Page 20 of I Love My Mistake
Chapter Twelve
At His…Our…Studio
The sun is trying to make its way through the clouds outside. Candles are lit all over and “Pompeii” by Bastille is playing loud on the speakers. I downloaded it recently, it and a number of other songs that had me dancing so hard with the radio, I had to Shazam them on my phone and buy them immediately. Now I’m alone painting to the best playlist ever and my head is clear and lighter than it has been in months. Getting that sleep last night after the party was such a great idea.
A sunbeam glides in through the window and dances with the smoke that wafts from the ashtray, where I left the cigarette I forgot I was smoking. That whole quitting thing didn’t last. I’ve even forgotten I said it, truth be told. Because right now, the colors are exploding from my brush onto the canvas and the world is a magical place of possibilities and purpose. My hips are bouncing to the music…it’s just me, the music and my muse.
Maybe I’m even breaking down that wall Michael talked with me about.
Down below, a knock on the door cuts through the beat of the music. I straighten up and wait. Who could it be? What time is it? I walk over to my phone as the knock comes again. The time says 1:11 p.m. and my cigarette is almost out. I pick it up quickly and take the last little drag, smash it out in the ashtray and run down the stairs as the third knock comes.
“Okay. Okay. I’m coming. Jeez.”
I open up the heavy warehouse door and see a woman standing outside, looking at me. She’s pretty, beautiful even, the kind of beautiful that is sweet to my spicy.
“Can I help you?”
She looks at me oddly, “Is Michael here?” she asks, tentatively, peeking her head up and into the door to see upstairs.
“No, he’s not here right now.”
Her eyes fall on me again and quickly rake my body. Suddenly I feel very self-conscious. She’s dressed to the nines in classic style, the kind you’d expect from the girl who married Prince William – Kate whatever her last name is. It’s a major contrast to my paint-covered overalls, Chucks, and black tank top. My hair is wild, too – the polar opposite to her long, straight, blonde hair. The girl could not be any whiter.
And then it dawns on me. “Oh! You must be here to buy some of his work. Did he tell you he’d be here today? I didn’t realize. Well, if he’s coming, he’s not here yet.”
She frowns. “Can I come in?”
“Sure, sure. Come on in.” I smile and walk up the stairs, letting her follow me. I’m not going to let her go up the stairs first. I pay for this space, so Miss Queenie can take a back seat. At the top, I go to the music and turn it down. It’s playing Swedish House Mafia’s “Don’t You Worry Child” …and I love the song, so I’ll have to replay it as soon as she’s gone.
I point to his canvases. “His pieces are on the left. You’re welcome to look through them.”
She’s walking very slowly. She says something, but her voice is so little I can’t hear it. And now I’m just getting annoyed, so I don’t answer. If you have something to say, you’re going to have to speak up, I think, as I plop myself on the stool to light a new cigarette. She’s wigging me out. I want her to leave. I don’t even care if he doesn’t make the sale. He’s rich. He can live without it.
“You didn’t hear me?” she asks.
I reach up and give my hair a shake, take a drag with my other hand, shake my head no, with a look that says and that’s fine by me.
“I asked, are your paintings on the right?” She stands very still and both her hands are clasped together. Primly.
“Yes. Oh…” I stand up and lay the cigarette in the ashtray. “I’m sorry. Did he tell you to come and see my work? I’m so sorry. Yes, mine are on the right… but I’m just learning.”
Why do I always have to say that??!! Probably, because I feel very insecure around this woman. I can feel the hair going up on my body, and I am more uncomfortable the closer I get to her, pointing to where my pieces are. I don’t lay them out like I did with Danny, because, she isn’t moving. If it were nighttime, I’d swear she were a vampire, the way she holds herself like a statue; so tense. She’s freaky. And I don’t like her.
She looks at the paintings, but doesn’t walk to them.
“Is he teaching you, then… my Michael?” she asks.
The words are a slap across my face. My Michael. I stare at her, both of us silent as my mind rushes to figure out what is happening. Apparently I’m not psychic at all, because I didn’t see this coming. So… this is his lover… his girlfriend? Standing here in front of me is the reason he won’t make love to me? I steady myself against the nausea and answer slowly. “He is. In a way. I’m learning a lot from him.”
“I’m sure.” She looks like she’s about to get sick, too.
“Are you okay?” My hand goes out to her, instinctively, but she walks away from me.
“Don’t,” she moans.
She looks so fragile that I feel badly for her. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to console you. Are you his girlfriend? Is that what’s going on? Because, he and I haven’t done anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
She turns quickly and looks very surprised. “You haven’t?”
She’s so relieved that I decide to leave out the kissing and sometimes fondling each other part. He hasn’t fucked me, the bastard, and that’s all she needs to know. “No. I swear to God.”
Her hand goes to her throat and she nods, deep in thought. She nods. Looks to me again.
“I swear. Clothes have never come off. I promise you.”
Her relief is so great that I don’t know how to behave. It’s the truth, what I said. It’s the truth, even though I hate her for it. But it’s not her fault. It’s his.
She walks toward the stairs and her long eyelashes flutter as she meets my eyes one last time. “Thank you. I’m not his girlfriend though. I’m Laura Benitez, his wife.”
My heart jumps into my throat and I can’t breathe. His wife? My face did not change as she said it - wife. It did not change as my heart exploded and broke into bloodied pieces. And it did not change when she thanked me and walked down the stairs, and out the door.