When it was time to go to bed, Maggie made it clear that Hallen’s help wasn’t needed, and insisted on taking me up the stairs and supervising while I changed into my pajamas.
Then she sat on the end of the bed and handed me more painkillers.
“Maggie, I want you to be nicer to Hallen,” I said, ignoring her mutinous look.
“I don’t trust him, Mom!”
“Well, I do.”
She pushed out her lower lip, but didn’t argue.
Hallen still hadn’t made an appearance and I wondered anxiously if he’d decided it was too much trouble and left. But then I heard the stairs creak and I looked up to see him leaning against the doorframe, smiling at me.
Maggie turned around, flashing an appalled glance. When I didn’t speak, she stood up and pushed past him, muttering, “Night, Mom.”
“I don’t think she likes me,” said Hallen, raising his eyebrows as his lips curved upward in a beautiful smile.
“She’s just worried about me,” I hedged.
Frowning slightly, he came and sat on the edge of the bed. “If it’s awkward having me here, Laura, I can come back tomorrow…”
A surge of fear engulfed me at the thought of him leaving. What if he didn’t come back?
“Please, stay,” I whispered.
A relieved expression relaxed his face. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Then he paused. “So, um, I can sleep in the guestroom?”
I shook my head, watching his eyes carefully, judging his mood.
He smiled again. “Thank you.”
He stood up, winked at me, and carried his suitcase into the room. It had been right outside my bedroom door the whole time.
He rifled through it, grabbing his toiletries, then walked into the bathroom. I heard the shower run for a few minutes before he returned.
So many emotions rushed through me as I stared up at him. His hair was damp, and droplets of water clung to his chest and arms, catching the light. His body was beautiful, flawless. Smooth, golden skin. Taut, lean muscles; long, runner’s legs. A pair of snug, black boxer briefs clung to his hips, reminding me of what lay beneath.
“Sorry,” he murmured, grimacing slightly. “I don’t have pajamas. Is this okay?”
Yes, it was very okay.
I felt a rush of love, followed by lust, followed by sadness, followed by disgust: love for him, lust for his body, sadness for what we’d lost, and disgust for my own altered and aged body.
“It’s fine,” I said, looking away.
I turned off the light, but not before I caught the puzzled and hurt expression on his face.
I felt the mattress dip under his weight and then he slid an arm beneath me, gently pulling me onto his chest. I tensed up immediately.
“I can’t!” I said, my voice sharp with panic.
“Christ, Laura!” he whispered, pain evident in the soft words. “What sort of bastard do you think I am? I just want to hold you.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Sorry, it’s just … just…”
“Ssh,” he said, soothingly. “Try to sleep.”
I woke once in the night, tears dampening my pillow, but he was there, holding me and brushing kisses onto my hair.
Breakfast the following morning was uncomfortable. Maggie insisted on doing everything for me, and Hallen stood by the kitchen window, sipping black coffee, his expression deliberately neutral.
After ten minutes of being ignored, he set his coffee down.
“Will you be okay for an hour if I go for a run?”
“Of course. I’ve got Maggie looking after me,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
He smiled in amusement and kissed me on the cheek.
“Okay. I’ll take my phone with me in case you need anything.”
Maggie snorted but didn’t manage to emit any sound that contained actual words. It was a slight improvement. Hallen grinned at me.
I heard him take the stairs two at a time, and felt a flash of envy for his easy energy. I couldn’t even walk normally, let alone run. The thought sobered me quickly.
The atmosphere relaxed after he left and Maggie looked at me guiltily.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just can’t help it. I want to be the one to look after you.”
“And you do, sweetheart. But you have school and I don’t want you missing any more than you already have.”
“We were managing fine without him,” she said, petulantly.
“You were managing fine,” I said. “I’m glad he’s here.”
She started to argue.
“Hallen has lost a child, too,” I reminded her, quietly.
Her lip trembled and I saw tears spring into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“I know you are, sweetheart.”
True to his word, Hallen returned an hour later, just as Maggie was preparing to leave for school.
“I’m back,” he called out, as he strode through the hallway into the kitchen.
He was wearing a pair of silky black running shorts and had peeled off his sweaty t-shirt. Maggie’s eyes went wide, and I caught her checking him out as he leaned into the fridge to grab a bottle of water.
When she saw me watching, her cheeks bloomed deep red and she hurried from the room, muttering about not wanting to be late for class.
I was still smiling when Hallen looked up.
“What?” he asked, smiling back at me.
I shook my head.
He stared at me quizzically but didn’t push it.
“How do you feel today?” he asked, at last.
“Like getting out of the house,” I admitted.
His eyes brightened. “Really? That’s great. Where would you like to go? We could drive up the coast, find somewhere for lunch?”
“I’d like to see your exhibition.”
I could tell he was taken aback. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He ran a hand through his sweaty hair.
“It’s a lot different from what you saw in the early stages.”
I could see that he was uneasy, but I wasn’t sure why.
“I’ll always want to see your work, Hallen,” I said, a little confused.
“It’s pretty personal stuff,” he said, frowning at me.
I was starting to get annoyed.
“Don’t you want me to see it?” I sniped.
He pulled a face. “Yes and no.”
I was hurt. He could show his paintings to random strangers but not to me?
“I don’t mean it like that,” he said, quickly. “I probably should have said something before but…” He took a deep breath. “There are some paintings of you. Quite a few.”
“Oh,” I said. Then, “Oh.”
We stared at each other for a moment before his gaze dropped and he sighed heavily.
“I just wanted to warn you,” he said. “I didn’t want you to walk in there cold.”
I couldn’t quite take it in. He’d painted me? But when? I’d never posed for him.
Then I remembered the sketch pad he’d left behind that horrible day when he’d walked out: it was filled with drawings of me. Filled. Maybe he had others, too.
“Then I definitely think I should see it,” I said, with determination.
He looked resigned. “Okay.”
He was quiet on the way to the gallery, staring straight ahead as he drove my car. He’d suggested it would be more comfortable than his MG. Having been thrown around in that several times before, I knew he was right. But there was nothing comfortable about the tense silence. Anxiety flowed from him, and his knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel.
When we arrived at the gallery, I was disappointed that Magda wasn’t working—relieved, too. I wasn’t sure how I’d answer her questions.
A young and very enthusiastic assistant who was clearly besotted with him greeted Hallen, gushing happily and beaming smiles that I was sure contained an invitation. I’d become an expert on the way wome
n looked at my boyf… at Hallen.
The young assistant stuttered to a halt when she saw me, her eyes flashing between us several times.
“Hey, MJ,” said Hallen, his manner distracted. “This is Laura. She’s a friend of Magda’s.”
The girl shook hands politely, seeming confused by his introduction. Me, too. Was I simply ‘Magda’s friend’ now?
There was already a surprisingly large crowd for a Friday morning. Hallen had told me that the reviews were good—I suspected he’d understated it considerably.
There was a pause in conversation when he entered, and then the bubble of chatter continued with an excited edge.
I saw immediately why he was reluctant for me to see his exhibition. The paintings were about him: his life—women, sex, women, sex. But also pain and darkness, over and over.
I could feel his eyes on me as I crept further into the exhibition space. I was stunned, amazed by what I could see, the technical accomplishment and the vast amount of new work he’d produced since we’d been apart.
And sad. He’d painted his best work after our breakup.
My eyes were drawn to the largest canvas at the center of the gallery. It was a life-size image of Hallen naked. He was stretched across a table in an inverted cross, as if lying on a medieval torture rack, arms spread wide. His eyes were open and filled with pain, as grinning, laughing women surrounded him, several with their yellow teeth biting into his flesh. He was staring out of the canvas as if begging someone to save him.
“Is … is that how it felt?” I gasped, shocked.
“Sometimes,” he said, quietly.
He was going to say something else but then MJ was behind him, pressing a pile of exhibition brochures into his hands with a request that he sign them. He was immediately surrounded with gallery patrons, each asking questions, each wanting their own pound of flesh.
I moved onto a series of four smaller portraits. A shock of recognition floored me: they were all images of me. I gaped at the titles—’Beauty Slandered I-IV’. He had made me look, well, beautiful. In each one, I was smiling, surrounded by a bright halo of light. Was that how he saw me? As someone beautiful, desirable? I didn’t feel either of those things, especially now.
I reminded myself that these had been painted before he knew that I was … less. Deficient. But they were also painted after we’d split apart—and yet his love for me shone from every frame.
It was deeply humbling.
I drifted from picture to picture until I came to a smaller piece that was painted on wood instead of canvas, and hinged in the middle, like a gate. On the left was a self portrait of Hallen. His face was in deep shadow on the left, but highlighted from some hidden light source on the right, his blue eyes burning out of the image. The second panel was another portrait of me. I was glowing—there was no other word for it—light flooded out of the frame. And I realized that this was the source of light pouring onto the picture of Hallen. I peered at the title—it simply said, ‘Diptych: Metaphor’.
I spent another half an hour wandering through the gallery. I knew Hallen was still watching me, even as he responded to the questions of the small crowd who surrounded him. He’d become a celebrity—he’d moved on.
When I was finally prepared to speak to him, I caught his eye. He came over immediately.
“Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, please.”
He took my elbow and steered me out of the gallery, brushing off further requests to talk with a polite smile and quick shake of his head.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, once we were alone.
Dear God, how on earth could I answer that question? No, I wasn’t okay. I was shocked by what he’d shown of his life; stunned by the dark beauty he’d created, and appalled by how he saw himself—a man in the shadows.
“Will you tell me? What it was like? I mean, I can see from the paintings but … I’d like to know.”
He nodded and rubbed his eyes tiredly.
“I thought you might ask me that. I wrote it all down for you. So … you can just read it … and if there’s anything else you want to ask me … after … you can.” He sounded resigned. “It doesn’t make pretty reading.”
A lump formed in my throat and I swallowed several times before I could speak.
“I’d like to read it.”
We drove back in uneasy silence. I wasn’t sure how much more I wanted to know of his life before we’d met. That was a lie—I wanted to know everything; but I was afraid, too. I could tell Hallen felt the same.
When we reached my house, I settled myself wearily onto the sofa. Hallen watched me for a few moments, then reached into his messenger bag, pulling out a thick envelope and handing it to me.
“I’ll be outside,” he murmured.
I was tired and feeling very sore, but I was impatient to read what he’d written, to hear his thoughts, hopes and fears. I opened the envelope nervously, afraid of what I’d see. Oh my God. Was I ready to read this? Did I really want to know?
It was clear that his paintings had been a confessional, but this would add facts to the emotions.
And then I realized that if we were truly to have a future, I needed to know.
I read the first line of the first page, and my heart missed a beat.
I fuck women for money.
Vomit burned my throat.
An hour later, my brain was reeling. Shock, sorrow, disgust, pity, jealousy. A lot of jealousy. But also love.
I felt overwhelmed and shaky as I dropped Hallen’s writing onto my lap.
There was so much to process. Reading about everything he’d thought from the day he met me, up until and including the two weeks he’d turned to drinking to erase my memory; that alone made me burn with guilt. There was so much that was painful to read. I leaned back on the sofa and closed my eyes. He’d been brutally honest, leaving nothing out. He’d laid bare his soul to me, even as he’d laid bare his body.
He’d let me through walls he’d spent years building. I felt his disgust at himself, at what he’d done, and I thought back to the paintings that he’d shown—not only to me but the whole world.
The question was no longer could I live with the knowledge of what he’d done, what he’d been—but could I live with it knowing that everyone else knew—including my own children?
I’d fled New York because I couldn’t stand all the whispers and pointed fingers when Jack left me for his fuck-buddy-secretary. It was clear from the success of his show that Hallen’s fame and notoriety would only increase. I knew it was weak and pathetic of me, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to take it.
Emotional and in pain, I drifted into an uneasy sleep.
It was late afternoon when I opened my eyes again. I noticed that the blanket was covering me, and a glass of water stood on the coffee table. Hallen must have done that.
I lay with my eyes open for several minutes. A certain clarity had come with my hours of sleep.
Through all this, despite everything he’d been through, everything he’d done, he’d found his way to me and to our love. We’d even made a baby together. That was something that we’d always share, however brief her existence.
I slid the pages back in the envelope and went to find him.
He was sitting outside on the patio steps, bare feet resting on the grass. His sketch pad had been abandoned beside him, and his head was in his hands.
I sat down beside him, but he didn’t move.
“It’s okay,” I said, quietly. “You haven’t frightened me off.”
When he looked up, his eyes were full of disbelief and hope.
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Thank God,” he said.
I leaned my head against his shoulder and he wrapped his arms around me.
“Thank God,” he said, again.
We sat in silence for some minutes before either of us spoke again.
&n
bsp; “I’ve had sex with hundreds of women, Laura, but I’ve only made love to one.”
A wave of emotion flooded through me, making me tremble, and his arms tightened around my body.
I wanted to ask what that meant for us and for any future we might have, but just as I was about to speak, we heard Maggie’s voice echoing through the house.
“I’m home, Mom!”
I wriggled free from Hallen’s arms, realizing too late that my automatic response had pierced him again.
Maggie’s voice was cool.
“Oh, you’re both here.”
Hallen’s body stiffened further, but he didn’t speak.
I knew I should deal with Maggie’s continuing hostility, but I really felt as though I’d handled enough emotional overload for one day.
“We need to plan for Anika’s funeral service next week,” I said, giving the first reason I could think of for Hallen’s continuing presence.
Maggie’s face fell, but it was the strangled sound coming from Hallen that made my heart stutter.
“What?” he gasped.
His beautiful face was stricken. Oh dear God—I’d forgotten to tell him.
“I … the hospital … I mean, I’ve arranged for us to have a small service next week. I’m sorry … I should have said something before…”
His eyes were ice cold and stormy.
“Yes, you should have,” he said, as he stood up and walked into the house.
Maggie sat down next to me and took my hand. We both jumped as the kitchen door slammed behind us.
I started to stand up, but Maggie stopped me.
“Give him a minute, Mom,” she said, quietly.
The weight of understanding and maturity in her voice made me pause.
“I should have told him,” I whispered, shaking my head.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “Probably not the best way for him to find out.” She rubbed my back soothingly. “He was really upset,” she said, almost to herself.
“Yes.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch to him. I thought … I thought … I don’t know what I thought, but I guess he really cares about you.”
My mind traveled back to the manuscript, how he’d shown me in words as well as pictures the way he felt.
At Your Beck & Call Page 43
