CHAPTER EIGHT
Where are you?
I PUSH MY phone back into my bag without answering, determinedly turning my attention to the flowers before me.
Stalls line the footpath, but I have my favourite, and I am nothing if not faithful. I select two bunches of tulips—yellow and pink—and hand over some cash from my back pocket. I cradle them against my chest as I weave through the markets, pausing to buy a pretzel and a coffee which I must juggle in one hand.
It’s worth it. The pretzel is warm and soft, the dough salty on the outside and almost sweet within. The pretzel is a perfect metaphor for New York, this city that I found so impenetrable at first and which I now adore.
I have been wandering the streets for over an hour, wondering that same thing. I feel my phone buzz, but have no choice but to ignore it. My hands are now full.
It will wait.
Just sex.
No flowers.
No sleepovers.
No romance, no commitment.
No hassles.
No potential for heartbreak.
I smile resolutely and weave my way through people and stalls, puppies and children, and turn into my own street. Familiarity makes my heart skip a beat or two. I tell myself I am happy to be here, that I want to be in my own home rather than in his hotel room.
Yesterday was fun, but staying there again today would be habit-forming, and I’m not prepared to do that. I tell myself it was smart to sneak out while he was asleep, without so much as kissing his cheek for fear that it would wake him, and he would kiss me back, and then all my good intentions would be scarpered.
I reach the front door at the same time as Kelvin Monteith from the upstairs apartment is leaving; he holds it open and offers to carry the flowers up for me. I shake my head and climb the stairs, jiggling my key into the slot and pushing the door inwards.
Eliza’s still asleep, but Cassie is in the kitchen, fixing breakfast. I can smell the bacon the second I step inside.
‘Morning!’ I call cheerfully, waving the tulips in her face. ‘Aren’t these beautiful?’
She arches a brow and taps her foot pointedly.
‘What?’
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘Have you been with him again?’
I shake my head. And then I shrug. ‘Yeah.’
‘That’s three times this week?’
Heat suffuses my cheeks. ‘Who’s counting?’
She watches me for a long moment and then expels a sigh. ‘Ally...’
‘I know.’
I lay the flowers down on the bench and stretch on my tiptoes to rescue a glass jar from above the fridge. I half-fill it with water, and am about to stuff the flowers in when Cassie retrieves the jar and tips the water out. As she begins to wipe the inside of it I note the visible watermark with a wry smile. Trust Cassie to see such a small detail.
Cassie and Eliza were with me at my lowest ebb. Their concern is natural. But I am not going to be hurt again.
‘This is different.’
‘Yeah, well...duh. There can’t be two men in the world as misogynistic and narcissistic as Jeremy.’
We all read a lot of psychology self-help books after the Jeremy incident. He stood as a cautionary tale for all of us. I have no doubt he will move into urban myth in time. Bastard.
And yet, despite all the metaphorical wounds he inflicted, I still rail against an instinct to defend him. Such was his power over me, I suppose, that even now I am somewhat in his thrall. How can I hate him but not want others to do so?
‘Ethan’s nice,’ I say instead, definitely not adding that I’m pretty sure he’s using me to get over Sienna Di Giorgio.
‘Uh-huh.’ Cassie’s caution is understandable. ‘Just...be careful.’
I nod, and my eyes meet hers reassuringly. I can’t begrudge her concern. Cassie and Eliza had to scrape me up off the floor after Jeremy—they had to wipe my broken heart from the walls of our lives.
‘I really, really am fine, Cass.’
After all, what could be more cautious than contractually agreeing to the terms of our arrangement prior to undertaking an affair?
‘Okay.’
She reaches forward and bites my pretzel. Such is our friendship that I don’t complain, even though I live for these damned things. I hand it to her and sip my coffee, and when I think she’s distracted by turning the bacon I fish my phone from my pocket and swipe it open.
Be still my beating heart.
It’s a photo of him. He’s wearing a simple white singlet and it looks like that favourite pair of jeans. He’s pulling a confused face and the rumpled bed is behind him. In his hand he’s holding a peach. My gut clenches.
Come back?
I stare at the photo for several more seconds. The slick of desire is unmistakable. I enjoy its possession of my body because I feel it with the certainty that I will be with him again. Soon.
When I have proved to myself that I can stay away.
* * *
Being cat-called on the streets of New York is frustratingly common. So when I step out of work Tuesday evening and hear a wolf-whistle I straighten my spine and keep going.
‘Hey, sexy!’
The voice is familiar. I stop walking and turn slowly, my eyes catching the limousine and Grayson immediately. The window is down just far enough for me to make out Ethan’s hair and eyes and it’s all I need. My tummy flops.
I pull on my handbag strap and walk towards the car. ‘Hey.’
‘Your chariot awaits, m’lady.’
I arch a brow. Emotions war inside me. Pleasure at seeing him, sure. But also worry. Worry that this isn’t part of our deal.
‘My chariot can go on its way,’ I say. ‘I like to walk.’
‘Ah.’ He nods slowly. ‘But I have a surprise.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t like surprises.’
‘I think you’ll like this one.’
He pushes the door open an inch. I’m tempted to walk away, but I’ve stayed away from him for two nights, so I’ve sort of proved myself capable of handling this...haven’t I?
‘What’s the surprise?’
I slide into the limousine and instantly I’m overpowered by his proximity. The smell of him, the possibility that I’ll soon be touching him.
I buckle up in the seat beside him. ‘Ethan?’
‘You’ll see.’ He grins cryptically, then leans closer. ‘You look good enough to eat.’
Grayson is behind the wheel. He starts the engine and then pulls out into the traffic. I watch the buildings pass in a blur, curiosity as to where we’re going lasting the entire drive.
Well, almost the entire drive. I recognise the approach to the MoMA a few blocks out. I have spent so much of my time here since arriving in NYC that it is almost like a second home.
I love it.
But I do not love the idea of being here now.
Not when Ethan Ash hasn’t kissed me in days. Not when Ethan Ash hasn’t fucked me in days. Not when we could be back in his hotel, doing all the things I’ve been fantasising about all afternoon.
‘Well?’
I step out of the car, staring up at the building with grudging admiration. From this vantage point it is modern and it is beautiful, but my favourite place to admire it from is two blocks away, from where you can see the higgledy-piggledy arrangement of the various levels, all precariously balanced on top of one another. Like a three-year-old might build a high-rise.
I could write a thesis on what that incautious, irreverent juxtaposition means. The balancing of lines and order with chaos and random-seeming placement. The way it makes sense even when it shouldn’t.
‘You look at this place like I’m looking at you,’ he observes with sensual heat.
‘Like I’m a mix of order and disarray?’
‘Something like that.’ His wink is a flirtatious whip across my spine. ‘Shall we...?’
Desire to be alone with him is fighting a battle—and losing—with my love for this place. I nod and move towards the entrance, the pull of the gallery strengthening with every step.
Grayson has procured us some kind of special entry. We don’t queue, and a museum staffer greets us. She is a stunning young woman, with caramel skin and chestnut hair, enormous brown eyes and an impressive cleavage barely contained by her museum uniform. Her eyes cleave to Ethan in a way that makes me think she wishes it were her body, not just her gaze.
An unpleasant tang of adrenalin flavours my mouth. My sense of anticipation is somewhat dimmed by the prospect of being accompanied by anyone other than Ethan but that’s not why I stiffen.
Ethan Ash is seriously hot.
Hot in that way that is unusual and distracting. Hypnotic. He is also hugely famous. And he’s here with me. But in the space of a little over a week he won’t be. In a little over a week he’ll be with someone else. Making love to someone else. Charming the pants off them with his husky voice and smile. Someone like this obviously very willing museum staffer.
My jealousy is misplaced, and yet it’s real.
When he dismisses the woman with, ‘Miss Douglas is an art expert. I’ll be fine in her capable hands,’ I am childishly relieved.
‘Oh, sure, no problem. But you just shout out if you need anything at all, okay?’
‘So, is this how it is for you?’ I ask as we walk away. ‘All special entry and people tripping over themselves to serve you?’
He grins at me and reaches for my hand, squeezing it in a way that speaks once more of intimacy and closeness. I squeeze back.
He grins. ‘Nah.’
‘Nah?’
‘Where to?’
We pause outside the sculpture garden and I nod towards the stairs. ‘Contemporary, of course.’
‘Why of course?’ he asks, taking my lead and walking with me.
‘I like to start at the end and work my way backwards.’
I smile up at him and I’m shy suddenly. It’s inexplicable; I don’t like it. I look away, focusing on the wall ahead. This isn’t a first date. It’s an aberration. A distraction.
‘It’s easier to make sense of contemporary art in some ways. It speaks to people because it fits within the sphere of our current tastes and wants.’
‘Not me,’ he says with a shake of his head. ‘Give me the Impressionists any day.’
My lips twist in acknowledgement but I try to hide my cynicism.
He sees it regardless. ‘What? You don’t approve?’
I select my words with care. ‘The Impressionist movement is probably the most adored of all.’
‘So I can’t like it because everyone else does?’
‘You can like whatever you like,’ I demur. ‘I’m just saying that its accessibility gives it a head start. Sunflowers. Lily pads. They’re borrowed from so heavily in popular culture. You can see Monet splashed through airport advertising. People don’t necessarily like the Impressionists so much as recognise them.’
He clutches a hand to his chest in mock pain and stops walking.
‘What?’
I look around. Luckily no one is watching us.
‘You wound me,’ he says with exaggerated complaint.
‘I’m sorry.’ I grin, showing I feel no such thing. ‘I’m always unstintingly honest.’
‘You’re wrong.’ He sobers almost instantly and catches my hand. ‘Let me show you.’
I resist the urge to point out I’m supposed to be giving him the tour, and willingly go with him, up several more flights of stairs, until a sign points us towards the Impressionists wing.
Despite everything I have just said I pause as we step into the hall, instantly overpowered by the beauty and profound uniqueness of each and every piece before us.
Ethan looks at me, and then continues to move slowly, skimming his eyes over each piece of art until finally he stops in front of a lesser-known Matisse.
Woman Reading, the caption proclaims.
‘This was the first painting I ever loved.’
I look from him to the painting in surprise. ‘Why?’
‘There’s something about it that speaks to me. Perhaps it’s the way her back is turned. The whole painting is almost disdainful. The composition confusing. And yet the way I’m kind of...excluded makes me want to intrude. To tap her on the shoulder; make her look at me.’
He is describing a sense that is so perfectly what I think Matisse was aiming for that I want to kiss him.
Art-speak is not something everyone is comfortable with, and the fact that Ethan über-sexy Ash can do it so well is incredibly desirable.
‘That’s good,’ I say, wondering at the catch of feeling in my voice. ‘Art should create that kind of emotion in you. An emotional response is all that matters—no matter what inspires it.’
‘So I’m allowed to like the Impressionists again?’ he teases, all cerebral philosophising over and done with.
‘I suppose so.’
And so, amongst the Van Goghs, Mondrians, Monets and Seurats, we begin our tour of the MoMa...
‘Okay,’ he says after we’ve finished two full floors. ‘I showed you mine. What’s yours?’
‘My what?’ I’m genuinely confused.
‘Your favourite piece in here?’
* * *
Holy crap, she’s hotter than Hades when she’s talking about art.
I thought I might have lost her with my waffling on about Woman Reading, but if anything it spurred her on. As though she thought she was speaking to a kindred spirit—someone who understands her love of art.
And, Jesus, listening to her, I think I might.
Ally Douglas could explain anything to me and I’d be somewhat spellbound. I stare at her as she discusses the way light and shade have been used to create an apparent three-dimensionality to the simple painting, but all I can think about is the light and shade in her face, and the multi-dimensionality in her eyes as the late-afternoon sun cuts through the glass and settles freely on her face.
I think about the light and shade in her voice, too—the way it pitches and rolls with emotion as she moves along the exhibit, teaching me effortlessly. Not because she wants me to learn, or because she thinks I should know this stuff, but because she can’t help herself.
Art is her passion.
And she feels passionately.
I listen to her patiently even as I am burning up. We reach the end of the display and there is only a red fire alarm on the wall. I want to tell her how beautiful she is. I want to tell her she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
It’s not just that. I want to do more of this. I like being out with her. Holding her hand. I like the idea of taking her to dinner. I want her to come to my concert and to be waiting backstage for me.
The arbitrary boundaries we’ve insisted on are annoying me now, and I know why.
I don’t like it that Ally is making an art form out of pushing me away, walking away from me when it suits her. I have an insatiable need to unsettle the ease with which she does that. To unsettle her a little bit. Why? To make her forget about our rules? Just for a while?
Stuff it.
I lean closer and murmur, ‘You’re beautiful.’
Her head whips up to mine so fast I briefly worry she might have dislocated something. She stares at me but says nothing. I could get lost in those damned eyes of hers.
Then, as if reading my mind, she blinks and looks away, withdrawing herself from me.
‘That’s it.’ Her voice is gravelled.
I can’t take my eyes off her face immediately, but she lifts a finger and points and I am drawn to the gesture. I follow the direction until my eyes land on a portrait across the room.
It is of a woman with pale skin and rust-coloured hair. It’s painted in profile and there’s an enigmatic twist to her lips that prompts curiosity. I reach for Ally’s hand, still outstretched, and move us towards the picture.
‘Your favourite?’
‘Yeah.’ The admission is softly spoken.
I look down at her; she’s blushing. Is she annoyed with me?
Objectively, Ally is stunning. Always. But when her face flushes with colour she glows with all the warmth in the world and she is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Even in the midst of this art she is...intriguing. A mix of intelligence, maturity and vulnerability.
An ache spreads through me, pervasive and hungry. There are too many people around for me to do what I want—to wrap her in my arms and kiss her as though my literal survival depends upon it.
‘Why?’
She bites down on her lip and her eyes flick first to me and then away. ‘Oh, I just really like it.’
She pushes the conversation away with tangible determination.
‘They’re going to be closing soon. We should go.’