They ordered two Glenfiddich on the rocks…and smiled.
When Craig turned away, Veronica repeated, “I need a vacation.”
“A vacation!” Jack snapped, then lowered his voice. “Fine. We’ll go to Ocean City or something. Wherever you want.”
Veronica’s throat lurched. “I meant a vacation from you.”
There. She’d said it.
Jack’s eyes strayed down the bartop, then to the lilacs. He absently lit a cigarette and spewed smoke.
Experience, the thought kept coming back. “I need some time to myself,” she said. “Maybe that’s why things aren’t working. I need time to experience new things. I need—”
“I know. Wild oats,” he said. “That’s usually the guy’s line.”
“Artists need to experience new things. I really haven’t, and I need to…to be a better artist.”
Jack bitterly tapped an ash in the big Spaten tray. “Don’t bullshit me. This is about sex, isn’t it?”
Be honest! she shouted at herself. “Well, maybe that’s part of it,” she admitted.
“Getting laid by every swinging dick on the street is not going to make you a better artist, Veronica.”
There he went again. Hostility. Sarcasm. Petty jealousy. He didn’t even want to know what she meant.
He went on, “You’re famous now, and—”
“I’m not famous.”
Jack laughed. “TV interviews and news articles mean famous. Hey, Time magazine — that’s famous. ‘The herald of the postmodernist revival.’ ‘A celebration of the New Womanhood in art.’ I know. You’re hot stuff now, and I’m old news.”
Is that what he thinks? Goddamn him. Why should she feel guilty about being a success?
“Sometimes you’re the biggest asshole on earth,” she said.
He didn’t hesitate. “I know that. But let me tell you something, honey. If you’re looking for perfection, good luck. You ain’t gonna find it.”
Now she wanted to kick him as hard as she could. Were all men this immature, this pitiable?
He slumped at the barstool. Craig put their drinks down, knowing it best to walk away.
Jack’s voice sounded ruined and black. “But I still love you.”
I love you too, she thought oddly. But she couldn’t tell him that, not now. She must be honest. She must move on.
He was trying not to break apart in front of her. “I want us to give it one more shot,” he said.
Veronica gulped and said nothing. The pause unreeled like a long rope over a cliff.
“At least tell me this. Have there been other guys since we’ve been together? Just tell me. I’ve got to know.”
“I—” she said. She felt forged in ice. The truth, damn it! Tell him the truth!
“Just one,” she said.
Jack’s face looked about to slide off his skull.
“It wasn’t sexual. It was just, you know—”
“No. No, I don’t know. So tell me.”
She looked into her drink as if its depths possessed cabalistic answers. “It was rapport or something. He was the one who invited me to the retreat. When I met him…sparks flew.”
“Sparks flew!” Jack countered too loudly. “Sparks fly when my muffler falls off my car, but I don’t fall fucking in love with it!”
Craig looked on forlornly from across the bar; so did several customers. All Veronica could do was close her eyes.
“Our relationship is over, isn’t it? Yes or no?”
She looked everywhere but at him. “Yes,” she said.
He was nodding slowly, numbly, eyes shut. “So who’s the new guy? What’s his name?”
Veronica gazed again at the dying lilacs. “Khoronos,” she said. “His name is Khoronos.”
What was it about the man?
Certainly more than his looks. Veronica never let that sway her. Maybe just timing and place. Success could be obstructive a lot of the time. The show, the praise, the sales that Stewie had made. But that wasn’t it either. Something about the man himself. His air, perhaps.
“My name is Khoronos,” he’d announced in a faint, attractive accent she couldn’t place. “I’ve long been a voyeur of subjective psychology in modern art.”
Subjective psychology? He must be another critic. “Voyeur is a strange way of describing artistic enthusiasm.”
“Is it, Ms. Polk? Is it really?”
He stood six feet, dressed in a fine gray suit. Well postured, slender. She could tell he was in good shape by the way the suit fit. He looked late forties, early fifties, and had long grayish blond hair to his shoulders, which added to his dichotomy.
“Besides, Mr…Khoronos, I paint objectively.”
He smiled like his accent. Faintly. “Of course. Just as Faulkner said he never put himself into his books, and da Vinci never used himself as his own model. It’s every artist’s right to lie about the motivations of his or her art.”
Was he trying to insult her? She was lying, but like the man said, it was her right.
There was something about him, though. Just…something.
“Your work is brilliant,” he said.
The show had gone beautifully. She was used to them by now, and now that she’d broken somewhat into the big time, Stewie got her shows as frequently as possible, if not too frequently. A Post critic had shown up, so had someone from Connoisseur. The local papers had shown up too. When would they quit with the Local Girl Makes Good stories? But it was all very flattering, especially to a woman who hated to be flattered.
And now this man. This Khoronos.
“I appreciate your compliment,” she eventually said.
“Oh, it’s not a compliment, it’s an observation. If your work weren’t brilliant, I wouldn’t say it was.”
“What if my work sucked?”
“Then I would summon the necessary gall to tell you. But only if you asked me first, of course.”
Veronica liked him. He looked aristocratic, she thought; that or refined through some vast experience. His face was strikingly handsome — perfect hard angles and lines. His eyes were dark, yet she could not discern their color.
Inexplicably, Veronica felt a tingle.
“Why exactly are you interested in subjective psychology in modern art, Mr. Khoronos?”
“The feminine mystique, I suppose.”
“What?”
“Your paintings are emblematic of the things men can never understand about women,” he answered, half eyeing the canvas she stood before. “It’s your camouflage that rouses my…curiosities. Not necessarily what your art is saying in general, but what you are saying about yourself.”
“That’s fairly rude, Mr. Khoronos.”
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to be objective”—he smiled again—“to an objective painter.”
The canvas he addressed was her least favorite of the new batch. It was called Vertiginous Red. A tiny stick figure stood within a murky red terrain while swirls of darker red — blood red — weaved across the background. The figure looked abandoned, which was exactly what she wished to depict. “All right,” she challenged. “What does this painting say about me?”
His answer came unhesitantly. “It’s an expression of sexual ineptitude, since you asked. Disillusionment in, oh, I’d say a very young mind. This painting is about your very first sexual experience.”
Veronica tried not to react. Is this guy psychic? Vertiginous Red was her attempt to paint how she felt after her first time. She’d been seventeen. The boy had left her hurt, bleeding, and terribly…disillusioned. She’d never felt more unsure of the world.