***
Discounting my little run in with sweet Miss Ira, it had been a good day. I had been meaning to break it off with Elsa, anyway. I suspected her paying for my art show was the peak of her generosity. It was time to move on to bigger and better things – Mrs. Justine Hutchinson.
A few words about Justine at this point, I’m sure you’ll appreciate and find interesting. First off, it was wrong of me to refer to her as the Diamond Heiress. True, her family did own diamond mines in South Africa, her place of birth, but they disowned her decades ago.
At age eleven, Justine and her family moved to the states, to New Orleans. I suspect this was the cause of her one of a kind and unaccountable accent and manner of speech – South African combined with New Orleans.
At age eighteen (the age of consent in Louisiana), Justine eloped with a local banker, Jack Hutchinson, a man fifteen years her senior. This, her family looked on as an act of rebellion and disrespect; they cut her off without a penny from that point on.
To everyone’s surprise, Jack Hutchinson, cradle robber and fortune hunter, through some smart investments slowly and surely made good.
He and Justine moved to New York City, and within the short span of ten years, Jack worked his way up the financial and social ladders. He became a millionaire many times over.
The Hutchinsons owned a large and luxurious brownstone in the city and an equally luxurious, though much larger, summer home upstate.
As for a physical description of Justine, I find the task difficult and multileveled. First and most striking feature would be her hair. When she turned thirty, it changed from chestnut to what I can only described as brushed silver – not white or grey, mind you – but a natural illuminating silver no beautician could ever hope to copy. She wore it in a geometric cut (short one side, just passed the ear, and long on the other, running the full-length to her jaw). This was fashionable, particularly with older women, then. I suspected Justine to be in her mid-to-late forties, but it was difficult to speculate.
Her slender body gave the impression she was taller than she was; though she was petite in stature. Her skin was a few shades darker than alabaster, but not by much. Her face was delicate, yet well-defined and well proportioned. She could have easily triumphed as a fashion model, if she had had the mind to aim for such a career.
It wasn’t just her extraordinary physical beauty that allowed her to catch the attention of the world around her. She had a sense of style – of class and exceptional grooming seldom seen in most people.
We Americans like to look to our movie stars to describe people of real life. If I had to do that, I would say Justine had the class and sophistication of Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly, the sensuality and sexiness of Mariangela Melato, and the delicate refinement and elegance of Miko Taka.
***
It was Wednesday, and I was happily on my way to the brownstone.
As I rang the doorbell, I was feeling too confident and cocky. Justine Hutchinson was a prime candidate to be my newest client. She was not only rich and beautiful, but I knew for a fact she was extraordinarily lonely. It was a well-known rumor in all the right circles, the fire had long been extinguished from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson. They lived separate lives, slept in separate bedrooms, and often stayed in separate houses.
At the time, Mr. Hutchinson was off on business in the orient for the entire next year – a trial separation, some said.
In my line of work, I’ve heard more than my share of women’s lies about why they wanted me to visit them – all had their ulterior motives. But with Justine, little did I know, I’d be in for a rude awakening – something I never encountered in my business, the truth!
Surprisingly, it was Justine who answered the door. I learned later, save for a weekly visiting cleaning service, she lived alone – there was no domestic help.
I followed her into the living room; we sat on opposite couches facing each other. Between was a coffee table resting on which was, of all things, a tea service. After she served us both, she sat down again.
“Mr. Defy, before we begin, there is something I want to say.”
I remained silent and listened.
“Mr. Defy, my life is not as sheltered as you may think. I am familiar with your reputation with the ladies, and I know all too well how you make your living. I just want to tell you it is not why I’ve asked you here today. I am sincerely interested in you doing a portrait for me.”
I was a bit taken aback; I laughed ever so slightly.
“Well, Mrs. Hutchinson, to be honest, I am filled with disappointment and my ego wounded; but as an artist I’m flattered.”
“Mr. Defy, you shouldn’t take it to heart; I think you’re a lovely young man; but you must understand my position. I realize the entire city knows of the distance between my husband and me. But he has always treated me well; I never wanted for anything, and all my needs are all provided for. I know on which side my bread’s buttered. More to the point, he is still my husband, and I must honor that. So, with that out of the way…if we may continue, Mr. Defy?”
“Under one condition,” I said, “If we are to not be lovers, then may I suggest a different route? Something I never thought possible with a woman…can we please, at least, be friends?” I held out my hand in friendship, “Alex…please…call me Alex.”
“Very well…Alex…and you may call me Justine,” she said, laughing as we shook hands.
“You know…you’re beautiful when you laugh,” I said.
“Now, I thought you weren’t going to play the gigolo with me?” She was still laughing.
“It was not a come on,” I said, “Just a statement…a fact…the truth told by one friend to another.”
She stopped laughing, but remained smiling.
“Here…follow the movement of my hand,” I said, raising my hand and letting it travel in the air. She followed the pattern I was making with her eyes.
“Why are we doing this?” she asked.
“I’m just trying to see the different angles of your face.”
“For what reason?”
“For the portrait, of course.”
She stopped moving her head and looked at me.
“Oh…the portrait is not to be of me!”
“Then…of whom?” I asked, confused.
“I’ll show you.” She went over to a desk and brought back a photo album. She placed it down in front of me and began to thumb through it. Seated now so close, I could not help but notice how wonderful she smelled.
The photo album contained dozens of snapshots of only one person, a lovely young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties.
“This was my daughter, Loren,” Justine said solemnly.
“Was…?” I asked.
“Yes…Loren has been gone these past five long years.”
“May I ask how she passed?”
“Suicide…”Justine whispered softly as if wanting no one else to hear except for me.
Believing it in bad taste to say anything more, we both sat for a moment of silence. Justine then reached across the table and picked up a pencil and pad; she began to write, meanwhile she spoke.
“Can you work from photographs…I mean, can you paint a portrait without a live model?”
“I suppose so…yes, I can’t see why not.”
After writing something down on a slip of paper, she tore the page out and placed it in front of me. I looked at it; there was a large sum written on it.
“That is how much I will pay you for a portrait in oil of my Loren.”
I thought silently for a moment before speaking, “Justine, you know what kind of man I am; you know what I do for money. My art is just…” I found myself unable to say the truth; so I tried a different approach, “Justine, there are so many other artists; why me?”
She smiled, “Because I see something in you…something even you don’t know you possess. I believe you have the sensitivity to learn who my little girl really was and get that down on
canvas.”
I looked again at the staggeringly high figure on the slip of paper.
“There is one stipulation, though,” she said, “Come, follow me; I’ll show you.”
We left the living room, made our way up a flight of stairs and down a long hall. Toward the front of the house was a small bedroom; we entered.
“This was Loren’s room. I’ve kept everything exactly like it was the day she died.”
I looked around; it was nothing more you’d expect of any young woman’s room.
“One stipulation,” continued Justine, “is you must paint the portrait here…in this room. As I said, I believe you have the sensitivity to grasp and understand who Loren really was, and no place was she more herself than in this room. I believe only here you can capture her essence and place it on canvas.”
I took a deep breath and sighed.
“Do you accept?” she asked.
I thought about the money; I thought about seeing Justine everyday; and I nodded my head I would.
“Good…” she smiled, “When can you start?”
“I suppose…tomorrow.”
“No, not tomorrow,” she said, “I have something important to attend to tomorrow. Can we start on Friday?”
“Very well,” I agreed, “Friday, then.”
***
I found Justine charming, and my time spent with her delightful. Sadly, I came to realize the only bedroom I would ever get her into was her deceased daughter’s.
I felt cheated. I should be investing my time in other women, I thought, where I could yield a higher profit. So, I decided to punch out the portrait in record time and as the saying goes, take the money and run.
First morning I arrived at the Hutchinson’s home, the front door opened and a large man wearing a huge salmon-colored turban and a pale, tanned, expressionless face was leaving. We nodded and he walked off. Justine was standing at the doorway dressed in a yellow leotard and matching tights.
“Alex…good morning…I’ve just finished with my yoga lessons. Please, come in. Let me make you breakfast!”
The meal consisted of fruit, plain yogurt, whole wheat toast, and a grain-based coffee substitute. The food was tolerable; but I vowed from then on to bring real coffee for myself.
In Loren’s bedroom, I lay sheets of thin plastic about the floor and on some of the furnishings, not wanting to ruin anything with my paints. I set up my easel. I took some choice photos of Loren out of the album and placed them about the room within my view.
Justine sat on the edge of the bed and continued for the next half hour to tell me tales about her daughter – again in hopes that through knowing Loren better I might capture her true self all the more.
Justine then left the room and did not interrupt my work until noon, when she came to serve me lunch – a vegetarian sandwich and a tall glass of cold herb tea. She was wearing a brilliant white sundress with a sunflower pattern on it. We spoke for only a few moments, and then she left me to my work. I did not see her again until late afternoon, when I called it a day.
She watched while I packed my paints carefully away, and covered the portrait with a cloth. We spoke about generalities and unimportant topics, after which time she graciously showed me to the door.
That was the way each day went – breakfast for two in the morning at the crack of dawn just after her morning yoga class with Swami Never-a-smile. Justine thoughtfully bought real coffee for me. After breakfast, one hour of relating stories about Loren, seated on the edge of the bed.
Each day she wore a different colored leotard and matching tights. I’d work diligently for the next few hours, and then Justine served me lunch, again dressed each day in a different colored sundress.
I was to find out later, she canceled many an invitation to make sure she was home in time to serve me my lunch.
Late in the afternoon, Justine always saw me to the front door. Everyday was the same, and all very predictable.
What I did not find predictable – what should not have been in the cards – were the strong feelings for Justine welling up inside me. She was unselfish, sympathetic, and considerate; beautiful inwardly as outward. Through her telling of her daughter’s life, a glimpse into her own was mine. I became acquainted with and to trust her more than anyone I had ever known. Her faithfulness and dedication to her now debunked marriage with Jack made her loom large in my mind. I even (dare I say it) respected her. With each passing day, I grew more fearful I might fall in love with this woman.
It was an unwritten rule of mine never to have feelings for a client – but Justine wasn’t a client, she was a friend. My mind and heart were in turmoil. I decided to finish the portrait posthaste, to get myself far from this woman as possible, and move on to greener pastures.
Another reason I was in such a hurry to complete the project (which I’m slightly ashamed to mention), was the spirit of Loren herself. Honestly, listening to tales of a dead girl – the life and times of Loren Hutchinson for hours on end – and spending the rest of the day in her room with all her little goodies…to put it bluntly…gave me the Willies!
One day, about the time the portrait was near completion, I was feeling a bit closed in, the paint fumes were getting to me. I decided to open the window and let some of that New York City air into the room. I opened the window and looked down at the pavement below.
Now, you know I’m not a spiritual man, and you know I don’t put much faith in anything that won’t hold water. But when I looked down at the cement walkway far below, it all appeared clear in my mind. I knew then and there how the sweet Loren met her end. She jumped to her death from her bedroom window. Justine did not have to tell me; no one had to tell me, I just knew it to be true.
I made some lame excuse to Justine that the last finishing touches to the portrait I could best do in my studio. She believed me and conceded.
The day I returned with the completed portrait, Justine broke open a bottle of nonalcoholic sparkling apple cider, and we toasted with it as if it were champagne.
It had been nearly a month since we met at the showroom. Her behavior was so different, now. She was sparkling and vivacious…so…responsive.
She sat so close to me as we spoke, never letting lose of her hold on my arm. It was exquisite pleasure and pain all at the same time for me.
I needed to be Just friends with Justine, like I needed to drink poison.
As I was leaving the brownstone, Justine, standing at the doorway as usual, she made me swear we would be close friends forever…to keep the doors of communication open always…and to see each other whenever possible.
We smiled at each other, and then I walked away from the Hutchison’s home. I would miss her terribly. In my heart, I knew what was best for both of us. I made a solemn vow to avoid contact with her at all cost.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Because Cain was never Able”
As I live this Life of Riley, I find my way back home on Easy Street. This is at the End of the Rainbow, where I lay on my Bed of Roses. There I fall asleep to the sound of falling Pennies from Heaven.
I wish it were that easy! So much can go wrong!
I’m just trying to help the novice understand it’s the little things that can make or break you.
Let’s look at a make-believe scenario – perhaps it is make-believe, maybe not, what does it matter – it’s a lesson well learned.
Let’s call her Mrs. X…and Mrs. X is beautiful and rich. Her life for the past few years has been empty and lonely. Her husband, Mr. X, has been ignoring her during those years, and he’s been having an affair with some young little turtledove from the office. Mrs. X feels used, abused and very old – which she’s not, except compared with the young office turtledove.
Now, due to some fancy footwork using flattery and much sympathy, you’ve finally got Mrs. X alone in your studio. You make love to her, but she wants the lights off and the room dark as possible.
After weeks of giving her attention she so desp
erately needs and deserves, taking time to listen to her most inner thoughts, and building her up – finally she’s a new woman – born-again. She makes love with the lights on and the music turned up full. She’s young for a second time; she’s beautiful and sexy again. She is alive!
To celebrate the new her, the two of you head for the most expensive French restaurant in the city. Damn the cost…damn the torpedoes…there isn’t anything she wouldn’t give you at this point.
There you are, the two of you seated alone in one of the restaurant’s private rooms. You’ve just finished a fine bottle of Petrus and you’ve decided to switch midstream to an incredibly fine bottle of Romanee Conti. You’re both a little tipsy at this point; there is more Beluga on the table and floor than has made it into your mouths. The waiter enters and smiles at Mrs. X.
“Is Madame ready to order?” he asks.
“Yes, I’ll have the Medaillons de Veau Aux Morilles,” says Mrs. X.
“A fine choice, Madame,” the waiter concurs. Then he turns to you, smiling. You have been leaning toward the Canard Roti Montmorency Aux Cerises, and are ready to order. The waiter is looking at you, but he addresses his statement to Mrs. X.
“And what will your son have, Madame?”
That’s it! It’s over! He may as well pour ice water onto both of your laps!
Back at the studio (if she even comes, at all), you can forget about getting her out of her clothes, you won’t even get her out of her coat! All the old feelings come to the surface again. She feels aged and haggard…and especially awkward. She leaves you a check on the table, a sizable one, but she is leaving for good.
All your time and effort erased from her memory…wasted…all because of the wrong words said at the wrong time by some idiot waiter! It’s the little things that make or break you. Kingdoms rise and fall on a single word!
***
At first, it was difficult avoiding contact with Justine; we ran in the same social circles. Her phone calls posed no problem, since I made it a habit to never answer my phone. I let all calls go to my answering service, which I checked regularly throughout the day; this weeded out the unwanted, the unsolicited, and the unprofitable. All messages left by Justine were short; mostly invites to events and snippets inquiring about my well-being.
Memoirs of a Gigolo Page 5
