by Jill Kargman
Eden sat up straight, instantly noticing the famed artist who already, at thirty-seven, was an international sensation and one of the most collected painters in the world. She had heard he resided and worked nearby in a double-width townhouse he had renovated from scratch, and she knew he ran with a crowd akin to Warhol’s Factory—kids coming in and out, posing for him, clubbing with him, snorting with him.
As the crew was ushered immediately by the chain-smoking host to a huge table nearby, Otto’s dark eyes washed casually over the scene. And then . . . his eyes darted back, in a lightning-fast double take, to the most striking creature he had ever seen. He suddenly stopped still, inhaling his cigarette and staring down at Eden in her booth. While many women would quickly look away, Eden simply gazed back, unfazed. She was used to it. Her green eyes shone in the low light, and her long shiny hair cascaded down her shoulders and back. Though she was still chilled from the air outside, she delicately took both hands to her shoulders and pulled off the crimson cardigan, which revealed her sensuous body under a tight-fitting, lace-trimmed ivory tank top.
“Hello,” he said, approaching her, fixated.
“Hello.”
“I’m—”
“I know who you are,” she said in a monotone way, not letting on whether she was impressed or not. (She was.) “I’m Eden.”
“Of course your name is Eden, how fitting. You’re too stunning for the earth as we know it.”
“Please. Is there also an angel missing in heaven?” she teased, batting her lashes. “Or wait—is my father a thief because he stole the stars right out of the sky and put them in my eyes?”
Otto was stunned. Here he was, a legend who could bed any skirt in New York, and this young girl mocked his advances? He felt himself getting hard just hearing her verbal slap. “Touché, my dear. I suppose you have heard such words before.”
“A few times.”
“Hello,” said Wes, returning to the table. “I’m Wes. You a friend of Eden’s?”
“I hope to be,” he said slyly.
“Wes, this is Otto Clyde,” she said, introducing the two men.
“Oh, wow, I’m a huge fan of your work, sir.” Wes beamed, in awe that he was face-to-face with the world’s most celebrated painter.
“‘Sir’? Hey, guys, I’m a sir,” Otto yelled to his table with an amused grin. “Why, how old are you two fresh-faced young ones?”
“Nineteen,” answered Eden.
“Well, almost twenty,” added Wes.
Eden shot him a look. For a young model like Eden, twenty was a dreaded threshold. She had been born January 1, 1970, the first day of a new decade. Wes’s stork flew three months later. And there, in that restaurant, in the final weeks before her twentieth birthday and the dawn of the 1990s, Eden caught her first glimpse of her first real celebrity in New York. Sure, Cameron had his legions of fans, but the German-born artist was known uptown and down, by art lovers old and young, across the country and across the world.
“Well, then, happy birthday, Eden,” Otto said, leaning down to kiss her hand. “It was truly a pleasure.” And with that, Otto Clyde turned and walked toward the rest of his party’s table, where he sat facing Eden, and Wes’s back.
Throughout their anniversary dinner, Eden’s eyes locked with Otto’s as he exhaled smoke and narrowed his eyes, as if to Xerox her visage into the labyrinthine cortex of his brain. For spank bank or for inspiration, he didn’t know. But he knew one thing for sure: He was obsessed. He couldn’t get her face, her body, out of his mind. And as an artist whose unique portraiture had a style all its own, there was no way he could easily get over a visual lightning bolt like that; he would have no peace until she flashed in front of him once more. Otto was determined to run into her again.
After the lovebirds left, Otto asked the restaurant’s owner what the name on the reservation had been, and the next day, he had one in his cadre of assistants find all the nearby Bennetts. When they determined the right address, Otto went to the espresso bar downstairs and nursed a cup of coffee until he spied Wes at the foot of the steps, rubbing his little gold glasses on the bottom of his sweatshirt as he adjusted his messenger bag laden with texts and drafting papers. Bingo.
Not long after, his girlfriend emerged, even more breathtaking than before; her black jeans were tight and sleek, her long hair flowing over a sexy blouse she wore with the sleeves pushed up and a ton of bangle bracelets. Like a proto-Kate Moss, she had a style all her own, which cost little and was the trademark confident type that money can’t buy. She tucked a lock of long hair behind her ear and walked smack into Otto.
“Miss Eden,” Clyde said in his British-inflected, light German accent on her street corner as she was on her way to Tower Records. “How would you like to do some modeling for me?”
“Sure.” She shrugged nonchalantly. She played it cool with her relaxed body language, but inside she was doing Romanian-caliber triple back-handsprings. They walked to a pay phone on the corner and she called in sick to work. She hung up with a big smile and turned to Otto. Otto took her hand.
“Follow me.”
When Eden first arrived in the enormous, bustling Clyde studio, she was blown away. There were gorgeous, gamine hangers-on, rock music blaring, eyeliner-heavy assistants preparing a canvas with gesso. Otto showed her how to do the various poses, which came quite naturally that morning and over the next few technicolorful days. It was like a big, loud, raucous party that never ended, and Eden, lying on a white couch as Otto sketched her, was at its center. There were whispers from his circle of onlookers about her exquisite beauty, her perfect body, the fierce soul in her eyes.
She started going to the studio every day, and each night she would come home and gush all about the day’s “work” to Wes, whose expression lit up as he watched his girlfriend excitedly describe her incredible day modeling.
“This is huge,” Wes said beaming. “He is such a brilliant artist.”
“Yeah, he’s kind of as big as it gets right now,” Eden marveled.
Wes was thrilled for her—he was so proud of Eden, not just because she had been noticed for her amazing beauty but because of her uniqueness, the fire in her eyes, her penetrating, burning soul, and the charm she emitted. She was enchanting, and together Wes knew they would make great art. But little did Wes know that Otto was a pair of shiny, searing hot scissors that would soon leave his heart in tattered ashen shards on the Bowery.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Allison asked, astonished when Eden said she wasn’t sure if she’d stay with Wes long-term. “You guys are made for each other. By the way, news flash: He’s the greatest thing to ever happen to you!”
Eden scoffed, taking a drag of her cigarette.
“Wes is amazing,” Allison continued. “He cares about you. And stop smoking! Didn’t you promise him you were through with those Satan Sticks?”
“I can’t quit now. Things are starting to happen for me! I just want to see where all this goes. If it works out and I join Clyde’s studio, then I’ll quit.”
“If, if, if !” Allison teased. “Don’t always look to the next thing, Eden; you’ve been doing it your whole life. It’s a very bad habit.”
“Oh yeah? Guess who I learned that from? You were the one goading me on,” Eden said, flicking her ash, annoyed. “You told me I could make it here as a model. Is it so wrong to hope the wish we hatched back home comes true? What’s so awful about looking to the next thing?” Eden asked.
“I’ll tell you,” said Allison, staring down her best friend across the table. “You miss what’s right in front of you.”
Everything appeared to be perfect with Wes: They made love at all hours, kissed in their rusty tub with Johnson’s baby shampoo as bubble bath, lounged outside in the spring and picnicked on the Brooklyn Bridge on warmer nights. But would this be it forever? And while their little dumpy apartment was certainly romantic, was this all there would be for her?
Eden loved Wes deeply. She loved his passi
on for his architecture, the way he’d hold her hand as he taught her about design. She loved his warmth and shy humor. She even loved his adoring family, especially his mom, Penelope, who occasionally came to visit, taking the couple to Broadway shows and on fun excursions. She loved watching Wes study and sketch his projects for school, the large vein that ran down his wrist as he earnestly drew blueprints for class. Eden loved everything about him. But after years of dreaming of a career of her own, she knew one fierce unwavering truth: She loved herself even more.
After a month of Eden’s modeling for Otto, poor Wes Bennett’s exodus was written all over Otto’s brushed canvases.
“I don’t know,” Eden confided in Allison. “When Otto’s painting me, I feel this . . . strange attraction to him. He says I’m his muse. I think he really likes me. He said he wants to do more canvases of me and that his gallery was obsessed with the paintings.” Eden exhaled guiltily. “I care about Wes, I do, but . . .”
“Buts aren’t good. Love is supposed to be unconditional, no buts—”
“I’m young. I have a future. We didn’t come to New York so I could struggle my whole life. Look, I said before I think Otto likes me. But, Allison, I know Otto wants me. He ravages me with his eyes. And frankly, I kind of miss being worshipped like that. Wes is so gentle and sweet and loving but he’s a student; Otto is aggressive, a manly man. He’s bold and strong and—”
“Are you out of your mind? Poor Wes practically has a shrine to you! He adores you. And not because you’re hot.”
“I know,” Eden said, sadly. “You know, I almost feel like Wes is the perfect person for me but that I met him too early. Like I was supposed to meet him later in life or something. We’re too young now. I have, you know, dreams. Okay, that sounds so cheesy but it’s true.”
“Why can’t you accomplish them together?” Allison asked, crushed.
“That’s a long, long road. And I’m impatient. Otto is like that magic card in Candy Land that shoots you to the top. Wes is the long winding path.”
“But it’s a colorful path! It’s fun with him,” said Allison, devastated for poor Wes, who she truly thought was the best thing to happen to her best friend. “E, you love him.”
“Maybe he’s the right person, but it’s the wrong time.”
“Bullshit,” said Allison, shaking her head. “If it’s the right person, then I believe there is no such thing as the wrong time! If you really and truly believe it’s the wrong time, than it means it’s the wrong person.”
“Then I guess he’s the wrong person,” Eden said.
“I really don’t think you’re right,” Allison protested. Eden sat in silence. “So . . . what are you gonna do?”
“I know what I can’t do. I can’t sit and feel guilty and terrible about pursuing my own goals because of Wes.”
“So is the hatchet falling on this relationship for real?” Allison asked, brokenhearted for sweet Wes.
“I don’t know,” Eden lied. She knew damn well it was.
7
The really frightening thing about middle age is that you know you’ll grow out of it.
—Doris Day
While the little diner on the Bowery was really all that Eden and Wes could hack wallet-wise, they also continued to go there because of the sentimental history. It was their place. There were so many nights when Wes, laden with books in his messenger bag, snow falling all around him, would see Eden through the window across the street and feel as if he were coming home.
As he warmly kissed her hello after a freezing day apart, Eden felt a bolt of heat soothe her chest.
“Let’s go get some sandwiches to go and sit in the park and see if those blues guys are out there singing,” he suggested excitedly.
As the street band strummed their bass and crooned in harmony and light, fluffy snow started to dust their flushed faces, Wes knew, as Eden swayed in his arms to the music, that he could never be more elated than he was in that moment.
“I love you, Eden.”
“I love you so much,” she spat out guiltily, abruptly, surprising herself. “Come here.” She threw her arms around him and kissed him as the mingling voices of the singers swelled. As much as that moment made her pulse rise, she still had her own seething drive to contend with, and the lure of fame made her heart beat even faster.
After growing chilly standing still as the snow fluttered, they decided to get walking again. They strolled the wooden walkway of the Brooklyn Bridge, their favorite place to go together, as they had on their second date. They walked under the majestic Gothic arches, drinking their coffees, looking upward in silence.
“I have something for you,” Wes said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little red box of Sun-Maid raisins.
“Aww.” She leaned in and kissed him, taking the box.
“I wish—” Wes stopped in his tracks as his voice broke. He suddenly looked serious and then choked up.
“What?” Eden asked, stopping also, surprised by the emotion in his face.
“I wish it were a box of diamonds,” Wes said.
Eden looked into his eyes, saying nothing. She thought she would cry.
“You deserve the world. I love you so much, Eden. I’ll love you always, for the rest of my days. You make me want to give you everything I have, and even everything I don’t have yet. I want to marry you,” Wes said, holding her cold hands in his.
Eden didn’t know what to do. She panicked. She leaned in and kissed him. They kissed and kissed until the tears Eden was fighting won their battle and welled in her eyes.
Eden never answered him that night. She just put her arms around him and squeezed him harder than she ever had before. When they returned home, they made love with a fervor so intense it was as if they would melt into each other; she gripped his back as he moved over her, as if she could hold on to him forever, but deep down, she knew she wouldn’t.
Wes collapsed on top of her in a euphoric state, kissing her dewy neck while Eden lay on her back. Staring at the ceiling, the tears streamed out of the corners of her eyes down toward the tops of her ears. Wes didn’t notice, but if he had, he would have mistaken them for tears of joy.
“I love you so much,” he panted, wiped out.
“I love you, Wes,” she replied as she patted his fluffy head of hair and choked back the sadness welling inside her.
8
Thanks to modern medical advances such as antibiotics, nasal spray, and Diet Coke, it has become routine for people in the civilized world to pass the age of 40, sometimes more than once.
—Anonymous
One warm day, after a month of sessions during which Otto Clyde very cautiously asked Eden to shed, say, her sweater, or even her skirt, Otto took a deep breath and walked up to his dream model. He had done his whole rigmarole before—pick out a new gorgeous girl, make her feel pretty, get her relaxed, maybe get her some booze, play some music, work her down until she feels calm and comfortable, not to mention a little tipsy. Then get her to show some skin.
He knew exactly what to do. He came in close for a gentle whisper.
“So, my dear,” he started carefully. “I was thinking that today—”
Without a word, and unflinchingly maintaining eye contact with him, Eden pulled her black T-shirt over her head, revealing her perfect, pert breasts with no bra. Otto gulped. She stood up and calmly pulled down her panties with zero self-consciousness, as if she were a mannequin, but with a twinkle of confidence that proved she couldn’t have been more alive. She was so at ease with her body, unlike the shy virgins or awkward ingénues off Amtrak whom Otto had to coax into the buff. Eden stood stark and relaxed as sweat began to gather on Otto’s brow.
“I’m speechless. Your beauty is so rare, so flawless,” Otto said to her as he ran his hand through his hair, nervously walking back to his easel and turning to face her again. “You truly make one understand how Helen of Troy’s visage could have launched all those damn ships.”
&
nbsp; “Well, I’m glad we’re making art and not war,” she joked, rolling her green eyes.
“I believe the hippie dippies say make love not war,” he countered flirtatiously.
“We can do both,” she retorted.
His eyes flashed from behind his canvas. There it was, desire. Lock and load: Eden knew she’d hit the target. He was all hers.
Poor Wes didn’t know what hit him.
“I’m so sorry, Wes. It’s been . . . such an amazing time, really, I just . . . this is an amazing opportunity for me and I—”
“You’re seriously leaving me? After last night?”
She flushed the thought of their final night together, a last walk on the Brooklyn Bridge, the red box of raisins, their final sex, all out of her head for fear she would lose her resolve. She choked back tears and proceeded, in a Tasmanian-devil-style whirlwind, to sweep up her things as she spewed sincere apologies with no eye contact. As Wes stood there withering with shocked grief, Eden swallowed hard and tried to speak as she finally looked at his face.
“I just think it’s time to move on. Part of me will never stop loving you,” she said as her voice cracked. “But I need to go.”
Wes stood silently staring at her, decimated, like in a bad dream where you want to scream but nothing emerges. He had not seen this coming at all. As she turned to the door to leave their apartment for the last time, she saw Wes draw breath to speak his parting words. Dewy-eyed, he simply said quietly, “I hope this guy loves you as much as I do, Eden. And that you love him as much as I have loved you.”
Eden’s eyes swelled, but only for a second before she gathered her composure.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply, before closing the rusty door behind her. And with that, she was gone.
