by Anne Whitney
He shrugs. “They’re fairly wealthy, yeah. Which is great when you’re a stupid kid, but when you’re trying to make a name for yourself, it ends up being a whole lot of extra baggage. You end up attracting a lot of socialite obsessed hangers-on, or sneers about how you didn’t really work for your art, you just got daddy to sort it out for you. Or curators put you in a gallery so they can brag about the bad boy stripper heir and all the family strife it causes.”
“Sorry,” I say, not sure what else I can say.
“Come on, it’s not your fault. Besides, in the grand scheme of worldwide problems, mine are just ridiculous...” He shrugs. “And I can’t lie; it has helped my work. People pay attention. Plus, the apartment’s owned by my dad, so unlike Dan Condy, I can afford to be a full-time artist. I haven’t resorted to theft, either, thank you very much.”
“Do I even want to know what he stole?”
“Dan’s specialty is full scale recreations of crime scenes. The more violent the better. He likes to use real-life photos as his basis, but it’s sort of illegal to pay off police officers for the photographic evidence from murder scenes.”
I gasp. “Oh god, that’s awful! That is definitely not art.”
Fitz crosses his arm and smirks. “Everything is art,” he says. “Life, death, love, hate, beauty, nature, pain. This world you live in is art and we are its artists.”
The desire to roll my eyes is strong, but instead I just bite my lip and force a look of pure nothingness. I wonder if he forgets my life before New York.
Pain is not art. Pain is having someone who should love you beat you when you mess up the pasta for dinner. Pain is suffering because someone died and left you to be the victim for twenty years of screaming and taunting and accusations. My life is not art. My world is nothing more than the poor circumstances that breed helpless victims.
“Mare?” he says as I stare into space.
I ignore him, the nickname still strange to my ears. I’m lost in too deep of a thought for this.
“Marina, what are you doing?”
With that, I turn to face him. Except I don’t stay seated. I rise to my feet and stalk toward the bathroom. I hear him on my heels and his hand is there to stop me from slamming the door.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I’m not the girl you think I am,” I tell him. “I’m not some girl you can mold into your perfect little artist girlfriend. I can’t draw, I can’t paint, I can’t sculpt or anything like that.”
His look is one of utter confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, leaning toward me. Fitz’s dark hair falls into his eyes. I stare at him as he bats it away with one of his long, lithe fingers, a motion that sets me even more on edge.
I grab a chunk of my hair, still so foreign to me, and say, “This is not me. These clothes? Not me, either. This world is not me one bit and we both know that. There is no point in trying to delude ourselves into thinking that anything between us can or ever will work. It’s like putting a tiger with a piglet and asking them to build a teepee.”
“I really don’t get that analogy,” he murmurs passively.
“That’s not the point,” I growl, trying once more to close the door.
Fitz pries the door open as I sprawl back against the vanity. Automatically the fight or flight reflex kicks in. I’ve always been the girl who runs and hides, afraid to stand up for myself. I claw against the counter as he stops and holds up his hands defensively. It’s the gesture of meaning no harm. It’s too late. My heart is already pumping hard in my chest.
He lets out a little laugh and says, “I have no idea what got into your mind that says we can’t be together. I didn’t even know we were together in the first place.”
My heart, so yearning and confused, dies a little, shriveling up in my chest as melodrama races through my veins.
“But even if we were together,” Fitz continues, “I don’t see you as being Mary. I see you as being the sweetest girl who has ever wandered into my life. I saw it in you when I first saw you eating at my show, and I felt in my heart that I had to help you.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I whisper.
Taking another step closer, he says to me, “I don’t know what it is about you, but you’re the type of girl I’d never date and the girl I so want to one day fall in love with all at the same time.”
The wall stops my backward progress with a soft thud. I watch Fitz as he rocks back on his heels and his muscles relax after being clenched with tension. His hair falls back over his face, the golden sun-kissed skin almost glowing in the harsh light of the vanity.
“I’m never going to be some art girl,” I tell him. “You’re just going to have to accept that before this goes any further.”
Fitz doesn’t say anything, but the silence is deafening and telling. As is the wry smile that pops up over his rosy lips.
I brush the short locks behind my ears and wait for eternity to sweep me away. I let my eyes drift from his face, his sharp jaw and high cheekbones gleaming, down to the buttoned shirt left popped open to show the dark swirls of tattooed designs and words mixed with the soft wisps of hair over his chest.
Tentatively, I take a step toward him. I’m quivering with the movement, knees shaking, heart palpitating. Then the moment unravels in one burst of electricity. He wraps his hands around my waist and pulls me closer until our lips meet. I stretch to reach him, grabbing tufts of his hair in my hands in order to keep the hold.
Then it hits me - what art is to me. It’s that moment when I realize what love means and what it can be, what love might offer if this truly is the man for me. It’s looking past the strange, looking deep into someone’s soul. As our skin melds into one being, it’s like I can see who Fitz is. Not some trust fund kid, not some pretentious artist.
I can feel his heart racing through my lips, the rhythm soon matching my own frantic pace. The musk of his cologne and scent hits my nose. He lifts me up with one fell swoop as his hair dusts across my eyes, dropping me down on top of the vanity.
Fitz is my art and I am the artist. Each touch is the stroke of a brush on a canvas, each kiss is the molding of a pot, each deep breath is the sight of something new and exciting.
He pulls away and I gasp in desperation.
“Not tonight,” he murmurs in my ear, leaving a trail of kisses down the side of my neck and along my bared collar bone. “As much as I want to, we can’t do it tonight.”
“Why not?” I say softly, tipping my head back as each little kiss lights a fire under my skin.
“Because we have to go see my agent at 8am.”
His mouth pulls away, followed by his hands slowly dancing over my knees. That wry smirk is still there, my lipstick smeared lightly over his face. I open my mouth to protest, but he presses his finger to my lips and shushes me.
With that, he turns away, leaving me sitting beside the sink, just as bewildered and strange as ever.
“Damn it,” I say to myself.
But at least now I know the meaning of passion.
CHAPTER 16.
Fitz’s agent has kept us waiting in his office for a while now. Before he could get down to business, his receptionist barged into the room with an emergency regarding another artist, and he dashed away to sort it out. We can hear him through the walls trying to calm someone down over the phone. I have no idea how he’s managed to remain so calm and patient with this panicking client, who he has been talking to for well over 20 minutes.
“Jeez,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Artists are drama queens. No offense.”
“Hey, it takes time and effort to outdo Derek in the drama queen stakes,” he replies, pouting. “Nellie’s incredibly talented but she’s very... high-maintenance.”
“What kind of art does she make?” I ask. “Farmyard animals preserved in jars?”
“Nah, that’s been done to death.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“I wasn’t.”
Fitz hums contentedly as he runs his fingers across the shaved parts of my head and I press into his touch like a pet eager to be stroked. While he may say that he likes me as I am, I’m reasonably sure he prefers this haircut. Having his hands explore my locks in such a manner does make me like it a little more.
While I do genuinely like my hair and the seemingly never-ending supply of clothes Derek brings over to the apartment, I know that they’re not me. When I’m dressed to the nines, I feel like a tourist, exploring some bright new world from a safe distance, knowing I can one day leave it and return to my previous state. Even though I don’t know that for sure - news coverage of my ‘kidnapping’ continues, but with decreasing air-time and column inches - I decide to approach being Mary Fenton like an actress, turning off the airs and graces once in the sanctuary of the apartment I am coming to think of as home. At least this way I feel much less guilty about things. This isn’t a performance, it’s acting. Acting like this also gives me the freedom to be bolder.
I may as well enjoy myself and have a little fun with it all, I thought to myself as I pulled together my outfit this morning - a coral colored nylon dress similar to those worn by figure skaters, or so Derek told me. Not only is the dress incredibly short but it clings to my body and the thin halter straps tied behind my neck leave my arms and back fully exposed. Thanks to stress, work and living with a gym bunny with the world’s most irregular meal times, I have slimmed down enough to pull off something so tight that it looks as if it’s been painted on. The bruises are gone and this is my way of celebrating.
And if the outfit happened to make Fitz’s eyes bulge and constantly wander across my body, then that’s simply an added bonus.
It’s not my fault that the dress is too skimpy to wear a bra with.
Fitz, who for once is wearing a fully buttoned up shirt, runs his hand down my shaved nape and falls to my uncovered back. I shiver with anticipation, reveling in the knowledge that I of all people can provoke such obvious desire in a man like him. Part of me wants things to move quickly toward more embraces and frantic undressing, but I know I’m not quite ready yet. I want to cling to the shreds of normalcy we still have.
“We should go on a date,” I announce. “A real date.”
“I like the sound of that,” he tells me, one eyebrow raised. “I know this really cool dance company who does performances on Friday nights. Very innovative, groundbreaking stuff. Really pushes the genre boundaries of...”
“No,” I interrupt him. “Nothing artsy or boundary pushing in any way. I’m talking about dinner and a movie or a walk in the park. Something normal.”
“Normal?” He scrunches his nose at the word. “Everyone does normal. What’s so interesting about everyone else? I think you deserve better than ‘normal’, Marina.”
“I’ve never done the dating thing before, so I want to give it a shot. Besides, nothing else we’ve done has been normal in any way. Remember how I met you for the first time.”
“How could I forget?” He grins devilishly. “I was going to say I didn’t see you complaining about that, but that’s not exactly true. Ah, your panicky face. Completely irresistible.”
“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” I say huffily.
I see no reason to be ashamed of being normal. I’m nothing extraordinary myself and not everybody has to lead an extraordinary life full of adventure and scandal. I had enough to deal with as it was. Surely if Fitz likes me just the way I am, then he can live with normal?
“Hey,” he whispers, scraping his chair closer to mine. “You could never be normal to me. You’re far too special for that.”
His lips meet my hairline, where he sucks gently at the tender skin there. I think about him littering my pale skin with bite-marks of ownership and shiver.
“Okay,” he says, smiling against my neck. “It’s a date. A nice normal meal and no pretentious asshole artists. Well, except for yours truly.”
“I can live with that,” I laugh. We move to kiss but that’s the exact moment Jack decides to re-enter the office, spouting apologies for the delay. We pull apart, grinning from ear to ear.
“That took a lot longer than expected,” Jack says as he sits down at his desk opposite the pair of us. “I’m not kidding. Nellie actually uttered the phrase ‘I cannot art under these conditions’. Can you believe that?”
“Oh, so it’s not just Fitz that uses that phrase,” I say, unable to resist.
“Ouch, Mary!” He clutches his chest as if wounded and flops in his chair, and I laugh.
“So.” Jack leans forward across his desk and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Am I reading too much into this, or has your working relationship blossomed into something else, Fitz?”
We look at each other and smile knowingly, which is enough confirmation for Jack.
“How very romantic!” he exclaims. “The artist and his assistant, making beautiful work together.”
“Well,” Fitz says. “It’s in the planning stages, so don’t go around telling everyone just yet.” He takes my hand again. “But we’re pretty happy.”
We’re pretty happy, I repeat in my mind. This will work. We can do this.
“It’s always good to see one of my team happy,” Jack says. “And your best work is done in the throes of extreme emotion. It’ll make a change to have that emotion be love.”
Love. Could we make it that far?
Happiness is one thing, but love is a terrifying new level that has been out of bounds to me my whole life. I don’t even know if I’m capable of feeling love. My dad never demonstrated any kind of warmth or sweetness with me unless he was pretending to apologize for berating and bullying me. For far too long I thought such displays were how love worked. Love was conditional and a powerful weapon to be used for devastating purposes, according to my dad.
The intense and surreal circumstances of my newfound courtship with Fitz didn’t follow the pattern I expected romance to follow from the flickers of films and books I had watched secretly as a child. I’m certain that I like Fitz dearly and I most assuredly desire him, another daunting new experience for me, but I don’t even know what love is meant to feel like, so how can I know if I love him? I recall the stirrings I felt as he fell to my feet the first night we met. Fitz is a man who uses emotions as his tools and he can wield them to dynamic effect. He has immense potential to break hearts, including mine.
“Speaking of your work,” Jack continues. “How’s the big gallery piece coming? Any snippets you can reveal to me.”
“You know that’s not how I work,” Fitz replies.
“Come on, you’ve have to give me something. This isn’t a back-alley dive show. This is the biggest modern art event in the country. Mary, can you give me any hints?”
“Sorry,” I say. “He hasn’t told me anything about it.”
“What? You’re not even sharing it with your assistant and girlfriend? That’s cold.”
“I still need to figure out a few things,” Fitz explains. “It may require some outside assistance. Haven’t decided yet.”
“Ah, a double act, maybe? And who will be your partner?”
Jack’s eyes fall on me. He doesn’t even try to hide his lecherous expression. I can practically feel his gaze on my breasts and I suddenly regret my fashion choice.
Come on, I reason. It’s not your fault or the dress’
s fault he’s a pervert.
“Mary doesn’t do performance,” Fitz says forcefully, taking my hand and holding it on his lap.
“But you yourself said it, Fitz. She has amazing potential. You’re a very beautiful woman, Mary.”
I purse my lips and give him my best scowl. He continues talking as if only my body sits here and not my face.
“The performance scene really hasn’t had a passionate lovers duo since the days of Ulay and Abramovic. You could really fill a gap in the market, one that I know many are dying to see filled.”
“Mary doesn’t do performance,” Fitz repeats, making sure every word is emphasized as much as possible. “She’s not comfortable with it and that’s that. She does her own thing.”
“Yeah, but pottery’s really considered pretty old fashioned. Not really attention grabbing, big selling stuff. Fitz’s work isn’t exactly marketable, but it grabs hold of you in a totally unique way. If you want my advice as a professional, Mary, I’d tell you to ditch the pots and start working with the body.”
I should get out of this room now, I decide, but I don’t want to leave Fitz here and I refuse to be bullied by a leering old man and made to feel guilty because of it. Fitz is as tense as I am, stern-faced and ready to snap.
“Thanks for the advice, my friend” he says, each word dripping in sarcasm. “We have a schedule to keep to today and we’re already running late thanks to you, so unless you have anything else you want to discuss, I think Mary and I will be leaving now. Thanks for your time.”
We stand up in unison and head toward the door.
“Think about it,” Jack says jovially. “The pair of you together, naked as the day you were born, on the floor of the American, surrounded by the art world elite. You could make a lot of money doing that.”
“Goodbye, Jack.” Fitz opens the door, letting me leave first.
“You still a virgin, Mary?” Jack asks, yelling loud enough for his receptionist and several people at nearby desks to hear and turn to face us. “The end of innocence on the gallery floor? Hell, I’d watch that!”
