Chapter Fourteen #2
Eventually, of course, it’s inevitable that he’ll see it.
I wince at the thought. There won’t be anything specifically to say it’s him, but of course the implication is going to be obvious.
Oh well, I’ll worry about that when it happens.
He knows I’ve been given the commission, and I’m sure he’ll have guessed what it entails.
Placing his portrait back on the easel, I study it with a smile. He won’t be here for a few hours yet. I would still rather work on the finer details with him in front of me, but the base colors need some more work. So I put on some music, squirt some paint onto a palette, and start painting.
After a couple of hours, I have the foundation how I want it. I clean the palette and brushes, then head to my bedroom, feeling the first flutter of nerves in my belly.
I take a shower and wash my hair, then use the hairdryer until it’s almost dry and roll it up in bendy rollers.
My hair is naturally wavy, but these give it a lift and a prettier curl.
Leaving my hair to dry, I do my make up carefully in neutral shades that compliment my skin, then spend some time choosing what to wear.
I joked about serving dinner just in an apron and I’m prepared to do that if the mood is right, but I know that in many ways it’s sexier to wear an outfit that needs removing than to appear naked at the start.
Normally at home I’d wear jeans or yoga pants or shorts, but I don’t want to wear trousers today.
I’ll never be able to compete with the elegant Eleanor, nor with the driven businesswomen he mixes with every day. Equally I don’t want to go slutty. I’m an artist, and I think he quite likes my boho look as it’s different from what he’s used to.
So I choose a light-blue dress that comes to just above the knee with short sleeves and a deep V neckline, with terracotta-colored embroidery that seems perfect for an autumn afternoon.
I leave my legs bare. When my hair’s dry, I take out the rollers and run my fingers through it so it tumbles around my shoulders, then add a flower clip to the side.
By now, it’s getting close to six, so I return to the kitchen and put the oven on for the garlic bread and lay the table, choosing to stay inside tonight, as it’s started to rain lightly.
I give the meatballs a stir and put on some rigatoni pasta.
Then, once it’s bubbling nicely, I go over and sit on the seat in the bay window, overlooking the drive.
It’s raining more heavily now, pattering on the gravel.
There’s no sign of Spencer’s Bentley. I pull up my legs, wrap my arms around my knees, and rest my temple on the window.
Suddenly, it occurs to me that he might not come.
I know he has reservations about seeing me, and he’s had a whole day for his brain to come up with reasons this is a bad idea.
Surely he’d have texted me by now, though?
He wouldn’t just not turn up? No, he’s far too polite for that.
I pick up my phone, but no messages are waiting.
It’s only just gone six. He might still turn up.
At ten past, I’m still waiting. I turn off the pasta and drain it, add it to the crockpot, stir it in, then turn the crockpot off. I’m just putting the garlic bread on an oven tray when my phone buzzes.
My heart sinks as I pick it up, convinced he’s going to say he’s not coming. My jaw drops, though, as I realize the message isn’t from him. It’s from my ex, Connor.
I stare at it, shocked. I haven’t heard from Connor since I walked out of our apartment over a year ago, after I found out he’d been cheating on me. He didn’t try to defend himself. He didn’t run after me. And he didn’t try to convince me to stay. So why on earth is he texting me now?
I open the message, and my eyes widen. It says I’m outside. Can I come in?
I text back, Outside where?
Your parents’ house , he says.
I stride back to the bay window. Sure enough, a car is sitting on the drive, its lights illuminating the rain. I recognize it—it’s his father’s Ford.
Fuck.
My heart bangs as I tug the curtains shut. What do you want? I text back, my hands shaking.
Just to talk. I’m walking toward the door.
No , I text hurriedly, I’m not letting you in.
But at that moment he rings the doorbell, and I jump.
I walk through to the hallway, seeing his figure through the glass door. Oh fuck. Now what do I do? My spine stiffens with resentment. This is my house, and I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to let him in.
Equally I want him to go in case Spencer does decide to turn up. So I summon all my courage and open the door.
Connor stands there, hands jammed in his pockets, shivering slightly as the rain sluices across him. He’s a good-looking guy, tall with dark-blond hair, but he looks older and more tired than the last time I saw him.
“Hey, Mama.” He sings it the way he always used to—it’s the opening line of a Kanye West song. “Can I come in?”
I glare at him. “No. Go away.”
“Marama, come on, please, it’s fucking cold out here. Let me in. I just want to talk.”
“No, I’m expecting someone.”
His eyebrows rise. “Who?”
It annoys me that he assumed I’d still be single, as if I’d never find anyone else. “None of your business.”
A fresh sheet of rain cuts across him, and he shivers. “This is ridiculous, I can’t talk to you like this. I’m going to come in.”
“No…” I go to close the door, but to my alarm he puts a foot out to stop it and pushes past me. He’s bigger than me and he takes me by surprise, so I have no chance to stop him. My heart races as I suddenly realize I’m completely alone here. “I want you to leave,” I state loudly.
“I just want to talk.” He shakes his head, sending droplets flying. He’s always been like this. Doing exactly what he wants with no regard for me.
“What about?” I push the door a little closed to stop the rain coming in, but make sure to leave it open so he knows I’m not capitulating.
I don’t think he’d do me any harm, but I keep my phone in my hand anyway, ready to dial for help if I need it.
“I can’t imagine what you think you have to say to me.
I haven’t heard from you for over a year. ”
He frowns. “I know. I didn’t think there was any point in contacting you. You’d made up your mind that it was over.”
“I don’t know how you manage to make it sound as if it’s my fault it ended.”
He has the grace to look ashamed at that. “That wasn’t my intention. I know what I did was wrong. And I needed to say I’m sorry.”
I give him a baffled look. “Why now, after all this time?”
He runs a hand through his wet hair, then slides his hands back into his jeans pockets and hunches his shoulders. “My therapist said I should see you and apologize, face to face.”
That surprises me. He was always very dismissive of counseling, and he’d be the last person I’d expect to go. “Why are you seeing a therapist?”
He shrugs. “My depression has been super bad since you left.”
Something shifts inside me as he says that.
His depression played a huge part in our lives when we were together.
For a narcissist like Connor, it was the absolute worst condition he could have.
When he was bad, he became incredibly self-centered, able to concentrate on nothing but himself.
I was heartbroken when we broke up, but as time went by, I began to realize how his moods overshadowed my life, as if his depression was a monolith that blocked out the sun.
I no longer have to deal with that, and it’s only now that I understand what a relief it’s been to be free. I wasn’t sure I was over him, but I’ve healed without realizing it.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell him, meaning it. “But I’m glad you’re having therapy. Is it helping?”
“A bit.”
“So… are you going to, then?”
He frowns. “Going to what?”
“Apologize, Connor. For cheating on me.”
He runs his tongue over his teeth. Then he says, “I am sorry.”
My throat tightens. I’ve longed for his apology, but now he’s delivered it, even though it’s possible he means it, it hasn’t brought the consolation I’d expected. “Why did you do it?” I whisper. “Why did you cheat on me? I thought we were happy.”
“Who knows why these things happen?”
I glare at him. “Well that’s a fucking childish statement.”
He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry when you don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it.”
My hands clench into fists. “This is pointless. I don’t even care if you do mean it. The fact is that your cheating isn’t the only reason I left. I was pregnant, and you wanted me to get rid of it.”
Impatience flitters across his face. “Why are you bringing this up again? You had a miscarriage—there was no decision to make.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
I grit my teeth. “Why are you here, exactly?” My spidey senses are tingling. A cheating ex doesn’t travel in the rain just for closure. “What’s really going on?”
“Nothing!” He wipes his face. “Can I have a towel?”
I blow out an angry breath. “Stay here.” I march off and retrieve a towel from the bathroom, then come back out. To my annoyance, he’s gone into the living room. “I told you to say put.”
He reaches out and takes the towel from me without comment and wipes his face.
It strikes me then that it’s Friday, not the weekend. It would take him an hour to fly to Auckland, and at least another forty minutes or so to get here on the ferry. He can’t have worked until five. “Have you been at work today?” I ask.
He looks sullen. “I’ve been laid off.”
“Oh…” He’s a lecturer in art history. I’d heard that the university was cutting back; I guess art history was one of the first subjects to take a hit. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He rubs his hair, then clears his throat. “I saw that article in Kōrero about the auction you took part in at Lumen. I was really proud of you—you’re doing so well.”
I don’t reply. When I was with him, he was quick to tell me that artists rarely sold enough pieces to make a living. I can only imagine it rankles that I’m starting to be successful.
“And I heard you’re going to have an exhibition at Lumen,” he continues. “That’s really impressive.”
“What do you want, Connor?”
“I don’t want anything,” he says defensively. Then he shrugs. “But I was planning to write to the owner, and I thought maybe you’d be able to put in a good word for me, you know, for old time’s sake…”
Fury billows through me. “How dare you come to me now that I’m doing well, and ask for my help after you cheated on me.”
“I said I was sorry,” he says indignantly.
“You think a half-hearted apology makes up for what you did?”
“Oh, get off your high horse,” he snaps. “Not everyone has Daddy ready to bail them out if they get in trouble. Most of us have to do what we can to get ahead.”
“I can’t believe you.” Exasperated and almost tearful with fury, I gesture at the door. “I want you to leave.”
For the first time, a touch of panic lights his eyes.
“No, come on,” he says, trying to backtrack, “I’m sorry.
I’m at my wits’ end, that’s all, and it’s scaring me a bit.
The economic situation is absolutely dire, and art history isn’t exactly at the top of anyone’s list. I just need a bit of help, and then I promise I’ll leave you alone. ”
“You didn’t come here to apologize at all,” I snap. “You came here because you saw that article, you realized my star is rising, and you decided to hang onto my coattails. Well, I’m not interested in helping you after what you did.”
“Don’t be so spiteful. Come on, for old time’s sake…”
“Stop saying that. I don’t owe you anything. I want you to leave, now.”
He moves toward me and grasps my wrist. I step back, alarmed at the flare of bitterness and anger in his eyes, but he refuses to let go, and I exclaim as his grip tightens.
I’ll never know what might have happened next, though, because behind me someone snaps, “Take your hands off her,” and relief floods me as I turn and see Spencer standing there, eyes blazing.