Unbroken

by Lynne Connolly

  Around her stood white cones of various heights, rounded at the top, slightly slanted, like the essence of phalluses, their shape without the details, so the viewer could decide what they were—worshippers or indiscriminate cocks, ready to fuck her. A ring of them, three deep in places, in others, four or five. Outside that ring lay chaos. Sketches hung on the walls, haphazardly strewn, showing leering, laughing faces. Pieces of broken marble stood on the floor, mingled with shards of bronze, all, she guessed, carefully arranged although it looked as if a bomb had dropped, so that vaguely obscene shapes surrounded her. They pointed at her. She lay in an erotic pose, displaying her languid, teasing beauty.

  An impenetrable glass case separated her figure from the rest. A deep crack ran down the case from top to bottom. Just one.

  Terrible. Worse than she’d imagined. He’d shown her for what she was, an unreachable, ice-cased icon, disdainful of the real world around her. She thought he’d understood. She took a breath, then another one, deeper. And turned.

  “Is this what you think of me?”

  He opened his mouth, but she wouldn’t let him speak, didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

  “After what you did, after you seduced me, owned me? I couldn’t have given you more, and this—this is what you wanted? Fuck you, Zoltan. Fuck you to hell.”

  Without another word she strode out, head held high.

  Behind her, people applauded.

  * * * *

  Vashti went to her apartment but took her phone off the hook and only answered her cell phone when she recognised her agent’s ID on the screen.

  “Are you okay, Vashti? I heard about the fracas.”

  “Fine, Stella. Just fine.” She kept her voice steady. Stella was her agent, not her friend and if Stella thought Vashti was slipping, she’d find herself with the B jobs, not the A ones.

  Stella laughed. “It was staged, wasn’t it? He asked you to do that. Brilliant. If we don’t make the front pages with this one, they’re blind.”

  She didn’t want to talk about it any more. “So what’ve you got lined up for me?”

  “A Vogue cover and a cosmetics shoot. The photographers will get rid of any scars with computer graphics until you’ve had the plastic surgery. Have the doctors told you when your leg will be ready?”

  Not ‘healed,’ but ‘ready.’ “The glass went deep, so the scarring will take more time to clear up, but I should be okay next season.”

  Stella’s voice lowered. “Get this, sweetheart. Gaultier says he’ll have you anyway. You might even make scars sexy.”

  She sighed. That was more than Zoltan did. He’d rendered her perfect, no scars, no individuality. “You never know.” She’d bet out there somewhere there was a sicko who got off on scars.

  Someone hammered on her door and she was so worked up, she jumped and her heart went into double time. “Jesus, fuck!”

  “What’s wrong, darling?”

  Her heart pounded and she gasped for breath, covering the phone for a moment to regain her composure. She pulled her hand away and forced a semblance of normality. “Probably the salad I ordered.”

  She said goodbye and hung up. It was true she’d called for food, but not salad. Pizza. Her stay in the hospital had left her with an unreasonable urge for junk food. If Stella knew that, she’d hit the roof.

  Fuck Stella. With barely a wince Vashti got to her feet and walked to the door, checking through the spy hole. Shit, Zoltan, holding a package. Since when had he become a pizza delivery boy?

  Because the confrontation was unavoidable, she opened the door. The scent of toasted cheese wafted around her, but she’d lost her appetite.

  Zoltan pushed his way in and dropped the pizza box on her coffee table. “Come back with me.”

  She backed up. “Why?”

  He stepped closer. “Because I want you to.”

  “Not good enough,” she snapped.

  He spread his hands wide in a placatory gesture. “There’s a car waiting for us downstairs. Please, Vashti.”

  She turned away. “My food will get cold.”

  “I’ll get you another one. I’ll buy you caviar. Anything you want. You need to see this, Vashti. I need you to see it. Afterwards, if you want, I won’t bother you anymore. Fuck, I’ll put a public apology in all the papers if you want me to.”

  “Better not. They think we staged our little scene. I just got off the phone with my agent.”

  “I know. Mine told me something similar.”

  At the agony in his voice, she paused, stopped the insult that rose to her lips. He couldn’t have manufactured that, surely. She was the actress, not him.

  He spread his palms in a gesture of submission, his pale eyes begging her. “Please. You didn’t see it all. There are two rooms, not one.”

  She had to be an idiot, but she couldn’t walk away. It would hurt, but she had to do it. She had to see that second room.

  “The public have gone. Will you come?”

  “Okay.”

  The only shoes she had handy were the ones she’d kicked off as soon as she’d walked through the door, the stilettos that hurt so badly. Oh well, she could stand another hour or so in them. Then she’d throw them away. She never wanted to see them again. Or the outfit she wore. No reminders of this night.

  “If I go with you, you’ll never bother me again?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “All right, I’ll come.”

  She slid her feet into her shoes and followed him out, grabbing her jacket on the way. Glancing in the mirror, she saw her hair wasn’t exactly where it was supposed to be so she took a few seconds to take out the pins and the clasp, and pull the mass back into a simple ponytail instead. These days, when everyone carried a camera phone, she was never safe outside her apartment. Something else she was sick of.

  A car waited outside. She’d hoped he’d driven, so they wouldn’t have to face each other, but he had a big, chauffeur-driven limo. However, it was a substantial car and they could sit on either side of the wide back seat and not touch. He watched her all the way, but she stared out the window and refused to communicate with him.

  The crowds had gone from the Guggenheim, but the museum gleamed in the display lights, like a spaceship waiting for takeoff. When they alighted, a security man opened a side door, and they went in.

  Vashti saw the spiral, previously thronged with people, now empty, eerie in its loneliness. She could see the pieces better. But all her thoughts were with one piece. She started up the graceful curve, not looking around and he walked by her side this time. A security man followed them at a discreet distance, so they weren’t really alone, although it felt like it.

  By the time they reached the top, her feet were throbbing, but more alarmingly, so was her leg. She cursed herself for not taking the time to find flatter shoes. She’d have to stay in bed for days after this.

  Better to get it over with now, see the horror again, then go. Her heart pounded wildly, her palms grew clammy, sticky when she clenched her fists. She deliberately relaxed them. He mustn’t know how nervous this made her, though she couldn’t be sure if it was the prospect of seeing that terrible installation again, or being alone with the man she wanted above all others, but couldn’t have.

  His voice calmed her, though it shouldn’t have. “Wait here.”

  He murmured to the guard, and she caught the word, “alone.” Then she heard his footsteps on the polished wooden floor.

  “Do you want me to tell you about it? Talk you through it?”

  Agony streaked through her when she saw the perfect figure behind the glass with a single, deep crack. “Why did you do it?”

  “This is what I saw that first day. People want you, people covet you and your lifestyle. They act busy around you but you remain serene and perfect. They don’t know you, do they?”

  She shook her head. “I hate it. It looks like people worshipping a god. A false god.”

  “You’re right. Vashti�
�”He broke off and she looked at him instead of the sculpture that hurt her so much.

  “But I showed you more.”

  He hadn’t seen her under the gloss, hadn’t known how deeply she’d let him into her heart.

  “Come with me.” He took her through an open doorway into the second room. Blinded by tears of fury and hurt, she hadn’t seen it the first time.

  She heard his voice.

  “This is you. It’s the inner sanctum. It’s what you really are.”

  Numbly, she accepted what she saw. There she lay, but this time in the more upright pose of Manet’s Olympe. She regarded the world directly, open eyed, no languorous looks of seduction, just a confrontational stare. Let them look.

  Around the figure lay—sketches. Carefully framed in plain wood lay the sketches he’d made of her. Nobody had ever seen Zoltan’s preliminary work before, only drawings deliberately created for show. But this was—real. White walls and floorboards emphasised the simplicity of his statement. No glass case, nothing. And her scars were there. He’d carefully delineated each one. This figure wasn’t as highly finished as the one in the other room. And it was life-sized, not larger than life.

  “It’s so beautiful.” She hadn’t even realised she’d spoken until she heard her voice.

  “It’s you.”

  He’d created this figure with love. It poured from every smooth line, every tousled strand of hair. “This is what I saw. You. The woman I fell in love with. You are there in every line. If I lose you, then I have this, but it’s a poor substitute for reality.”

  She read the single word decorating the plinth. Unbroken. She choked and turned into his arms. “Then why did you push me away?“

  His hands closed around her back, held her tightly. “Because I panicked. Because I behaved in an incredibly stupid way. I was scared. Thought I was getting in too deep and it would change the way I worked. A few hours after you left, I called you, but you’d already gone. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was—am. How stupid. Vashti, if you believe nothing else, believe me now. I love you. Always and forever. Whatever you do. You can denounce me to the press, trash me to everyone you meet, and I’ll still love you.”

  She sagged, no longer able to support herself, but it wasn’t just the surge of relief and love that overwhelmed her.

  He caught her and swung her off her feet. Alarm coloured his voice. “Fuck, Vashti, you’re bleeding. What have you done?”

  She looked down at her pants. Blood stained one leg, a mere dark mark on the dark fabric, hardly noticeable. But he’d noticed.

  “I had an operation. I couldn’t walk properly because the scar tissue was pulling at the muscle, so they fixed it for me. I had to go back two weeks ago for a few fine adjustments, and they said I should walk okay once it’s healed. After that, I can have the cosmetic surgery. I have a series of operations coming up in the next twelve months.” Dammit, she hadn’t meant to cry.

  “Don’t cry, love, please don’t cry.” He touched his lips to her forehead and it felt perfect, triggering a release of such dimensions it made her cry harder, but for different reasons this time. “I’m taking you to the hospital?”

  “No, please no. Not the hospital, please, no.”

  “I’ll be there with you all the time. I won’t leave you, I promise.”

  But she couldn’t bear it, wouldn’t go back until she had to. “I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid, but I don’t want to go. Please, don’t make me.”

  He cradled her closer, his body transmitting warmth and comfort. “I won’t. At least, not unless it’s serious.” He glanced at the stain, and following his gaze, she was relieved to see it wasn’t much bigger. “I can’t promise, not until I’ve seen it.”

  She couldn’t ask any more of him. It wouldn’t be fair. “Okay. If it’s serious. But don’t leave me there.”

  He strode out of the room and walked past the guard. Zoltan carried her right down the slope, out of the building and into the car, letting the driver close the door on them before he got in behind the wheel. Zoltan cradled her against him all the way home, soothing her, kissing away her tears.

  “Who went with you for your operation?”

  “No one.” She answered in a dull, careless voice, but he saw right through it.

  “On your own. I know how scared hospitals make you. Oh, sweetheart, you shouldn’t have had to bear it alone. I’m so sorry.”

  He knew her weakness and didn’t condemn her for it. Everyone else had, or had brushed her concerns aside. She could love him for that alone.

  “They said the wound might break open if I did too much. I shouldn’t have worn those stupid heels, but I didn’t want you to know.”

  “Was it hot in the hospital?”

  She laughed, the sound shaky, but he’d remembered her throwaway line earlier about going to hell. “Yes, it was.”

  The car drew up outside her apartment block and after the driver opened the door, Zoltan took her inside and carried her to the elevators. He didn’t put her down all the way to her apartment and she let him, wondering at his strength. He took her key, opened the door and carried her through to the bedroom. Despite her protests, he placed her on the ivory throw covering the bed. She rolled so she wouldn’t stain the cover, but he came back from the bathroom with a couple of towels, and laid her leg on it. Typical man, she thought, and was glad it was this man.

  Grim-faced, he helped her out of her trousers and paled when he saw the heavy bandage her outfit had covered. “The blood has seeped through all this.”

  “The stitches came out yesterday.”

  He unwrapped the bandages, handling her as gently as if she’d been made of fine porcelain. When he’d uncovered the wound, he stared at it in silence. He swallowed. “Christ.”

  He got up and fetched a bowl of warm water and several cotton swabs from the bathroom. He didn’t hurt her once as he cleaned her. The damage hadn’t gone deep, thank God, she saw with relief.

  “There are bandages in the bathroom. They told me to re-dress my leg once a day.”

  He nodded, got the dressings, and bound her leg carefully in a lighter bandage. When he’d finished, he got rid of the bowl and the mess, and came back to sit on the bed.

  He gazed at her, his eyes soft and loving. “Do you have to go back? Do you need the cosmetic surgery to be healthy or to make you look good?”

  “I need the procedures if I want to carry on with my modelling career. They can get rid of the scars that way, but now the thick tissue is gone, there’s no damage to my health. If I leave it much longer, it’ll be harder for the surgeons.”

  “You said once that you had enough money to live on. So why do it?”

  Tears stung her eyes but she refused to cry. She’d cried enough. “Because I don’t have anything else. It’s all I know how to do.”

  “Oh, love!” Careful not to disturb her leg, he lay on the bed and drew her into his arms. “After what I did to you I know I have no rights, but consider it, just think about what I have to say. You don’t like modelling, do you?”

  She shook her head. “It’s something I was physically suited for. It paid so well I couldn’t refuse. And when I was little, my mother pushed me into it. In the last few years I wanted to take it easier, and I turned down a few things. She was yelling at me about that when the car crashed. And yes, she was driving.”

  “Then give it up. Stop modelling. Do what you really want.”

  She had considered that at one time. During that magical time with him when everything had seemed possible. “I want to go to college and take a degree.”

  “In England?”

  “What?” She lifted her eyes to stare into his face.

  He’d lost the haunted look, but anxiety still tightened his sharp features. “Would you consider moving in with me? If you don’t want to go to England, we’ll stay here. I can work anywhere.” He kissed her, just a gentle kiss to her lips, but he moaned softly when their flesh connected. “Please, Vashti. I’ll do anyt
hing if you’ll give me another chance.”

  “Would you give up your art for me?”

  He paled. “If you want me to.”

  She stroked his cheek and he caught her finger in his mouth, sucked it in and caressed it with his tongue, making her shiver. “No. No, I don’t want you to. You love it. It’s what you do. I was so envious of you, finding something like that.” She owed him nothing but the truth. “I couldn’t take that away from you. But modelling isn’t something I need to do. I don’t even want to do it anymore. I’ll go with you. I want to.”

  Silence fell, except for the soft sound as he took her mouth in a deeper, harder kiss and the agony of the last three months dissolved into mist.

  When he could tear himself away, he helped her to undress and get into bed. Then he stripped quickly, before sliding under the sheets to hold her and kiss her with a hunger she shared, delving deep like a man dying of thirst.

  When he drew back, she stared up at him, frowning.

  “You stopped?”

  He cupped her cheek. “I’ve put you through a lot today. You should sleep.”

  “If you don’t make love with me, I’ll kill you.” She said it calmly, but the sentiment still made him laugh.

  “And I’ll die, but I could hold out until the morning, now I know you’ll be there.”

  “Do it now.”

  He looked down at her, his loving regard making her feel beautiful. For the first time in her life, someone knew her completely, and loved her for what she was. She needed nothing else, not now.

  “That second room is a love poem, told the only way I know how.”

  Tears misted her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry, not at this moment of her greatest happiness. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” he said against her mouth, then opened it with a flick of his tongue and tasted her deeply.

  Still kissing her, he mounted her and she opened for him. He drew back, glanced down and ensured her leg was comfortable, slightly bent to relieve any tension. He adjusted it so he wouldn’t touch it when he made love to her. The evidence of his concern melted her even more.