4. 4 – Zella
I manage to lose a few hours, sinking yet again into Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet’s romance. My fingers only pause on the battered page when the light around me begins to dim, lazy afternoon settling into dusky evening.
Shifting to ease the tingling needles in the leg I’ve had tucked beneath me, I glance out of the window by habit, looking for any hint of the sun settling in for the night. But I never get to see the sun set. The apartment’s wall of windows stretches right across, but only on one side.
The sunrise is beautiful, though.
Stretching, I put the book away and double check through the apartment, stopping off in my bedroom.
Assessing myself in the mirror, my fingers smooth down the non-existent crinkles in my dress, shaking out the sleeves, and I just have time to brush out my hair one more time before the elevator dings.
Sixty seconds.
That’s how much notice I get, every time Ethan makes his way up. When the doors slide open, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Perfectly still, lined up alongside the statues, hands placed carefully in front of me.
I know the routine. Ethan has many little quirks . His aversion to touch being one. Just once, I wouldn’t mind a hug, but I don’t remember him ever touching anything but my hair. And, of course, there’s his obsession with cleanliness.
Perfection , he calls it.
I glance around. Nothing is out of place, nothing that will make his face pull down into that particular frown that tells me how disappointed he is. I hate that frown.
Today though, his face is creased in a smile as he steps out, carrying a large brown bag. He’s sharply dressed as usual, his gray suit buttoned neatly over a crimson shirt, the color a few shades darker than his hair. Although his hair has a few more strands of gray now than it used to.
The bag crinkles under his touch as he pauses, doing his customary sweep around the room. His smile widens, showing all of his teeth when he pauses on me. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
Crossing to the counter, he sets the bag of groceries down before walking over to me, pausing a foot or so away as his hazel eyes sweep over my dress, my body, my hair.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, and my muscles relax. “Your hair looks more beautiful every time I see you, Zella.”
Smiling, I rock back on my heels. “Thank you. How was your trip?”
“Productive.” He casts an assessing glance at the statues. “I may have another to join my collection soon.”
My lips part. A new statue. He hasn’t brought one for a long time, his frequent trips abroad as a renowned art dealer often unsuccessful. He’s very particular in his tastes.
“We might need to make some space, though. It’s looking a little busy in here.” Ethan walks over to where Dante sits, and my heart pulses inside my chest.
“There’s some space over there,” I blurt out, waving my hand. “Next to Maria.”
He tilts his head. “Hmmm. You may be right.”
I bite my lip as relief fills me.
I can’t lose Dante. Maybe it’s a little strange to have a statue as your best friend, but beggars can’t be choosers. And he’s a good listener.
“Now, then,” Ethan says briskly, turning to me. “Get those groceries packed away while I take a look around. There may be a little something in there for you.”
“Really?” Excitement curls around me as I try to move elegantly towards the bag, despite wanting to run over and rip it open. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says distractedly, already moving towards my bedroom. “Get yourself together, and I’ll be back.”
As Ethan carries out his inspection, I keep my ear out for any disapproving sounds, but it’s quiet. The whole apartment is spotless, my bed made, the bathroom back to its original clean state after the chaos of washing my hair earlier. Nothing for him to pick apart.
Unpacking the goods, I take a moment to thank the coffee gods when I spot a fresh bag of ground Italian coffee inside. A trophy from his recent trip.
Everything else gets packed away quickly, and I don’t find what I’m looking for until I reach the bottom. My fingers graze the brown paper, and I tug out the rectangular parcel with a grin.
“I know what this is,” I say delightedly to Ethan as he comes back in. Crossing his arms, he raises his graying eyebrows at me. His face looks more tanned than usual.
“You’d better open it then.”
Despite my excitement, I take my time unwrapping it, savoring every moment as the pretty red and white cover is revealed, embossed with gold foil that spells out the title.
“Jane Eyre,” I read out. Ethan nods.
“It’s a classic. You’ll enjoy it, I think.”
“I’m sure I will. Thank you, Ethan.” I add it to my shelf, and Ethan clears his throat.
Taking the hint, I pull the small leather stool from the corner and set it up in front of my armchair.
Ethan takes a seat as I head to my bedroom, taking out the special silver brush he brought me after a trip in Vienna several years ago.
When I’m seated, Ethan lifts his hands to my hair. I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of the brush moving through. So much nicer when my arms aren’t aching from the weight of trying to do it myself.
He gently works his way through, always starting at the ends and moving upwards. I can almost feel his fingers brush my back, but he’s careful to keep them away from me.
My hair is the only way he can touch me. We’ve never hugged, and as far as I know, he hasn’t picked me up since I was old enough to walk.
For a second, I try to imagine Ethan with a crying baby. The image doesn’t fit.
“Ethan?” I ask quietly. He hums an affirmative, so I take a breath. “How did you… look after me? When I was a baby, I mean. How did it work?”
His fingers pause in their work. I expect him to dismiss the question as he so often does, but he surprises me when he actually answers it. “I hired a nursemaid.”
I whip my head around, shock widening my eyes. “You did?”
He’s never once mentioned anybody else in our lives, not since my parents died. It’s always just been us. Always.
He nods, and I sense his slight irritation, so I turn my head back around obediently, holding my breath as I wait for more information. “An older woman. Her name was Maria.”
Maria. Like the statue, but I don’t mention that. Ethan has never been a fan of me giving his art names. I wonder if there’s a connection there that I never even realized. Maybe my subconscious was telling me the name was familiar.
I lapse into silence as Ethan describes his latest trip, the museums, the culture. “The art , Zella. You would have loved it. The statues are beyond comparison.”
“Maybe one day I’ll get to see them,” I murmur, and then I bite my lip as Ethan pauses again. “Did you get any photos?”
He relaxes. “A few. I’ll get some printed for you.”
I sit quietly until he’s satisfied and my hair falls in a silken sheet to the floor. “Exquisite,” he murmurs. “What do we say, Zella?”
I consider his question. “One must give value to their existence by behaving as if one’s very existence was a work of art.”
He chuckles. “Nietzsche had it right. You are flawless, Zella. The crowning jewel in my collection.”
I try to smile, but it feels a little forced, and he tilts his head.
“Art is difficult, Zella,” he says quietly. “And as Dali said, a true artist is not one who is inspired, but one who inspires others. And you are nothing if not inspiring.”
I glance down, thinking over his words. I have no wish to be a muse and nothing else. “Could it not be both?”
Thankfully, he laughs. “How is your sketching coming along?”
My smile becoming real, I pull out my sketchbook to show him. He glances through the pages, his eyebrows raising. “Not bad.”
“If I had some color,” I murmur, my eyes flicking to his face. “They could be better, I think.”
He flips the book closed with a slight snap. “Perhaps for your birthday. It’s coming up soon, I believe.”
“It is?” Not for the first time, I wish I had a calendar, but Ethan always forgets to bring it when I ask him. I’ll be twenty-three this year.
Twenty-three years of life. All of them lived within these walls.
My mouth opens, but Ethan is already standing, any potential moment for discussion quashed as he brushes himself off. “I’m sorry to leave so soon, but I have an event to attend this evening.”
Disappointment curdles in my stomach as I nod, wrapping my arms around my waist as I follow him to the elevator. My hair slides across the floor behind me like a sheet, and I wince as it catches on the leg of the stool. “Of course. Perhaps next time, you could bring the photos?”
He nods. “I’ll be back on Thursday.”
When I stare at him blankly, he laughs, a little awkwardly. “In two days.”
Right.
I suddenly feel uncomfortable, the weight of Ethan’s stare heavy. I normally hate him leaving, despising the silent emptiness he leaves behind, but tonight I find myself craving the space.
“This to go?” He points at the small bag of trash, carefully double-bagged and placed by the door. At my nod, he grabs it, setting it down inside the elevator before he turns back to me.
“Two days, Zella,” he reminds me. His eyes search my face, his irises darkening. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
I half-shrug, and wave a hand. “Of course. I’ll be… right here.”
I can’t stop the bitterness at the end of my words. Ethan’s brows fly up, his mouth opening, but the doors slide closed before he can respond. I wait for a moment to see if they open again, but instead the sliding lights appear, showing him heading back down.
I bite my lip. I don’t even know what down is. Does anyone else live in this building? Do I have people walking around underneath me?
The thought is comforting. I resolve myself to ask Ethan next time he comes, even though he won’t like it. I went through a stage of asking a lot of questions in my teenage years, until Ethan lost his temper.
I stopped asking after that, but maybe it’s time to ask again.
But thoughts of my birthday swirl inside my head as I make myself a coffee from the fresh supply, breathing in the familiar scent as I stare out of the window. There’s nothing to see up here, only my own eyes staring back at me in the darkness.
I thought a hot drink might help settle my shaking fingers, but it’s only getting worse.
Twenty-three. The thought of more years stretching out in front of me, lonely and cold in the vast expanse of this apartment, makes my throat close up.
A lifetime here. I may as well be one of the statues Ethan stores.
The tremor in my hands proves a little too much, and I cry out as the cup falls from my hands, smashing against the solid marble floor.
Hot coffee flies everywhere, hitting the wall, soaking into my dress, staining the floor. My hands continue to shake as I jump up to grab a cloth from the kitchen, frantically wiping and wiping until the only coffee left is the dark, damp stain spreading across the material I’m wearing.
Leaning back on my ankles, I realize my face is damp too. The tears come slowly, opening up into a flood as I bury my face in my hands.
I’m safe here. I’m safe. But I’m so lonely, too.