by Rob Manary
Fuck, I wish she would quit saying “greatest conquest”. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake St. Claire? Haven’t you ever done something stupid you wish you could take back?” I use her words. I have no words of my own. “I wanted to tell you so many times. Tell you everything. Fuck, just fuck.” I have no words of my own.
She closes the journal and tries to hand it to me. “Please, St. Claire, read the whole thing. I’ve fallen in love with you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I love you, St. Claire. Read the whole thing.” I’m almost begging. No, that’s wrong. I am begging.
“Your greatest conquest?” She smiles but there is no humour in the smile and I can see the tears forming in her eyes. “I think you better leave.”
“St. Claire…”
“Take this and leave!” she yells and throws the journal at me. It strikes me in the chest. It feels as if an anvil has hit me. I can think of nothing to say to her. I can think of no way I can make this better. I leave.
I don’t know what to do. She slams the door after me and I jump, then just stand in the hallway staring at the closed door. What just happened? I back up and hit the wall on the other side of the hallway and find myself slumped down, sitting there like an abandoned dog. I’m still holding the groceries, what was to be our lasagna dinner. I set them aside and take a pen out of my pocket, open my damned journal and start writing. I said I would do this for a month, my greatest conquest, my greatest failure.
Hours later I’m in a bar, more drunk than I believe I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t remember how I got here or what bar I’m even in.
Friday, Day 26
I drink and drink and drink and
Saturday, Day 27
A knock on the door wakes me. “Go away,” I yell.
Memories of the last day and a half are fragmented and come to me in pieces. I have a terrible hangover. Terrible is an inadequate word. My head pounds painfully. Moving my head causes searing pain. I have never been this hung over before. I don’t even know where I am. An anonymous hotel suite somewhere, I guess.
The knock on the door comes again. The sound causes me to wince. A familiar male voice calls from the other side of the door. ”Mr. Fahr, please open the door.” I can’t place the voice. I know the voice, but the state my faculties are in won’t allow me to identify the deep baritone tone.
I try to stand and I reel sideways. I stumble into the wall. Am I still drunk? With much difficulty I get to the door. I realize I’m in the same clothes St. Claire dressed me in days ago. This is getting to be quite the habit. I look to my hands. The bandages are frayed and dirty.
I can’t imagine how I look when I finally get the door open, but I smile as I see the figure before me. It’s Clive.
Clive has been the personal driver for the Countess for decades. I vaguely remember calling the Countess before passing out. I know I was incoherent. I know I was crying. Snippets of the conversation come back to me. I was wailing like a baby. The Countess insisting that I take the first flight to London. I passed out before I could take action. The residence of the Countess is the only place where I’ve ever felt like I was at home. The only place I would call home even so many years after I lived there.
The conversation with the Countess is coming clearer to me, like a jigsaw puzzle that I am only now seeing how all the pieces fit. “Come home, Brandon. Come home, love. Let me take care of you,” the Countess said over and over again. I was inconsolable. Clive has been dispatched to bring me home.
I imagine I look like hell. I wonder if I look as bad as I feel. Clive nods politely. “I’m here to bring you home, Mr. Fahr.” He smiles. He had always been more than a simple servant to me. He had at times been a confidante and a mentor of sorts. When I grew frustrated with painting he spurred me on. When I feared I would never get a break he listened. More than once I poured out my insecurities to him and he offered nothing but support.
In his early sixties, he is an indispensable member of the staff. The Countess relies on him for far more than simply driving her around. I think at one time they might have even been lovers. Clive does everything for the Countess. He’s more a manservant than a driver.
Clive is a distinguished looking man; slightly stooped he still towers over me. I would guess even now he would measure six foot three inches. His jet black hair is graying at the sides and he has a strong jaw line like some matinee idol from the 50’s. I remember him as a younger man drawing appreciative glances. I would imagine he still does among an older crowd.
“Where are your bags?” he asks. I love his clipped British accent.
“I’m travelling light,” I say with a slight laugh that hurts my pounding head.
He looks at the state of me. “Indeed.” He laughs with me. “Shall we?”
We make our way through the hotel to his waiting rental car. I stumble several times in the hallway and he has an arm out to steady me. But even through the horrible pounding in my head are images of St. Claire. Even as I fondly reminisce about Clive thoughts of St. Claire come rushing unwanted to my mind.
I call Wayne when I am in the back of the rented Cadillac and on my way to the airport. I hope I haven’t ruined things between him and Guy. Wayne answers on the first ring.
“Shit, Brandon, where have you been?” He is genuinely concerned. He is a constant in my world. I don’t think there is anything I could do to shake his unwavering devotion to me. Selfishly, this makes me happy.
“That doesn’t matter, Wayne. Listen, St. Claire knows everything.”
“I know. Shit, man, I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. Did she tell Guy? How did he take it?”
“Guy was pretty pissed, shit, I’m not going to lie. But when he calmed down he asked me if I loved him. I told him I did. He said, ‘Then it doesn’t matter how we started, it only matters where we are now.’ If you hadn’t sent me, then Guy and I never would have met. I kinda owe you, if you think about it,” he laughs then grows serious. “He really went to bat for you with Rachel, too. Gave her shit for not reading the rest of the journal and only getting part of the picture. She doesn’t want to hear it, but she cancelled rehearsals. Guy says she’s locked herself away in your condo and hasn’t stopped crying. You’re not going to like this though, Brandon. Guy says she’s meeting with Wolf for dinner to talk reconciliation.”
“Fuck, just fuck.” And I never curse. “I’m going to spend a couple weeks with the Countess and try and get myself together.”
“Shit, man, keep in touch,” he says.
I hang up on him as is my custom.
We arrive at the airport. In the V.I.P. lounge I try to order a scotch on the rocks but Clive tells the waitress to bring me a coke. The Countess has apparently instructed Clive not to allow me to drink.
I sleep on the eight hour flight. I sleep in the backseat of the car on the two hour drive from London to the estate of the Countess. My hangover slowly subsides. I begin to feel human again. The pain of losing St. Claire comes to take the place of my hangover. It is unbearable this pain. I want to drink it away. Every moment of our time together plays like a film in my head. Her smile, her laugh, but most of all those expressive eyes of hers. Holding her in the bathroom stall the night we went to the strip bar, my first foray into fast food, walking with her down Kensington Market. I remember everything, her every touch, the feel of her in my arms, the way she smelled, the way she tasted, everything. This is pain.
I don’t know the time when I arrive at the home of the Countess. Will it be my home again? Clive indicates that my old rooms have been prepared, and that one of the servants is waiting to wash and dress me.
I make my way to my old suite of rooms. The Countess has had clothes purchased for me, anticipating the shape I will likely arrive in. Another woman who wants to dress me. I’m becoming a bit of a Ken doll.
A servant girl changes me, strips me, and washes me. I catch her stealing glances at my thick cock and it makes me smile a bit. He
r smile is warm and more than friendly. I could probably lay her down and fuck her on the floor. I have no desire. Fuck, this is becoming maudlin.
The Countess is waiting for me in the drawing room, the servant tells me after I am suitable cleaned and attired. I don’t know how long it has been since I have seen her. I bring this journal with me. I’ll let the Countess read it if she cares to. There have been few secrets between us. I will lay my soul bare to her if she wants.
I enter the room and the Countess smiles up at me from a Victorian settee. “Brandon, my love, come, come,” she beckons. The Countess has a sort of timeless beauty. She has aged incredibly well and she has such bearing and poise it would be almost impossible to guess her age. She wears cream coloured pants and a white shirt trimmed with lace at the sleeves and neck. She is a striking older woman.
I cross the room and sit beside her. “Let me take care of you, love.” She takes my hand tenderly in both her hands. She looks to the journal. “And this is the infamous journal.” I hand it to her. I had apparently confessed my sin to her last night. She releases one of my hands and takes it from me.
I ache for St. Claire with everything in me. Tears start to fall from my eyes. I have no words. “My dear, dear, Brandon, my love, I’ll make everything alright.” She hands me a silk handkerchief. I take it but let the tears fall down my cheeks. I don’t even have the strength to wipe them away.
The Countess reads my journal. By the end she is crying too.
Sunday, Day 28
In the dark I wander the halls of the estate in my boxer briefs and a robe. Sleep won’t have me. I lay in bed for hours staring at the ceiling. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to wake without St. Claire in my arms. I walk without purpose. Wandering into the billiards room I pause to see one of my early works displayed prominently. It should make me smile. It doesn’t.
Wayne told me St. Claire sequestered herself away and hadn’t stopped crying. I’m numb. There’s not even the release tears bring anymore. “Are you hurting as much as I am, St. Claire?” I ask the empty room. No answer. I continue to wander the halls.
“Do you know how much you’ve changed me, St. Claire?” I ask the ballroom when I enter. “Knowing you. Loving you. Has changed me more than you will ever know, St. Claire. Before I met you I cared only for myself. I loved only me. You taught me to love. You showed me what the meaning of family is. You are the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last thing I think of before I go to bed. In between, I think of only ways to make you smile. You started out as a conquest but I fell in love with you. St. Claire, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’m not the man today who wrote those words less than a month ago. I’m not the same man. Condemn me for who I am now, not for who I was. I’m forever changed. I love you, St. Claire.” The empty ballroom doesn’t answer.
I wonder if I will end up like my mother. Visions of her wandering the empty halls of our mausoleum like home in her tattered and ragged wedding dress waiting for her love to return to her fill my mind. I’m wandering these empty halls so much like my doomed mother. I look to my hands and I am frightened. I will end up like my mother.
I walk for hours. The sun arrives to illuminate my walk. I walk. A servant intercepts me and leads me back to my rooms to wash and dress me. I follow. It is the same servant from last night. She is pretty enough. I think seriously for a moment of laying her on the floor and taking her. Would it take my pain for a moment? Would it give me peace? I know it wouldn’t. I’m ushered to one of the dining rooms for breakfast with the Countess. I don’t eat.
“Brandon, my love, you must trust me. I will make this better,” she says and she runs a hand through my short blond hair. “When you were younger and you couldn’t paint you would walk the halls. All night long you would walk the halls.” She shakes her head. “I am sorry that I have commitments that I must attend to. I’ll be home this evening. I’ll let you beat me at cards as I used to years ago.” The way she uses must causes a faint smile. How St. Claire and I had laughed. I try to banish thoughts of St. Claire but they come rushing back to me. This is pain.
I settle on a couch in a room with a big screen T.V. I can’t focus. I flip through channel after channel after channel for hours. I catch St. Claire’s new video for “I Wanna Be Your Dog” several times. It’s in heavy rotation on all the video channels. I torture myself by watching it each time. Finally, I land on a press conference. It’s St. Claire. Wolf is at her side holding her hand. She sits at a table behind a half dozen microphones. Around her neck she still wears the thick platinum necklace with the heart shaped diamond that I had given her.
Her quiet release on iTunes has broken all sorts of records. It is an impromptu press conference. I catch the thing as it is ending. “In your new video there are two paintings and a third empty frame. What does the empty frame represent?” The reporter hadn’t done his research or he would know there were three paintings in the “Icarus” series and only two were displayed on stage. There is a pause as St. Claire answers. I might be imagining it but I think I see pain in her eyes. “You’ll have to join me on tour to find that out,” she gives a practiced smile and a wry laugh. Her eyes are red from crying but she looks beautiful.
Wolf looks like he was jogging and ran into a brick wall. His nose is taped and his lip is swollen. I shouldn’t be pleased that I inflicted the injuries on him, but I am. Another reporter is chosen by St. Claire to ask a question. “Are you and Wolf back together?”
And I know St. Claire looks pained. I know the look. She doesn’t answer. Wolf steps in to steal her spotlight. “I won’t say yes, but I’ll say I’m cautiously optimistic.” He gives her hand a squeeze and St. Claire says softly, “That’s it. Sorry everyone. No more questions.” She stands and leaves the table, dropping Wolf’s hand as she goes.
I catch pieces of her press conference on several channels as I channel surf the day away. I also catch “I Wanna Be Your Dog” several more times. Someone brings me lunch. I don’t eat. I thought I had cried myself dry. From the well more tears come. They flow down my cheeks. I don’t even wipe them away. I’m so empty.
Exhaustion takes me. I lose consciousness more than I fall to sleep.
Monday, Day 29
I wake on the couch as sunlight creeps through the windows. At some point someone had thrown a blanket over me. I’ve slept in my clothes again. I really don’t care for the fact that I am sleeping in my clothes so often. I make my way towards my room. The servant who has been washing and dressing me has a name. I’m almost positive she has a name. And I don’t know it. When she arrives to tend to me I ask what her name is. Her name is Rowan.
We talk as she runs the washcloth up my abs and over my muscular chest. I feel better. The tears are gone. St. Claire doesn’t occupy every thought. Maybe every second thought, but not every thought. It is an improvement. I have no more tears.
I talk with Rowan and want nothing from her. I’m not trying to fuck her, I’m only engaging in small talk. And I flatter myself thinking I am getting better at it. She runs the cloth down my cock and I harden a little at her touch. One corner of her lip curls up into a coy smile as I grow harder beneath her hands. I know I could have this girl. But I am enjoying simply talking with her. A mark of how much I have changed, I think.
I choose black dress pants and a purple button down shirt. Rowan helps me dress. I am getting more use from the ruins of my hands, but I still require assistance for most tasks. I wish for a moment that I had a scarf to drape around my neck. I feel naked without one. I think of St. Claire, but it has been seconds since I have last thought of her. I wonder what she is doing. I wonder if she has cried all the tears she has for me as I have cried all the tears I have for her. I wonder why she still wears the necklace I gave her.
I join the Countess for breakfast. I smile and it is genuine. “Thank you.”
“For what, love?” She smiles at my change of demeanor.
“For being here to put me back together.” I kiss
her on the forehead and she beams. I move to take a seat beside her at the table. “I would have drunk myself to death in Toronto. I had started when Clive showed up.”
“I told you I’d take care of you, love. And I’m not done yet.” She laughs and pats my arm. I don’t ask. Whatever she has in mind she wouldn’t share it with me anyway. I seem to find strong and independent women to spend my time with.
We eat together and talk. I am getting better at small talk. The Countess notices it. “I think you’ve spoke more words this morning than ever have I heard you speak, love,” she laughs. “This Rachel St. Claire has done you a world of good.” She grows more serious. “I have taken a piece of each love I have had. Even you, Brandon. Take the good from what you shared with Rachel and forget everything else or you will drown.” She squeezes my hand. “Advice from an old foolish woman.” Her tone grows light once more. “I have a surprise for you. I’ll call you later. Walk the grounds. The gardens are beautiful and the day is fair.”
I do walk the grounds. When I first started painting I would paint these gardens. Some of my earliest works are landscapes. I wish more than once that I could be holding St. Claire’s hand and showing her these magnificent gardens. Sharing more secret words in our world of two. But no tears fall. I feel a sense of loss. I know heartbreak now. But no more tears fall.
I find a marble bench exactly where I knew I would find it. I sit and breathe in the country air, taking in the inspiring view. Rowan comes to fetch me. I am predictable. The Countess knew exactly where I would rest.
Rowan leads me through the grand hall towards another sitting room, this one near to my suite of rooms. Nothing could prepare me for what waited there for me. St. Claire is sitting, this journal again in her lap. Her face is wet from crying. She looks up at me and the sight of me causes her to draw a huge breath. More tears fall from her eyes as I appear.
