Page 26 of The Artist's Rival
“Why not? It’s a spacious room,” she says, taking them out one by one. “And you know how much I hate cluttered space.”
Fred shakes his head in disbelief, but soon his attention is caught on the spiky fence of Ellie’s work. He gets closer to one painting, inspecting it with deep interest.
It portrays a swimming pool scene, women getting dressed before going out to swim. The background is yellow, something uncommon in Ellie’s work, even though the piece preserves her somber touch. He can almost feel the chlorine fill up his nose, overcome by childhood memories.
“Wow,” he says. “What the hell prompted you to choose this subject?”
“That’s the whole point,” Ellie explains. “Didn’t I tell you? We took each other’s sketches, so I’m painting Tatiana’s ideas, and she’s painting mine. The vision is simple, but I think it is effective, right? I like the challenge of respecting the sketch while preserving my own voice.”
Fred looks to another painting, seemingly more abstract. Groups of entangled materials gallop through the canvas, endearingly lively.
“So you’re working with no theme?”
“There is a theme, it’s subversion of each other’s abilities,” Ellie sits down on her bed, sipping the tea. “We often work together in the studio, sometimes interfering, sometimes flowing with each other. It’s exhilarating.”
“Alright, I see.”
Fred sits down next to her.
“And how is your relationship going? Last time we spoke you weren’t that happy about it.”
Ellie takes another sip, embarrassed that she forgot their recent phone call. She bites her lip, conflicted whether she wants to confide in Fred. He can be indelicate, to put it lightly, often preferring to plunge straight into giving advice instead of simply listening. Perhaps she could use some advice at the moment, Ellie thinks, turning to Fred.
“Okay, so we still haven’t talked about it.”
“What do you mean? Like at all? You didn’t acknowledge that you’re fucking?”
Ellie looks away, confronted by the harshness of the word fucking thrown at her.
“We did acknowledge that,” she considers whether acknowledged is truly the right word for what they did, “but nothing…more? It’s strange, it’s like she’s completely avoiding the subject of what we are.”
“And what would that be?” Fred asks, straightforward.
Ellie feels something tighten around her chest. She’s mad at Tatiana for being so elusive, but she feels that the lack of conversation also protects her own feelings, even though often craving clarity.
“I don’t know. We sleep with each other, spend time together, kiss, and that’s kind of it.” “Well, sounds like you’re a couple to me,” Fred announces.
Ellie again feels her chest, but now her stomach joins in too. She has not allowed herself to think about them in these terms, fearing that for Tatiana all this was much less serious.
“I don’t think she’s that serious about it,” she sighs.
“But you are?”
“Not if she isn’t.”
Fred erupts with laughter, spilling some of the tea on his shirt.
“Ellie, for Christ’s sake, you’re almost 40! This sounds like high school all over again. Just take her out, be upfront about your feelings, and ask about hers. It’s that simple and that difficult.”
Ellie nods, feeling slightly childish herself. There isn’t much more to say, she only needs to face the reality of possible rejection.
“What if she’s not serious about this, and we have to keep working together?”
“Well then,” Fred says, getting up, “You’ll just finish it off somehow. From what I can see you’re kind of ahead. Look, I need to get going.”
He lost his bag somewhere, now looking all over Ellie’s room.
“Fred, the bag is in the kitchen,” she reminds him. Her memory has always been the best.