Authors: Roberta Latow
Dendre thought her arrogant, this well-born daughter of a Washington Senator. It was not gossip but fact that she was wealthy in her own right from old family money that allowed her to live as she pleased, do anything she chose to with her life. At this time, that seemed to be being Gideon Palenberg’s lover and muse. As Dendre sat alone, facing the reality of Adair Corning, she came to realise that the young and sensuous art historian had everything Gideon admired, wanted, and had missed out on in his wife as well as in his brief sexual liaisons. Adair was the whole package, the entire ball of string, and Gideon was in love with this young woman whom he had brought into his home and their family life.
All right, now she had faced it! Dendre’s sigh was deep and troubled as she drew a curtain in her mind to block out what she had just seen. Dendre had always been brilliant at ignoring the more unpleasant intrusions into her life.
When she returned to her kitchen she saw Gideon surrounded by two of the girls and Adair. Adam was playing his flute. Gideon loved his daughters. He saw so much of himself in them that it was a joy to be with them. Yet he could be stern with them too when it was called for. Now he was caressing Pieta’s cheek. Amber picked up his hand and kissed it before wrapping his arm around her waist and leaning against him. It was a moment of tenderness that seemed to fill the room. But then, anything Gideon did always filled the room.
The happy party of people didn’t see Dendre return or if they did they didn’t acknowledge it. She watched as Gideon unwound himself from his daughters and, taking Adair by the hand, drew her tight against him. He stroked her hair and gazed briefly into her eyes. Dendre saw a spark of excitement in her husband’s – lust for Adair. She ignored it and once more told herself he would never leave her. She was the mainstay of his life.
Because the girls were used to seeing Adair on their father’s arm and in their lives, they took it as quite normal that he should embrace her. They were hardly naive about their father and the other women, who, for rather long periods of time, had drifted in and out of their lives. Rather they, like him, were charmed by Adair. She was an example to them of the chic and polish their mother ignored and most girls would like to have. Pieta, the youngest, was openly adoring of Adair; Daisy, at twenty-two, was dazzled by her youth and intelligence; while Amber, the eldest at twenty-four, saw her as the sophisticated woman she herself aspired to be.
The Palenberg girls loved their mother; she was home to them, ran their lives in the same way as Dendre’s mother had once run hers. But they were, too, their father’s daughters and more like him than their mother in every way. They had inherited fame and fortune and were able to go out into the world with everything their mother and their father never had when they were young. Interesting girls, they each in their individual way intended to make their mark on the world as their father had, as Adair was doing. It was understandable they should be happy for her to be in their lives.
‘Lunch is ready,’ announced Dendre, and the group dispersed towards the dining room.
As she dropped home-made pasta into boiling water, Dendre felt once again in control of her happiness. Gideon and the girls were waiting to be nourished by the lady of the house. She smiled, remembering her adage, ‘A fling is not a wife’.
Gideon stood by her side to remove the scarf from Dendre’s head and rearrange the strands of her hair. She turned to face her husband, leaned forward and kissed him. He picked up a tea towel from the kitchen counter, gently wiped the perspiration from her face and affectionately caressed her shoulder. He slipped his hand under the strap of her bathing suit and caressed her naked breast, then her bottom. He had always liked her body but had stopped doing portraits of her long ago when the passion had gone out of his love for her.
He stepped a few paces away from his wife. Gideon felt in himself that aura of joy, excitement and powerful virility that he wore like a king wears his royal robe. He wanted to feel those things more intensely and Adair, the sex life they had together, her intelligence, gave that to him – not his wife and her pasta. Dendre gave him something else, domesticity, the enemy of the creative process, and it was slowly choking him to death.
‘Slaving over food all day in this heat … why?’
Dendre was smart enough not to tell him ‘for you’.
‘Where’s Kitty and Yukio? I suppose you gave them the day off?’
‘No,’ answered Yukio.
Gideon turned to see him and Kitty, Dendre’s house staff, enter the kitchen followed by his own assistants.
‘We’ve been putting up a dining pavilion on the beach. The table’s set, the wine is cold, and we’ve come to tell you lunch is served.’ Everyone reached for a serving dish to carry back to the beach.
Gideon was delighted. He liked nothing better than dining with his extended family under a roof of woven reed mats set up by the water’s edge. It would be one of those long, leisurely lunches after which they would lie on the sand or walk along the beach. The added bonus was that today Adair was here. He intended to disappear down the beach with her, for them to swim in the ocean together, have sex in the water and lie in one another’s arms at the water’s edge letting the waves wash
over them. He was besotted with Adair. They were besotted with each other.
For several seconds he contemplated his wife. Her body language was subtle, shy. There was about it a youthful vigour, a certain overt coolness that suggested the fire that burnt within. It was still attractive to him for the way she used it. Not a beautiful face but an interesting one. Fascinating to paint for the hidden depths of her character, but it had always been her selfless devotion and love for him and the girls, her complete submission to Gideon, his fame and fortune, that had kept their marriage strong. He was her life. Once he had loved that. Now he hated it.
Gideon carried the massive bowl of pasta down to the pavilion. The heat and humidity were still oppressive but they were dining three feet from the water’s edge and the light breeze, the sound of the waves rolling near their feet, gave some relief. Dendre took her seat at the foot of the table, Gideon the head, and luncheon commenced.
Dendre looked down the length of the table presided over by her husband. He looked so young, so vital, the air electric with his personality. He could be so very amusing, and was during lunch, managing to raise laughter all around. Art world stories kept tumbling out. Adam played his flute. And Adair! She shimmered with beauty and sensuality and wore her swimsuit and her charm like a matador his cape. Some people from The Pines, the community of houses further down the beach, were walking along the water’s edge and asked politely, and with some awe at seeing the great man, if they might take a photograph of the lunch party. To Dendre’s surprise Gideon gave his consent and asked if they would send him a print. They bubbled over with delight.
Replete with food, wine and good cheer, most of the party fell asleep on the sand under beach umbrellas. Adair and Gideon set off on their walk down the beach. It was dusk before they returned to the pavilion where Dendre was serving tea and cakes. Their long absence from the party caused not the least embarrassment to Gideon’s wife or the others having tea. They were used to his appearances and disappearances.
The sound of the sea plane circling the house on the sand
dunes above the pavilion curtailed tea for Adair. There were hurried goodbyes, kisses from some of the guests, and a thank-you to Dendre for another splendid feast. All three Palenberg girls accompanied Adair and Gideon across the narrow strip of island to the bay where the plane was waiting to take her back to New York.
On the plane Adair slipped into a dreamy state, a half sleep, where she could conjure up visions of the sexual encounters she and Gideon had shared that day in his studio and on the beach. The drone of the plane’s engine lulled her into desire for more. She tingled with excitement, felt a wave of sexual desire course through her. Adair wanted to come again, right there and then, in a copious and powerful orgasm.
Gideon could bring her to moments of such exquisite joy that coming down from the heights was not easy. So she relived every moment of their day’s sexual encounters, coming and coming again in the darkness of the cockpit. She bit into the back of her hand to stifle a scream of pleasure, her body tensed, she held her breath and came once more, and it was over. At last she was down from that rarefied place, sexual nirvana. Having a magnificent orgasm without Gideon was a kind of reassurance that she was not dependent on him to reach such erotic peaks.
He was the most powerful man she had ever known. He ate his women up and spat them out without even knowing what he was doing, and Adair had no intention of being used like that. He had only one true love, one real passion: his work. Adair and Gideon had talked about this and he’d admitted it was true. All the women in the world could be sacrificed at the altar of his creativity.
She laughed in the darkness of the plane. She was as strong a woman as he was a man. Together they fed each other’s lust and intelligence, revelled in their independence and understood each other’s work as no other person before them had. For them the thrill of the male-female chase would always be on. It was inspiring and a little dangerous because they were playing with high stakes: the erotic, love and super-egos.
Dendre was, of course, sitting at table number one on the ground floor of the Guggenheim Museum. The museum had never looked more splendid, more vital, than it did tonight, hung with no artist’s work but her husband’s. The Guggenheim was honouring Gideon Palenberg with a retrospective of his life’s work: painting, sculpture, collage, assemblage. It had taken three years for the museum to organise the exhibition and weeks to install the lighting: pinpointing every work of art to the edges of its canvas, spotlighting the sculptured pieces. Soft, dim lights a few inches off the floor to walk by, otherwise darkness, only added to the experience of being enveloped by Gideon Palenberg’s genius. The ground floor, where invited guests were dining and chatting, was illuminated by thousands of flickering candles. It was an occasion few who were privileged to be there would ever forget.
Dendre knew what she was going to hear. As a matter of protocol, she had been told what to expect. The State Department and the highest echelons of the art world liked their events to run smoothly. And yet, when her husband’s name was called out as the recipient of the Medal of Honour for his contribution to American Art by the President of the United States, she was somehow amazed that he should rise and make his way to the circular dais. The entire room rose to its feet to give Gideon a long standing ovation. There were bravos, a stamping of feet. And a voice in her head shouted: ‘Gideon, this honour is just as much mine as yours, you bastard!’ That was very unlike the painter’s wife, completely out of character. It quite shocked her.
What had precipitated such an unthinkable thought? He had received honours for his work from most countries; many less splendid retrospectives and exhibitions than this one could boast that the artist had been there with the museum staff, working on
the hanging of the exhibition. But it had been Gideon’s policy, until this evening, to stay away from the receptions, sending his regrets and his dealer, Haver Savage, to accept any honour on his behalf. It was not so much that he disdained the social side of the art world, more that Gideon knew his own worth, the measure of his contribution to contemporary art, and felt he could better use his time and energies than in charming the people who were praising him.
Dendre had always admired and agreed with the reticence that set him apart from the merry-go-round of art honours and grand exhibitions. Now, on this very public occasion, face to face with the immense power her husband wielded, the praise showered upon him, she felt diminished yet further by his ego, his massive success.
Was this the man who for years only visited galleries and museums early in the morning when hardly anyone was out viewing so as to avoid the public? Hardly! This Gideon, her Gideon, whom she had shielded from every intrusion into his life so he might live and work in peace and quiet, seemed to be lapping up every moment of the triumphant evening. She felt for the first time in all their years together that her husband was pulling away from her.
Dendre wished he had accepted the honour without all the fuss of black tie, evening dress, and embarrassing praise from a country that had shunned his work for so many years when they were young. Gideon had been as fine a painter then as he was now. His canvasses of that period were more sought after than any of his subsequent works and almost never came on the market. When they did, they commanded prices of tens of millions of dollars. But where were the museums and patrons and admirers when she and Gideon had really needed them? When she had worked two jobs to keep him in paint while they survived on food parcels from her mother, who brought them over from Brooklyn to Gideon’s cold-water studio in an abandoned building? Oh, yes that medal was
theirs,
not Gideon’s, and once on that dais she convinced herself her husband would tell the world so.
Dendre looked around the table at the other luminaries of the art world, paying homage to her husband and oh-so-politely ignoring her. She suddenly resented the looks of adoration her
three daughters directed towards their father as she did the others at the table, chattering animatedly with Adair while limply shaking her hand and looking over her shoulder, trying to make eye contact with someone more important. She felt not embarrassment but disdain for Adair, the great man’s mistress, the not-so-well-kept secret, greedy for the limelight.
If not on Gideon all eyes had been on Adair because when he had risen from his chair, he had first clasped Dendre’s hand for one brief moment then given an intimate hug and kiss to the young, sensuous and seductive Adair Corning.
Momentarily Dendre lost sight of Gideon in the crowd, and then quite suddenly he was there, on the dais. A wave of silence ran through the room that was broken by the sound of chairs shuffling as people sat down.
The President made his announcement. ‘I have followed your work since I was a young man at college, sir, and it is an honour for me to bestow on you, Gideon Palenberg, your country’s highest honour for achievement in the world of arts and letters.’ And he presented Gideon with the Medal of Honour, dangling from its red, white and blue silk grosgrain ribbon.
Gideon received it in his hands rather than round his neck. Here, thought Dendre, is the moment of truth. It’s now that he will acknowledge that it is
our
moment of triumph. And her heart felt glad again for this extraordinary man whom she loved beyond measure. The man she had nurtured so the world might be enriched by his life and work.
The guests rose once more from their chairs and stood silently, ready to hear a speech of gratitude from one of the twentieth century’s most important painters. Dendre rose from her chair along with them. Her knees felt weak with anticipation: the reward she so rightly deserved for her lifetime’s obsession, loving her husband, was practically within her grasp. She watched Gideon take stock of the faces round the room. His eyes lingered longer on some than others. He was as he always was: a dazzling figure. One could feel the power and passion of the man. The vitality and intelligence behind those sparkling eyes. Finally he smiled at his admirers, turned on his heel and acknowledged the President with a slight inclination of his chin. Then, head high, he walked from the dais having uttered not a word.
It took several seconds for the guests to realise that was it. He had nothing to say to them collectively. Was this an insult? Pure arrogance? Or was he just being true to himself, saying with his silence what he had always claimed: that he had nothing to say, it was all there in his paintings? He had no one to thank, would not share this moment with anyone. It was his and his alone.
Dendre watched him walk through the crowds of people, stopping to accept a handshake here, a kind word there. She watched him kiss a famous collector of whom he was extremely fond. Men patted him on the back. Glittering women, gowned and jewelled on a grand scale, looked at him adoringly. The President of the United States, standing alone on the dais, looked somewhat confused as to what to do. He had expected a graceful acceptance speech and to be able to banter and charm the great painter, win over the Republican moneyed glitterati that a Democratic President would like to turn. But instead he seemed to have paled into insignificance next to the feted artist.
Dendre saw her daughters and Adair pushing their way through the milling guests to reach Gideon but she didn’t move, had not made even the least gesture of excitement when her daughters had kissed her on the cheek and tried to drag her along with them. Momentarily, she was traumatised by loneliness, the sight of her life racing away from her: Gideon, surrounded by praise and laughing heartily with strangers, her children weaving their way round the tables to reach their father. Adair, very nearly next to Gideon, turned round to look over her shoulder towards Dendre.
For a fleeting moment she saw herself in the younger woman – in love, full of joy for her man – and was overwhelmed with desire to be possessed by the object of her obsession as the lovely Adair was now.
Several people approached her briefly with congratulations and Dendre went through the motions of politeness but she felt as if she were somewhere else, as if she were there in body while her heart and soul hovered somewhere else in the room. Her brother Orlando approached her and kissed her on the cheek, placing an arm round her shoulders. She hardly saw him through her anxiety, this elder brother to whom she had been close all of her life and was still, in spite of their having gone their separate ways during her formative years.
‘Did you ever dream, when you first brought Gideon home to Brooklyn in those early days, that a night like this would be yours? That he would become a living legend?’
Dendre had no idea what to say to Orlando. Was he blind? Did he not see that she had been left behind for a younger, more beautiful woman who was everything she had never been? She wanted to burst into tears, she was so overwhelmed by self-pity. But Dendre was strong, hardened by compromise, and composed enough to hold back her tears. She did not need to answer Orlando because Adair arrived to stand between them.
Her first words were to Dendre. ‘Come join us. We didn’t mean for you to be left here alone at an empty table. We’re table hopping. Join in the fun.’
Dendre could feel Adair’s pity and found it embarrassing. She needed no sympathy from her husband’s mistress. But before she could say anything Adair had switched her attention to Orlando. They hugged each other, she kissed him. He was full of enthusiasm for Gideon and his family, the evening, the honour that had been bestowed on the artist.
Orlando looked over Adair’s shoulder at his sister. How had Dendre hoped to keep a man like Gideon with her casseroles and home-baked bread, slavishly keeping his houses in order while women like Adair were inspiring his virility, his heart, his soul even? He felt no pity for his sister, merely empathised with her situation and wondered how true love for her husband had turned into an obsession that was mostly to do with herself and largely disregarded the extraordinary man to whom she was married.
He knew it, as did Gideon. The two men had been close ever since Gideon had married Dendre and over the years had discussed, if only in passing, such things. That his sister and brother-in-law loved each other there was no doubt. That things were different between them now was obvious. That she was his rock, the hub of his life, had been true, what Gideon had wanted and needed and probably still did. How, then, had they drifted so far apart? Dendre’s passion for Gideon had slowly ebbed away in the day-to-day reality of living together. Somehow she had transferred those feelings into making a better soufflé, keeping his public at bay, his children as reflections of herself. Dendre had turned into her mother. What Gideon wanted now at this time of his life was to be renewed
every minute of every day, not by a perfect meal but by a bright, self-possessed young beauty with whom he shared an adventurous sex life.
Orlando had dined with Adair and Gideon several times unknown to Dendre. In each case when their paths crossed it had been accidental: once in California at the museum where Gideon was hanging a one-man show; once in London when they came across each other in the dining room of the Connaught; again in Paris when he’d bumped into Adair on the Avenue Montaigne and she’d insisted he join them for a lunch of oysters and a bottle of Chablis. He could understand Gideon’s passion for Adair; she was a risk to be taken, an adventure in everything she was – the way she moved, her intelligence, her sensuality. She made Gideon feel young. Tweaked his creative soul. Hers was a sexuality to rise to. She was everything a man like Gideon needed to feed his voracious appetite for work and sex, the sheer joy of living.
Orlando had seen Gideon devour his sister, her obsession for her husband kill off the very things Gideon had loved and adored her for, and yet still they had something together. A history? Love? Who knew? Until tonight he’d thought Dendre would be able to hold her marriage together.
Now, with Adair still in his arms, looking over her shoulder at his sister, he sensed that could no longer be. There was something, a look in Dendre’s eyes, that made him understand that tonight, his country’s tribute to Gideon, and the manner in which the art world luminaries were paying homage to her husband and oh-so-politely ignoring her, had isolated her from her obsession. Reality was coming in on her at a hundred miles an hour. But he knew his sister, he understood obsession, it wasn’t quite over for Dendre yet.
Adair released herself from Orlando’s hug and approached Dendre. ‘Come on, we’ve joined up with Rauchenbourg and Jim Dine, and Gideon is holding court. Even the President and First Lady have joined the table. It’s not fair you should be left out.’
Dendre regained her composure. She was still the wife of Gideon Palenberg, the man being fêted this evening, and Adair was right, she belonged with her husband. ‘Did Gideon send for me?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ was the young woman’s reply.
A blatant lie! And all three acknowledged it. A look passed between the two women and both knew that Adair could afford to be generous. She was after all the victor, behaving not like a clandestine lover but as a wife might towards a former mistress. She had won Gideon’s affections, his passion, his love, from Dendre and there could be no cover-up or let’s–pretend about that between them.
But Dendre was not without a certain power of her own in the art world. Famous painters’ wives held a special position as muse-cum-housekeeper. Admirers of a painter’s work could hope that through them there might be a direct link to the artist when other avenues were closed. Dendre had always been aware of that and had capitalised upon it sparingly, but used it nevertheless. Her aloofness from the art world at first awoke interest in her but unfortunately that interest soon waned for Dendre Palenberg had very little to offer as an individual. Most people saw her now as her husband’s shadow. There were, however, exceptions and one of them approached Dendre now.
Ben Borgnine was a respected art dealer with famous galleries in New York and London. Adair greeted him with her usual charm and introduced him to Orlando. He greeted her brother but went straight to Dendre and kissed her on the cheek. Taking her hand in his he told her, ‘Tonight could never have happened without your years of support for Gideon. Many congratulations.’