He is Mine

by Mel Gough

  She loves being seen in her glamorous dress, her slender body jealously whispered over. She might’ve turned thirty last month, but she still cuts a better figure than many of those starlets barely out of high school. That’s what Victor married her for, her beauty and her ability to capitalize on it. He loves beautiful things. It follows that he loves her. But he doesn’t love this event, despite the glamor and the possibilities. He hasn’t ever been this camera shy before. Maybe it’s nerves. After all, this evening is make or break for his new, ambitious project.

  “I hate this shit,” he murmurs on cue under his breath. He stalks past more photographers without acknowledging them, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, his shoulders hitched up as if to make his narrow, six-foot-two frame less conspicuous. “And why do they call you Miss, anyway?”

  Viv presses her lips together to refrain from snapping at him. They’ve been over this so many times. He wanted her to keep her maiden name after their marriage, but the correlating fact that the press will consider her unmarried, at least as far as addressing her goes, has failed to sink in. They can’t call her Mrs. Aubert, since there’s no Mr. Aubert to go with that.

  “Victor,” she hisses out of the corner of her mouth, trying to keep up without rushing. Her dress is cut so tightly, she’s short of breath even standing still, and she can’t run. And what does that look like, hurrying down the red carpet after her husband at a fundraiser? Sometimes, she despairs of Victor. He has no decorum.

  She slows her pace as they draw level with the next clump of reporters. This is where the interviews happen, and she has practiced the most endearing answers to a whole bunch of questions they might have for her. How much she loves children, and that’s why she and her husband support tonight’s event. How grateful she is to Prabal Gurung, who has provided these beautiful evening gowns they’re all wearing.

  “No way,” Victor growls. He reaches for her hand, and his grip is so tight she winces. With a grimace in the general direction of the press people, he waves them off. “Never mind that now, Viv. I need a drink.”

  There’s no way to extract herself without making a scene. She can only sidle past the hungry microphones with a regretful smile. Maybe she can come back later, when she has deposited Victor near the bar. Or maybe someone will seek her out, keen to get her thoughts on record. That happy little fantasy sustains her all the way into the darkened ballroom.

  “Let’s find our table.” Victor wends his way amongst the spindly, gilded chairs that are grouped around white-and-gold-covered round tables seating eight people each.

  Viv follows, letting her gaze wander. She needs to get the lay of the land, know who’s here, but not appear curious. It looks like not many guests have made it this far yet. Viv pushes away her envy at the thought of all those people giving the interviews she’s been denied. She spots Fern Monahan and her entourage in one corner. If the gossip is true, the pale young man by her side is her latest lover. Viv rolls her eyes. He looks barely half Fern’s age. But Viv doesn’t dare let her gaze linger. She’s been wary of Fern since the last Oscar party, where Viv spilled pink champagne down her ivory-colored dress, and the famous actress had chuckled at her expense. Victor keeps saying he wants to cast her in a movie soon. Viv hopes that never happens.

  Fortunately, Victor hasn’t looked in Fern’s direction. He’s zooming in on someone near the front, and now he makes a beeline for a table right before the stage, where a white-haired, balding man has just risen from his chair.

  “Harle!” Victor calls out.

  It’s Harlan Chow, his ruddy face creased in a smile. Viv hitches her smile back onto her face. This is the only reason they’re here tonight. Victor wants Harlan’s money. He needs a big backer for his outrageously expensive screenplay, and he needs Viv’s help with that, as always. They’ve paid through the nose for seats at the top table. The thought of mentioning the fifteen-thousand dollar charity check in an interview tonight has been cheering Viv up all week. Now it looks like she won’t get an audience for that story, or any other. Never mind. Menton, poitrine. Chin up, chest out. In her mind, Mademoiselle Pelier is shouting that phrase across the ballet studio.

  “Good to see you, Victor,” Harlan says.

  He’s in a good mood, and Viv relaxes. Harlan is already half sold on Victor’s project. They’ve been exchanging emails for a few weeks. Maybe her job tonight will be easier than anticipated. Switching on the charm for Victor’s budget isn’t one of Viv’s favorite pastimes. It always leaves her feeling used and dirty when rich, ugly men paw at her with their gaze, all under Victor’s eyes and with his full approval.

  Not that Harlan Chow is all that gross. Mostly he’s just boring. He pats her arm, and she beams at him.

  “Viv, sweetheart, you look lovely tonight.” She lets him kiss her cheek and hold her hand in his dry, warm ones while he gives Victor a wink. “You did very well there, my boy. Very well.”

  Victor preens. “Sure did, didn’t I?”

  The glance he gives Viv probably appears full of approval and fondness from the outside. But Viv knows her husband, and right now she could be an animated plastic doll for all he cares. His mind is on his next blockbuster, and the money they’ll make with it. He’s deliberating the strategy for the evening, and Viv features only as a pawn that will get him closer to his goal. Whether he finds her desirable is beside the point. Viv gets it; she doesn’t judge him. It’s her career too, after all. They make an efficient team.

  Viv married Victor because she’s ambitious, loves money, and wants the life he can give her. He knows that. Victor married Vivienne because of her market value in Hollywood. Growing up mostly in Europe, she’s exotic, and she’s a rarity – a classic beauty in her best years. He’s in love with her, in his own way. And he’s handsome enough – tall and slender, with a narrow face and angular features. She likes his round professor glasses and doesn’t mind the receding hairline. Both make him look distinguished and powerful beyond his thirty-eight years. He’s pretty good in bed, too.

  His eyes are calm now; his plan is going well. Viv can even feel the wetness of arousal start between her legs as his gaze lingers. They’ll make love into the early hours when they get home, she has no doubt. The thought of money makes Victor horny like nothing else.

  But right now, she’s playing second fiddle. Victor gives her a wink, pats her on the butt, and sits down. Turning his back on her, he focuses on Harlan. Viv sighs and takes a chair, too.

  She might as well not be here now. Victor won’t need her much tonight, after all. Could she slip away, maybe find one of those reporters and do a quick interview? Earlier, she saw that girl from E!Online out of the corner of her eye. But when Viv looks around she can’t locate her again. Ah well! Victor wouldn’t like her chasing the press, anyway. He’s made that clear enough.

  Viv flags down a liveried waiter and takes a glass of champagne from his tray. She doesn’t plan on eating anything tonight, so she’ll need to pace herself. Victor won’t be pleased if she starts acting drunk so early in the evening.

  As Viv takes tiny sips of champagne, she looks around. The tables are filling up, but nobody else has joined theirs yet. Those seats will have been bought by the real big wigs, and they all like a grand entrance, after having their photo taken out on the red carpet every which way. Viv tries not to be resentful.

  There’s nobody nearby that Viv is on speaking terms with. She recognizes most faces, but as much as she’d like to believe they recognize her too, she’s not brave enough to just walk up to them. What if they ignore her or don’t know who she is? She already has the uncomfortable feeling that some of them avoid her gaze on purpose. She gives herself a shake. Nonsense, why would they?

  Bored and a little uneasy, Viv reaches into her clutch, which is studded with semi-precious stones. She practically went onto her knees for it in front of Angelo, the designer who made this beauty for Dior and whom she first met at last year’s New York Fashion Week. He got her a sample just in time f
or tonight, months before the bag’s release. Viv paid through the nose for it, which Victor doesn’t know. He thinks she got it for free and even praised her for making such an excellent connection herself.

  Her iPhone, lipstick and credit cards are all that the little bag can hold. Viv pulls out the latest model phone, another release they got their hands on early. Hers and Victor’s match – Viv’s is pink, his gunmetal blue, with their initials engraved on the backs. It was Victor’s gift to them both on their one-year wedding anniversary a few weeks ago. The phone’s camera is amazing and has also replaced Viv’s compact mirror. She turns on the phone and brings up the camera app.

  Checking her face always calms Viv. Victor likes to tease her that she can’t go ten minutes without making sure her makeup is as it should be. “You’re your own biggest fan,” he sometimes says. Viv knows it’s not meant as a compliment. She doesn’t understand what’s wrong with being your own champion. Why not enjoy that she was born beautiful? But she’s not stupid enough to say that out loud. Other people find that attitude stuck up. Viv has learned that the hard way.

  Tonight, she worked extra hard on her looks. It took two hair and makeup people three hours to get her waist-long blonde hair into just the right, softly-layered shape, and the subtle, nude makeup look applied. For once, Victor didn’t think the bill for the stylists was excessive. “That night’s an investment in our future,” he said as he signed the invoice for their accountant a few days ago. Even more of a shame that he’s in such a camera-shy mood.

  Viv suppresses a smile as she studies her petal-shaped lips, accentuated with the expensive pearl-sheen lipstick, which, despite the champagne, looks untouched. Her large, sapphire-blue eyes sparkle, enhanced by the natural hues the Chanel makeup girls used. A mere hint of blush on her cheeks highlights her blemish-and-wrinkle-free skin.

  This is the perfect moment to commemorate the evening with a selfie. She tilts her face in a practiced move that will result in the best angle to admire it. Her too aquiline nose—her one flaw looks elegant this way. She hates that from the side it looks more like a beak and goes to great lengths to get her selfies just right. She’s just about to take the picture when a familiar face appears behind her in the little phone screen. At the next table, his features a little blurry in the gloomy ballroom, sits Tom Hanks with his wife.

  Viv glances to her left, where Victor and Harlan are still in animated conversation, not paying her the slightest attention. Usually, right about now, that would start to annoy her. But at the moment, buoyed by her own beauty, her spirits are high. She tilts her head again just right, making sure Tom’s profile is over her left shoulder. Then she takes a quick half dozen selfies.

  When she’s certain that one of them has turned out well she lowers the phone into her lap. It’s not exactly frowned upon to do selfies at charity events, and her Instagram followers love these kinds of posts, but she’d still rather not be observed as she amuses herself with her social media. Viv shifts around so that Victor can’t see her phone if he happens to look her way. After a fortifying sip of champagne, Viv opens Instagram and flicks through the possible filters.

  Victor doesn’t understand her obsession with the app. He doesn’t believe people care about the minutiae of a celebrity’s day-to-day life. “It’s boring shit; they have their own lives. They want glamour and gloss, not a picture of you in the grocery store.” He doesn’t get it, but Viv ignores him. She follows the biggest celebrities on Instagram, and the most interesting pictures are those that don’t look like an official photo shoot. But Viv makes sure that her fans still get the real glamour while she does day-to-day stuff. That’s the secret. Like tonight: There’s nothing fake about her selfie. This is her life. And people love to see behind the scenes.

  The filters help to make an ordinary photo special. Tonight, with all the make-up on, she doesn’t need a filter, but she’s so used to the process by now. She recently got caught adding filters to an outtake from a photo shoot that had already gone through the professional editing process. Someone called her out on it in the photo’s comments section, and she made a self-deprecating joke about the incident. Her fans like that she can make fun of herself, but the memory still makes Viv bite her lip in frustration.

  She’s tried to explain to Victor why she loves to tell stories about herself with Instagram pictures. “You’re in full control; you can show your fans what you want them to see,” she told him. “And you call the shots.” He looked almost angry at that, and Viv had given up. The thought that Viv, and not he as her husband and director, controls her narrative seemed to hit a nerve.

  She pushes the thought away. He’ll eventually thank her for keeping her fans engaged. Tonight, they’ll see her glamourous and radiant, surrounded by famous people in a beautiful setting. And it’s all for charity, so that’s an added bonus. Viv chooses her filter—called Helena, which makes her think of glamorous supermodels—then selects a heart and a kitty emoji as caption, adds the hashtag for the charity they’re here to support, and tags the Beverly Hills Hotel in the picture. Then she taps Share.

  For a moment, she watches the Like notifications from her nearly four-hundred-thousand followers start to pop up. But then she forces herself to turn off the phone. It won’t look good if she has it out for too long.

  Just as she slides the phone back into her clutch, Harlan leans forward in his chair and opens the button on his smoking jacket. He and Victor are shaking hands, and Harlan claps her husband on the shoulder. “Deal, my boy,” he says with a wide smile. Then he turns to Viv. “Now, then, Vivienne, how will you approach the biggest role of your career?”

  3

  Maria has claimed the best table in the little sushi restaurant, right at the back by the door to the tiny patio. A soft breeze blows in, fragrant with honeysuckle and the exotic plants the restaurant owners have planted in big flower boxes all around their little outdoor space.

  “Hello stranger.” She looks up with a smile, and Brad bends down to kiss her cheek. He gets a whiff of her perfume; soft and understated, it goes well with her Chanel suit and coiffured curls. These days, Maria looks every inch the lawyer’s wife from Brooklyn Heights, and only her short stature and ample bosom indicate her Italian heritage.

  As soon as he sits in the chair opposite, she takes his hands and studies his face with a frown. “So, what’s going on?” Her tone is stern. Maria isn’t into preambles.

  Brad groans. “Hi, Maria. Nice to see you too. I’m well, thanks for asking.” He extracts his hands from hers. “Can I at least order a beer before the inquisition starts?”

  Maria compresses her lips into a thin line of disapproval, but beckons the waiter, who hurries over. Brad orders a Kuronama. After all, it’s the weekend, and he’s already done his chores. It’ll be easier to get through lunch with a bit of liquid courage. Maria orders a macha latte.

  The waiter bows and goes to fill their orders, and Maria places her forearms on the table. She fixes Brad with a steady gaze. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “How’re you holding up? You look exhausted, are you sleeping?”

  He shrugs. “Not much, no.” Before he can say anything else, the waiter returns with his beer, and Brad takes a grateful swig. When he doesn’t volunteer anything more Maria decides to help matters along.

  “You wanna tell me what happened?” she asks. And Brad finds that he does, at least some of it. She’s stuck by him since they were pimply teenagers, more than once threatening to beat up guys twice her size for making fun of Brad, who was out in high school before it was cool. She deserves Brad’s confidence. And Maria has a knack for making him feel better.

  “We had a huge fight, and Aiden left. It was my fault.” The words come out tonelessly, and speaking them out loud for the first time hurts more than he’d imagined.

  Maria raises an eyebrow. “How is it your fault? And why does this have to be the end? You two have fought before, and always managed to reconcile.”

  “I…provoked this one. I ma
de him angry on purpose.” Brad’s throat feels like it closed up, and he has to force out the words. “I think I wanted him to leave,” he whispers at last.

  This has to sink in. Maria is silent for a good minute. “Why?” she finally asks.

  Brad shrugs. From here onward, there’ll be lies. “I don’t know.”

  He can’t tell her the real reason, he feels too ashamed. If Maria knew that Brad drove Aiden away by blaming him for destroying their lives, she will never think of him the same way again. Brad has never told anyone much about Aiden’s worsening bouts of depression and mania, the failed therapies and the strain the illness put on their relationship. Maria knows a little, and might suspect more than she lets on. But Brad never asked for her help, or anyone else’s. Aiden’s condition was always Brad’s problem to deal with. And he failed.

  He can’t tell Maria that their last fight, like so many before, started because of Aiden resenting Brad’s work and friends, a life he increasingly couldn’t be a part of anymore. Brad can’t tell her that it all got too much.

  Instead, he carries on with recounting the facts from the night two weeks ago. “I didn’t think he’d do it,” he croaks. “But he went into the bedroom, packed his clothes, and left.” The realization that all Aiden’s belongings fit into one carry-on bag still makes his heart hurt unbearably.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Maria sighs. Brad can feel tears sting his eyes. He hasn’t cried since that night, but now it’s close under the surface. Maria takes his hand again, and this time he doesn’t pull away.

  “Maybe, if you give it some time, you can still work this out?” she suggests, but no longer sounds like she believes it herself. When Brad doesn’t even bother to reply she asks, “Have you spoken to him since?”