“I ain’t spoiling Vic’s lunch. She likes my ugly head . . . don’t you, Vic?”
Victoria ignored him, concentrated on piling up the dirty dishes, her half-eaten lunch tightening into a cement fist in the pit of her gut. She wished Rose would just ignore him as well rather than engaging in a derogatory argument. She could never be too sure what might fall out of Bassman’s mouth. And even though she’d always been able to hide her reactions well enough to refute his claims and convince most people, Rose knew her better by far than most people.
“You know, Bassman, you really should try to stagger over and look in a mirror some day. You never wonder why your mother didn’t want you around? Had to drink her face off just so she could forgive herself for bringing such a useless piece of crap into the world in the first place.”
If Rose’s insult had bothered him, there was no outward evidence. But his reply suggested she may well have found her mark.
“Go to hell, bitch. I was talking to ’toria.”
“Well, she doesn’t want you to talk to her, creep, so turn around and leave us alone.”
“We goes way back, me and little Vicky does. Don’t we, Vicky? Way, way back.” His drugged eyes groped over her as he remembered just how far back they went and with the knowledge that prefaces fact, she knew he was about to sketch in the lurid details. Her eyes panicked to his and held fast, frantically begging him not to. He hesitated, grinned. He was unaccustomed to finding himself sitting in the seat of power, and he’d be damned if he was going to lose his position without at least the benefit of a few earthly spoils.
“You got some money, Vic? ’Cause I need some smokes and my check ain’t here till tomorrow.”
“Screw off, you friggin’ bum. She isn’t—”
Relieved, Victoria reached for her purse and slipped a ten across the aisle into his grubby, outstretched hand.
“Vic, what the hell are you doing? Don’t do that. He’s just a bum, let him buy his own damn cigarettes.” Rose sat back, visibly indignant and completely mystified by the transaction.
“Don’t worry about it, Rose. He’ll pay me back.”
“Like a rat’s-ass he will. Are you nuts? His check’ll be pissed away before the ink even dries on his
X.
You can kiss that ten goodbye.”
Billy Bassman, acting out her outraged accusations, held the bill up to his lips and wet it with a soggy kiss, bent it in half and gave it a french.
“Where the hell’s your head, Vic? Why’d you give the puke money? You just encouraged him.”
“I don’t know. Christmas spirit, I guess. My yearly donation to the poor and underprivileged.” She attempted unsuccessfully to make light of it.
“Poor and underprivileged, my ass. Well, if you think that pig’ll be happy with a once yearly contribution, better think again because you’re going to be in his debt forever now. Come on. Let’s get out of this hole. I’ve got to get home and get some work done.”
Victoria gathered herself quickly into her coat and gloves, paid the bill and followed Rose out of the hotel. They waved off goodbyes, with Rose promising to call, and Victoria carried on down the street immersed in thought about what had transpired. Rose, as usual, was absolutely correct. Billy Bassman would never pay her the money back, and she would remain eternally in his debt. But then again, she already was.
* * *
The early morning storm had continued its onslaught, the snow mounding up on her car like a Russian hat of white ermine. It was frigid out, the weak sun having abandoned its attempt to alter the day. Shivering, she pulled some papers from her purse, pretending to be engrossed in them as she waited for Rose to sweep her car free and drive away. Pushing up the sleeve of her parka, she checked the time. The week before, even with life running at a frenetic pace in advance of the Christmas recital, she had again let Elliot charm her into meeting him for another session of painting after her lunch with Rose.
Although he still steadfastly refused to actually show her the painting, carefully draping the canvas behind a sheet and locking it in the closet between sessions, he did assure her that it was coming along very well. She was apprehensively anxious to see it. Although a fear of being found out was never far from her thoughts, the extra dance practices she’d scheduled to prepare for the recital had provided the perfect opportunity for her to spend more time at the studio without provoking Bobby’s suspicions.
Reaching for an air of nonchalance, she entered the hotel, discreetly scanning the stairway for Bassman’s distasteful form. It infuriated her that even now, after all these years, such an indecent speck of humanity still could hold such power over her. Their brief lunchtime encounter had stolen away the delicious anticipation she had secreted away knowing she would be meeting Elliot later on in the studio. She had always hoped she would eventually outgrow the hold Bassman had over her. Or, preferably, that he would just die a conveniently early death like his older brother.
Quickly closing the door of the ballroom behind her, she locked it then drew a deep breath. She felt safe here. This was her world. Her sanctuary. Here, Bassman didn’t exist. And yet the heaviness of her mood refused to lift. He had destroyed the delightful lightness that had propelled her through the last few days. She felt cheated.
She sensed that Elliot was at the back door before he even knocked. There had been no sound of him walking up the alley, and suddenly it dawned on her that he had been standing out there, waiting for her in the bitter cold. She rushed back to let him in, feeling at once both apologetic for being late and leaving him waiting on the steps, and annoyed that he had risked exposing their secret meetings by having done so.
“Quick! Come in,” she said urgently after she had cracked the door and peered out to ensure the alleyway was empty.
Elliot swept through the door wearing his characteristic, bemused grin.
“Relax, Victoria. No one saw me. Wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I was pretending to fix the railing on the stairs.” An involuntary shiver rivered through him as he slipped free from his jacket and blue plaid scarf, hanging them neatly from the knob of the door.
Feeling ashamed for her lack of compassion, she envisioned herself reaching up and warming the fierce redness from his cheeks and ears with her hands. Relishing the thought of it, she braced against actually moving toward him. The sheer physicality of such a gesture would be far too intimate. Too close.
“I’m sorry I’m so late, Elliot,” she offered instead. “Trying to get Pearl to hurry lunch today was like trying to get tomorrow’s news. Look at you. You’re freezing.”
“Ya, I am. It’s biting cold out there today,” he agreed as he stepped free of his shoes and attempted to wriggle some warmth back into his toes.
“You should dress warmer,” she advised as she eyed his fashionable but wholly inadequate leather jacket and snow-packed brown suede shoes.
“Well,” he grinned mischievously, “if I had known I’d be standing outside for twenty minutes, I most assuredly would have.”
Heat fueled Victoria’s face. “I can’t believe you waited for so long,” she added quietly.
“Well, I have to admit, I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.”
She couldn’t imagine anyone ever standing him up and said so.
Elliot rippled laughter through the ballroom. “Believe me, Victoria, I’ve been stood up before.”
He was met with a dubious face.
“What? You think I’ve lived some kind of charmed life?”
The contrast of their lives rose before her. Him: free as a leaf blown from the tree, exploring the world, successful, confident, free. And her: grounded in the town of her birth, oppressed by a ubiquitous history that refused to die.
“Well, ya. Don’t you?” she shot back petulantly. Dropping her eyes to the floor, she glanced back up at him, briefly allowing the black swamp of her emotions to flood across her face.
He was not insensitive to the depths of her pain and stepped toward her softly.
“Hey what’s wrong, Victoria? Something I said?”
She shook her head and looked away, savoring the tenderness in his eyes as he’d looked deeply into hers, searching desperately to discover the secrets hidden away there.
“Victoria, please. You can talk to me. I promise you, I’m a very good listener. Not when I’m working, mind you, but other than that,” he added wryly, trying to ease the weight of the moment.
She smiled in spite of herself. It had been one of the things she’d been most surprised to discover about him. Originally, she had envisioned their painting sessions would be loose chatty times, the conversation slowly opening up as they got to better know one another. But Elliot didn’t like to talk while he painted, and he preferred her not to as well. Once his focus was drawn to the canvas, he became like a man possessed, consumed by and taken from her into the creation of his work. At first she’d felt disappointed, even a little rejected. But she’d rapidly found a place of pleasure, reveling in his intoxicated desire to re-create her.
Now, with tears threatening, she imagined for a moment what an indescribable release it would be for her to finally take down the wall that surrounded her and let him in. Sharing with him each brick of hurt and betrayal and self-loathing as she did so. She looked into his clear blue eyes, willing herself to speak. His face was fully open to her, calm and willing and receptive.
And yet she remained silent. For, although the emotions floated freely near the surface, like tortuous ghosts haunting her, the words themselves were buried too deep. She battled herself. How could it be that she spoke so freely into the void of an anonymous call—all the while wondering if it were really Elliot receiving her offerings— when face to face with him she could not utter even one word of her pain? Perhaps he was right. Perhaps sometimes a person really did need the dividing screen of the confessional in order to exorcise their demons.
Seeing the brief flash of vulnerability fade from her, Elliot gave her shoulders a tight squeeze, nodding his head as he accepted her decision to keep her pain private.
“So. I have some very good news to share with you.” He smiled cautiously, not sure where Victoria’s mood had left them.
“What’s that?” she asked, surprised by the peevishness of her tone. She had expected him to try a little harder to unearth the source of her discomfort. Not that she had any intentions of revealing it, but she craved the soothing balm of his intense concern.
“Remember that gallery that I said was interested in taking the painting?”
She nodded slowly, already knowing she didn’t like the direction in which the conversation was taking her.
“Well, they finally got back to me. They want it. They want it in two weeks.”
Their faces mirrored each other in polar opposite: Elliot’s enthusiastic, Victoria’s stricken.
“What? It’s what we wanted. Right?” Elliot flailed about like a man caught in a sudden ice floe, struggling desperately to find some solid ground.
Emotions dive-bombed Victoria from every angle. It had been one thing to hold the thought of actually ever releasing the painting but quite another to be confronted with the reality of such a plan. The thought of losing their clandestine weekly meetings at the studio, however, fueled her most overwhelming panic: she had not prepared for that. Had not allowed herself to think how diminished her life would once again be when she could no longer bathe herself in the river of his desire.
“I. . . I. . . it’s not ready, Elliot. We can’t have it ready that soon. I’m far too busy. I’ve never even seen it. I have to make sure no one can recognize me,” she babbled, words tangling together as she attempted to reel the situation back under control.
He smiled calmly as he waited for her to talk herself out.
“You really don’t trust anyone, do you, Victoria?” he asked, the faintest hint of hurt tingeing his voice. “I promised you that I’d paint you so you were unrecognizable. That was our agreement. Right?”
Her eyes left his as she nodded.
“So, why do you think I’d do anything other than what we’d agreed upon?”
Uncomfortable now under his intense focus, she shifted her position and shrugged tightly. “Well, I’m sure it’s fine, Elliot. But I still want to see it to make sure.”
He lowered the intensity of his gaze. “Of course you get to see it, Victoria. I actually can’t wait for you to see it. I just wanted to wait until it was far enough along so that it felt like something more than just sketches on the page.”
Even just talking about the painting bloomed his voice full of passion, and she looked up at him, fascinated.
“Okay,” he said huskily, “let’s get it out of the closet and have a look then, shall we?”
He stood looking down at her expectantly, and she started a bit as she realized he was waiting for the key. Retrieving the key ring from her purse, she walked over to the closet door, sifting through to find the correct one.
“It’s the shorter one,” he offered gently from behind her after a few abortive attempts.
“There’s a shorter one?” she asked, holding the keys in a line to see for herself. “How do you notice things like that?”
“I just notice details, that’s all. Wouldn’t be much of a painter if I didn’t, would I?” he asked, walking past her into the closet as she opened it and bringing the fully draped canvas out to the center of the room.