Illicit Canvas: political romance and stand alone romance (26 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

Last night I had a dream about being in Saint-Malo. I was swimming in the sea with all my friends and I was so happy. Then I had to wake up, realising that I was still in the same place, my bedroom.

Brussels is like my home, so why do I feel so lonely? All this time that I have been here, I felt alive. I never missed Saint-Malo until last night.

I never thought that I could fall in love with a stranger in a gallery. That burning hole in my heart spreads. Since that morning in Ethan’s apartment, everything I do seems so unfulfilling. The loneliness shuts down the new me; the darkness is slipping through and taking the last bits of hope that Ethan will come back to me. I don’t want to be his mistress, just another girl that he slept with.

Yesterday was Ethan’s last day at work. I called him, but he didn’t pick up. I guess that he didn’t want to talk to me. It’s over between us. Finally I saw his real, angry side. He no longer cares and maybe Colin was right all along.

I was up all night, thinking about what to do next, how to heal my sliced heart. When the sun rises I have my answer.

“I’m going back to Saint-Malo,” I say to Maja when she comes out of her room. I’m preparing breakfast, trying to keep my mind busy.

“To visit?”

Silence. I can’t tell her the real truth. It’s more than just a visit. “Maybe ... well, I don’t know yet. I feel suffocated here. It’s over between me and Ethan anyway.”

She stops eating, staring at me intensely. “Maybe? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means, Maja. I need some time to think.”

“Did you speak to him? What about the exhibition? You can’t leave now. He needs you,” she adds, getting up and walking up to me. I like Maja’s innocence; she believes that there was no breakup, that Ethan will come back.

“I don’t need to talk to him. He made it clear that it’s over the last time he was here. Besides, it’s better if I don’t show up at the exhibition.”

“Arwen, I think you’re making a mistake. Give this some time. Don’t you get it? That’s what Colin wanted all along, to break you and Ethan apart.”

“I’ve made up my mind. My flight is in three hours and I have to be in the airport soon.”

“When are you going to come back?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to come back at all?” she asks in a whisper.

I swallow my tears and fold the rest of my clothes on the floor. “Maja, stop asking questions that I can’t answer. I don’t think that I can be here, in this city, studying art and pretending that I’m fine.”

“You can’t just give up. What about your course? Don’t jump the gun. Ethan needs you, it’s–”

“He doesn’t love me, Maja. He never said it and he never will!” I shout, crying now. “His reputation is ruined, his business and everything. Please just don’t. I have to leave to save him. If I’m not around, maybe people will start to trust him again.”

My roommate doesn’t say anymore, glaring at me. This is the best way to make this right. If I stay, the press will continue to sniff around and people won’t stop talking about us. At least, once I’m not in the picture, he can concentrate, save his dignity and throw an amazing exhibition.
 

I didn’t have the chance to speak to my father, but at least I gained some closure, got some answers. I love the course and I love what I’m doing, but…

Two hours later I sit on the cold steel bench in the airport, wondering if I can start over somewhere else. Some place where I don’t have to worry about being broken and empty, where I can simply exist.

On the plane I text Ethan, saying that it was nice knowing him, that I left him another painting in my room for the exhibition and he can collect it. I sink into my seat trying not to cry. After twenty minutes I give up, looking out the window and weeping.

It’s over—my romance, my search, and my adventure with art. Everything is done and there is no point looking back.

***

I make a call to my mother when I arrive. The call doesn’t go the way I want. Mum cries, shouts, then cries some more, before showing up half an hour later to pick me up. I didn’t answer any of her calls in the past week. She was probably freaking out and I feel bad, knowing what I put her through during my suicidal attempt years ago.

When I see her walking towards me, I barely recognise her. She looks good; tanned, makeup done and new clothes.
 

“Oh, Arwen, how could you do that to me? Not talking, not answering any phone calls. I was a wreck.” She breaks out in tears, hugging me, checking my face. Francois is right behind her, shaking his head. I start sobbing then, not able to pretend any longer. Mum has a great personality, but even now she doesn’t quite know how to handle me. I’m howling, people are staring at us, and Francois looks uncomfortable, glancing around.

The truth is that I never cry, not in front of her if I can help it. Even in the hospital, after I woke up, I pretended that I was fine. Mum exchanges a worried look with Francois, probably asking him for help, not knowing how to make me feel better. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. The tears keep streaming down and I can’t stop. The darkness should be fading away, but the pain stays, gripping my heart tighter.

“Come on now, just stop it. I’m not angry anymore, darling, but I was worried,” she says as we walk to the car. I want to stop moving through this cloud of sadness. The pain is mounting, but how long am I supposed to feel this way?

I walk out and automatically inhale, recognising the saltiness of the sea in the air.
 
I remember the dream from last night and smile. Maybe I’m not lost after all.

Half an hour later, I’m back home, in the place where everything began. Francois helps me with my bag and I know that my mother wants to squeeze the truth out of me, but I’m not ready to talk to her. She has never seen me like this, and she looks worried.

“It’s all right, you can explain everything tomorrow. Now sleep,” she says, and to my great astonishment, she walks out of the room, closing the door behind her. No more questions. She has left me alone. She must trust me.

I walk to the window and stare at the world, remembering what I left behind.

Everything around me moves in slow motion. I take off my clothes slowly and change into my favourite blue pyjamas, feeling tired. When I slip under the soft covers everything seems better, calmer. I think that my grief is draining me. There are no more tears; my body has dried up. The heavy weight on my shoulders crushes me like dark water. All of a sudden I’m so exhausted and tired that I just want to sleep. Ethan and I are no longer together. Our love was put to the test and I didn’t pass. My eyes feel heavy, so I do the only thing that is right—fall asleep.

I wake up in the early hours of the morning breathing hard, my back drenched with sweat. I look around, disoriented for a moment. I had another dream, but the images are quickly slipping away. I remember that I was alone, standing in the shallow dark water.

I don’t go back to sleep. Instead I take out a notepad and start drawing whatever is in my head. I don’t know how much time passes, but as the sun finally rises, my drawing is completed. Ethan’s beautiful face is staring back at me, slowly crushing me back into the dark hole.

I sigh, forcing myself not to waste any more tears. I haven’t cried like that since my father left, and that was ten years ago. I have been sad like that once before, but I can’t put Mum through this kind of grief again. She deserves better.

Mum is already up when I walk to the spacious white kitchen an hour later. The table is set and she is pouring coffee into my favourite mug. Now it’s time to talk, to tell her what happened in Brussels.

“Hey, darling, have you slept well?” she asks me. I nod silently and sit down. I’ll be all right. My heart will heal and Ethan will be able to lift his business back up, now that I’m here. My mother is still pretty. She looks so radiant and happy. It seems that I made the right decision in moving away.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m sad, Mum, but this is how you’re supposed to feel after a breakup,” I reply.

“A breakup—oh my, so it’s true then? You have been in a relationship with that man? The politician?”

Maybe she hoped that the information in the papers wasn’t true. I don’t think she’s shocked, just disappointed that I haven’t said anything.

I take a sip of coffee, followed by a deep breath. “I’ll explain everything, but first I need to tell you about something. I need to explain why I decided to move to Brussels.”

“Well, isn’t that obvious? The galleries and art. Saint-Malo is lovely, but I knew that you always felt stuck here, especially after what happened in the old house. I was scared to let you go, but you were doing so much better and I guess the medications helped.”

She has no idea or else she is pretending well. “No, Mum. I found out that Dad had moved there and I decided to find him.”

My mother widens her eyes and glances at the door, probably to see if Francois is still asleep. “Your father? What are you talking about?”

“I know everything. You don’t have to pretend anymore. I moved to Brussels to find him, and to find out why he abandoned me.”

“You saw him? Have you spoken to him?” she asks with a small voice.

I shift on the chair, telling myself to breathe. “Not exactly.”

She rubs her eyes and then looks at me, scared and somehow intimidated by the news. Maybe she really had no idea what I was doing. “I needed to protect you from him, Arwen. Our relationship didn’t work out. He wasn’t a good man, a good father. He hurt you, always criticising you, nothing was ever good enough. He was always a perfectionist, almost to the point of obsession.”

“I remembered the painting from the past, the one that he carried with him the whole time. I created a reproduction and I thought that if I located the original I would get to him eventually.”

My mother shakes her head and smiles. “Yes, I remember he had that painting with him all the time.”

“I made a copy of the painting and I started asking curators in galleries, but I wasn’t making much progress until I met Ethan.”

“The man from the papers, the one that seduced you?”

“He didn’t seduce me, Mum. Don’t believe everything that you read.”

I talk then, not stopping, starting right from very beginning, linking this whole thing to my bastard father. I normally don’t share stories with my mother, stories about my boyfriends. We are weird like that, keeping our emotions to ourselves, but I have never really been in love. I went out with guys, but now I know that it was never anything close to real love. I tell my mother about meeting Ethan in the gallery for the first time. I tell her about the instant connection that we had, the excellent first date and that great kiss. She listens, not interrupting me for the first time. When I get to that part where Colin invites me over to meet his father, she stops breathing. I talk about the disastrous dinner when we both realise that we made a mistake like it’s some kind of story from a book.

When I talk, I feel like my heart is breaking again into million different pieces.

 
“Once I broke up with his son, Colin, Ethan and I decided that we would just stay friends. He wanted to help me with locating the painting. He had a lot of good contacts in Brussels and I had nothing to lose.”

“Hold on a minute. You’re saying that you weren’t involved with Colin, his son, when you were seeing Ethan, the father?”

“No, of course not. I met Ethan three weeks later and after the first date, well my world turned around a hundred eighty degrees. After that atrocious dinner, we both realised that we made a mistake and we decided to stay friends. He wanted to help me with finding Dad.”

“But you ended up together anyway?”

I explain how our friendship turned into a relationship and that Ethan didn’t seduce me. I tell her about Ethan’s dream, about our agreement. His gallery and our trip to Bruges.

“So you went there together, and you went to your father’s house?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t there. We spoke to his wife, Brigitte,” I say, forcing myself to look at her.

“The wife?” she chokes.

“Yes,” I say, pausing. “He’s with her and they have another daughter together.”

 
My mother looks shocked, but calm. I’m surprised; she's not reacting the way I expected.

“I met your father at one of the parties in France. They were there together, him and Brigitte. I didn’t think much of him until one evening. At the time I was a PR for one of the art dealers in Marseille. We started talking and before we realised, it was late at night.”

My hands start to shake and I stare at my own mother, wondering why she had to get involved with another’s woman’s man.

“He insisted that he didn’t love her, that he wanted to be with me. Rupert left his fiancée for me. I regret that to this day. I can’t explain why I didn’t leave him alone, but sometimes when two people meet it’s just one of those things.”

I want to say that it’s not one of those things—it’s love. She probably had fallen in love with him without even realising it.

“Brigitte said that you didn’t want him to see me,” I ask quietly.