Chapter 8 #2
“Your mother picked the Met,” he shouted at her.
“It wasn’t my parents’ idea. Maybe your mother is the one trying to show off, with my parents’ friends.
” What he was saying to her was hurtful and rude, and tears sprang to her eyes.
He walked over to her then and grabbed her arm and held it in a viselike grip, which hurt her.
His eyes were like fire and his face intense.
“Stop complaining about my parents,” he said.
On the heels of the miserable vacation she had just spent with them, it was even more upsetting.
The Whitfields had made disparaging comments about her mother and sister.
They liked her father and not her mother, because he was a snob and in the Social Register, their bible, and they considered her mother foreign, which they didn’t approve of.
“Let go of my arm,” Felicity said quietly. She had seen the same look in his eyes the night they got engaged and she was frightened, but she wasn’t going to let him do it again.
“I’ll do worse than grab your arm if you talk shit about my parents again.
You’re saying they’re cheap, aren’t you?
Why should they spend a bunch of money on the rehearsal dinner when they don’t have to?
Your mother is trying to make up for what she lacks socially.
My parents don’t have to do that, they’re blue blood through and through.
Your grandparents weren’t even married, so don’t put on airs with me.
” Felicity knew his mother had been harping on that for two years, and she wanted to slap Taylor for what he said, but she didn’t.
He stormed into the bedroom then, and came out in his running clothes five minutes later, bundled up for the cold.
“I’m going out for a run,” he said, and slammed the door when he left.
Felicity’s heart was pounding and she was furious with him.
Her mother had been nothing but nice to him and his parents, and Felicity was sorry she had been.
They didn’t deserve it. She loved Taylor but not his parents.
She thought his mother was petty and mean-spirited and his father was boring and a drunk.
She took a bath while he was out, and was just putting on a robe when he got back from his run.
He was dripping with sweat, his cheeks were red from the cold.
He came into the bathroom and slipped a hand into her robe, and fondled her breast and her nipple, and gently pulled on the tie to her bathrobe, and it dropped to the floor as her robe fell open.
She didn’t want to make love, she was tired and exasperated, but she didn’t want to refuse him and make him angry at her again.
She could see that he had calmed down, and he kissed her hard and pressed against her, in his clammy wet clothes and sweat as he held her to him.
“I’m tired, Taylor,” she said softly, trying to free herself from his grip, and he looked at her, getting angry again.
“What does that mean? What’s happening to you?”
“You were furious an hour ago and shouting at me, now you want to have sex? This wedding is putting too much pressure on us. We didn’t need to get married. It could have waited.”
“Why? So you can check out other guys?”
“I don’t want other guys. I want you. I just don’t want to fight with you all the time about the wedding, how many guests we have, who’s paying for what. I never wanted a big wedding, your parents did. But we’re getting married. They’re not.”
“Maybe we won’t get married either,” he said, and she didn’t respond as he slid a hand between her legs, still dripping sweat on her from his face.
He wanted to make love to her and he could see that she didn’t, but he needed the release from all the pressures at work and her nagging him about the wedding.
She could sense how tense he was as he pressed her up against the bathroom wall, and ground against her, with his fingers inside her, and then he kissed her hard and she stopped resisting him, to avoid his becoming violent with her.
She let him do what he wanted. He pushed her to drop to her knees on the bathroom floor to arouse him further and he groaned, pulled her back up again, and entered her with a sharp thrust, pressing her against the wall and pounding into her.
He was more aggressive with her sexually lately.
He didn’t rape her again, but she could sense it wouldn’t have gone well if she refused him, so she didn’t.
He came fast and shuddered inside her. She hadn’t resisted him, and it was over in minutes.
She got in the shower with him afterward and washed his sweat off her.
He kissed her neck as they got out of the shower, bent and nipped at her nipple.
She just wanted to get it over with, and avoid his getting enraged or violent again.
He had calmed down at dinner, and they avoided talking about the wedding for the rest of the evening.
They went to bed early and he wanted to have sex again.
She pretended to be asleep. She wasn’t in the mood.
Sometimes it was just sex with him, and sometimes it was lovemaking.
She loved it when he was gentle and kind.
Taylor had a sweet side to him. And a harsh side.
Lately the harsh side was more in evidence.
The wedding was stressful for both of them.
And sex always relieved tension for him, and he was gentle afterward, so she gave in to him.
It had been sex that night, and not lovemaking, but he was happy afterward.
As she drifted off to sleep she remembered that she had forgotten to take her pill that morning.
She was late for work and meant to take it that night.
She tried to stay awake to get up and take it before she fell asleep, but she was too tired to move and asleep before she could get up.
The last thing she thought as she fell into a deep sleep was that she would take two in the morning, that would be good enough.
She had done that before and it had worked.
Then she fell asleep until morning. She took both pills at breakfast to cover the day she’d missed and forgot about it.
* * *
Felicity went to buy art supplies that day, and some new canvases.
She ran into an old friend from Yale, Fred Miller, and she chatted with him for a few minutes.
He told her he was moving to Berlin for the art scene there, and asked how she was doing.
She hadn’t seen him in several months, so they caught up at the counter.
“I’m having a show in June,” she said, smiling, “and getting married.” They’d been good friends at school, but had drifted apart after they graduated.
During the past ten years they’d run into each other occasionally, and had lunch to catch up.
He hadn’t married yet either, he was very intense about his art.
His style was more contemporary than hers, and he’d had a few shows at small galleries in New York, in Chelsea and SoHo and the West Village.
“Getting married?” He looked surprised. He was short with dark hair, attractive but not her type.
She liked her men tall, lean, and blond, like Taylor.
“What happened? You always said you would never get married until you were at least thirty-five. Prince Charming came along and changed all that? I just broke up with my girlfriend of five years. She got tired of starving for my art. She wants a guy who can pay for dinner at a nice restaurant. Does your fiancé have a job?” Felicity was so discreet that he had never known she had money and still didn’t.
“Is Prince Charming employed? I guess starving gets old.” He smiled at her.
He had always liked her and admired her work ethic and her talent.
“Yes, he has a good job on Wall Street,” she said with a sigh. “Sometimes that’s not enough.”
“Uh-oh. Cold feet? Yours, I mean.”
“Sometimes. And you’re right, I didn’t want to marry this soon. He and his parents insisted and he’s close to them and wanted to make them happy.” She was honest with Fred. They’d been good friends and had never dated.
“And what about you? Are you happy?” he asked her. She didn’t seem like it to him. She looked worried.
“Sometimes. It’s distracting trying to make a relationship work and keep everyone satisfied while I’m trying to focus on working to get ready for my show, and the wedding planning takes a lot of time, with a million decisions and arguments.
The wedding is in June, right after my show.
I can’t concentrate on both.” She looked stressed when she said it.
“Tell me about it. I finally decided that my art is more important to me than my love life, so we broke up and I’m going to Berlin.
It’s the right thing for me for now. She’ll find her prince who’ll pay for dinner.
That’s not me. Yet. Maybe one day, but not now.
I’m thirty-one, and this is my time to work my ass off, find a great gallery, and make something of myself.
She’s thirty-six and desperate for a husband and babies.
I can’t even afford myself, let alone a wife and kids.
I’m not her guy. It was fun, but it wasn’t right for me.
I still love her, but it’s kind of a relief to get away from the pressure and her expectations.
Does your future husband respect your work?
That’s so important,” he told her, and she thought about it.
“Not really. People who’re not involved with art always treat it like a hobby, something you can do later in your spare time. I keep my eye on that, though. He wanted me to postpone my show so we could get married on his parents’ anniversary.”
Fred looked horrified. “And did you?”
“Of course not. But I just spent a week with them in Vermont, listening to them make comments about my art.”
“Are you sure he’s the guy?” He sounded skeptical, and didn’t like the sound of it for her.