scrambled.

  Yes, talk about the work: I could do that. And I was touched by what seemed sincere interest on her part. I wasn’t used to women who were interested in me like that. It was new. I liked it. A lot.

  “What were you thinking when you painted this? It has an air of … melancholy.”

  I remembered the day I’d started that piece. I’d walked up one of the trails through the canyon. It was summer and the heat was a fist pounding on my body. But then I crested the ridge and the ocean was spinning out below. I was completely alone. I stayed there, sketching, until the sun began to sink toward the sea, painting the sky with purples and pinks. I could have sworn I heard music playing.

  “Colors have sounds for me—some colors, some sounds.”

  “So you’re a synesthete?”

  I turned to look at her in surprise.

  “Maybe, I don’t know. I didn’t hear that term until I was in my final year at college. One of the professors thought so. All I can tell you is that there’s a connection, and it affects how I paint.”

  I was impressed. Her knowledge, coupled with a thirst to understand was a real turn on. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like this. Maybe it was the champagne. I stared down at my empty glass.

  “And what music do you hear?” she asked, staring intently at the canvas. “What do you hear when you look at this painting now?”

  Her words brought me back to the present, and I couldn’t help a quiet chuckle.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  She looked shocked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The James Blunt song.”

  “Oh,” she said, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

  I felt like such a tool when I realized what I’d said. And she must have thought that I was playing her, because a look of anger washed across her face.

  “I’m sorry, Laura, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.” I do think you’re beautiful.

  She gave me a brittle smile.

  “Not at all. Well, I’ve monopolized the star attraction too much tonight. I should be going.”

  She smiled again, although it didn’t reach her eyes, and she stepped away from me.

  “No, please stay.”

  The words were out of my mouth before I realized they belonged to me.

  She looked at me, surprise and skepticism evident in her expression.

  “Really, Laura. Stay.”

  Before she had a chance to reply, Eloise swept over carrying two more glasses of champagne.

  “Ah, my most favorite people in the world, other than myself, of course,” and she pressed one of the chilled drinks into my hand, passing the second to Laura.

  “I think you can safely say this evening has been a success, Hallen. Four of your paintings have sold…”

  “Four?” I narrowed a look at her.

  I no longer trusted that the sales were based on the merit of the work.

  “Yes, indeed, and your Patricia seems very pleased. Besides, I can tell a good buzz when I hear one. Dear boy, you are on your way.”

  Then she patted my wrist and strolled back into the crowd.

  Laura gave a warm smile. “She really is a force of nature.”

  I had to agree. “I was wondering how you two know each other?”

  “Ah, now there’s a story. I’m not sure I should tell you!” she laughed.

  “Oh? I’m intrigued.”

  She smiled but then glanced at her watch.

  “I really should go now.”

  I felt a pulse of disappointment.

  “Well, thank you for coming, Laura. It was great seeing you again. Really great.”

  And I meant it.

  “It’s been a pleasure for me, too. I think you’re very talented, Hallen.”

  She kissed me lightly on my cheek and stepped away.

  My face tingled where her lips had touched me, cutting through the champagne haze.

  “There’s a Cézanne exhibition at MOCA,” I blurted out. “Would you like to see it? With me?”

  She stopped suddenly, her surprise almost comical. But her hesitation was agonizingly long.

  “Well, yes, that sounds lovely,” she breathed, at last. “Thank you.”

  “Tomorrow? I could pick you up—about two?”

  She hesitated for a further second that twisted my gut uncomfortably, then nodded. “Tomorrow, yes. Ah, I’d better give you my address. I have a place in Mount Washington now.”

  I knew the area. Upscale. Like Laura. Even a small bungalow cost more than $500,000. Most places cost two or three times that. Her ex-husband must have been loaded—she didn’t seem like the type who would be vindictive and fighting over the dinner plates during their divorce, so he must have been happy to give her a good settlement. Or maybe she had some high-powered job that I didn’t know about. Although, she was so classy, maybe she came from money? Damn, did she have to be beautiful, smart and rich?

  Even though Laura was out of my league, she handed me a card with her address.

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  And just to add to the confusion in my alcohol-soaked brain, my dick twitched.

  I woke up hard as granite.

  With a hangover.

  The effort of rubbing one out seemed like asking too much. I willed the damn thing to deflate, but my dick didn’t want to cooperate. It waved optimistically against my stomach, mocking me. Bastard.

  Groaning, I shuffled to the bathroom, turned on the shower and took care of the throbbing in my groin, although the throbbing in my head was relentless. One out of two.

  And then I remembered that I had a date. Was it a date? It for sure wasn’t an appointment, but maybe it was more of a ‘let’s hang out at the art exhibit’? Jeez, it had been a while. I wondered if Laura was as confused as I was.

  But there was no doubting the fizz of excitement I felt about meeting up with her again.

  Last night had been surprising in so many ways. Seeing her, seeing my paintings on display being judged and evaluated—sold, even. After Laura left, things had gotten hazy. I remembered that Patricia had been crying happily as she pointed out red dots that danced before my eyes. Marco had been knocking back the champagne as I left, and Eloise poured me into a cab. I didn’t remember getting home or undressing.

  As I didn’t have any food in the house, I dragged myself to my favorite beach café and ordered black coffee, bagels with cream cheese and lox … no onion.
Maybe I felt like being a little bit decadent.

  The food helped with the hangover and I couldn’t deny I was in a good mood.

  I lingered for more than an hour, chatting to my regular waitress, enjoying the heat seeping into the morning, and the sound of the waves rolling up onto the sand below the bluffs. There was a gentle swell and a few surfers were paddling out on longboards, making the most of the easy rides. I felt peaceful inside and full of possibilities that I hadn’t thought about in a long while.

  I took a cab to pick up my car, relieved someone had stopped me from driving the night before.

  I had to go right across town to get to Laura’s, so even though it was only 12 miles, I gave myself three-quarters of an hour to get there.

  The afternoon traffic was a bitch and I was a few minutes late, a fact that had me sweating more than it should have.

  I skidded to a halt outside her place, which stood on one of the small hills overlooking the Los Angeles Basin. It was in a gated community of a dozen homes, and Laura’s turned out to be one of those Mediterranean revival houses—all white adobe and flat roofs, surrounded by palms.

  No doubt it was expensive, but it was also calm and tasteful. Which was what I’d expected, in so much as I’d expected anything. Laura was full of surprises.

  She was waiting for me.

  She looked fresh and cool in white linen slacks and matching jacket, with a rose pink sleeveless blouse. Silk. The way it clung to her figure had me imagining all sorts of things.

  “You’ve come in the beast!” she said, smiling at my MG Roadster.

  “Nothing but the best. Well, it’s the best I had or nothing—I didn’t think you’d want to walk.”

  Christ, I was babbling. And it wasn’t like this was anything I hadn’t done a thousand times before. But this felt way different, and Laura just gave a quiet laugh.

  I stepped out of the car and opened the door for her. She took my hand for a brief second as I helped her into the low seat. I was shocked by how much I liked the way her hand felt in mine. I was so fucked. How the hell had that happened? I couldn’t help the wide smile that made my jaw ache.

  “What?” she said, glancing sideways at me. “What!”

  I shook my head, still smiling. “Nothing, just … nothing. I’m happy to see you.”