Page 44 of Darling
“Sorry. Good. I’m glad.”
I study him. “Is eating something you have… an issue with or…?” I’d never picked up on anything like that with him, but I still don’t know much about him beyond some very intimate basics. Despite feeling insanely connected to him. I suppose disordered eating could be something he struggled with. Though I doubt he’d make an offhand remark like that if it was.
“Ah, no. Not at all. I just knew someone who did. He was extremely disciplined; it bordered on obsession. Calorie counting, shaming himself if he ate something he enjoyed. He got better, but it would still creep in sometimes.” His eyes round with tenderness, and coupled with the sensitivity in his voice, I know it has to be someone he cares about. I guess he could be talking about his son, but I don’t think he is.
“Your ballet dancer,” I say.
There’s a flash of something in his eyes as they meet mine, like he’s been caught doing something shameful, before they soften again. “He’s very much not mine. Not anymore.”
“Do you wish he was?” It’s out before I even have time to think about it. It sounds pathetic. I shake my head and force out a stilted laugh. “Shit, forget I said that. I have no idea why I did.”
“No,” says Christian. “I don’t wish that. He’s very happy now, and I’m very happy for him. We had a lovely time together, but he needed something I couldn’t give him.”Something I can’t give you either,is what the look in his eyes is saying.
I nod and turn to look out across the river. “So, how about we go grab something to eat and then go to my place.” I’m actually feeling a little hungry now. “You said whatever I wanted to do, we could do, right?”
“Within reason, yes.” Christian smiles indulgently.
“So, I’d really like to paint you. Like properly. Not from memory or whatever, but properly. You sitting right in front of me, maybe naked, while I do my thing.”
One dark eyebrow raises. “You want to paint me like one of your French girls?”
I blink, giving him a confused look. “I don’t… what French girl?”
He sobers, looking a little embarrassed. “Oh, it’s a movie reference. Quite a famous one. But it makes sense you wouldn’t have… never mind.”
I nudge him with my shoulder, playfully. “You’re really gonna have to get better at working out when I’m messing with you. Of course I knowthatreference: our cult wasn’t on the fucking moon. Yeah, I want you to be the Rose to my Jack.” I wink and start down the stairs. “Come on, I know this cool little Vietnamese place a few blocks over.”
??
The place is tiny, with four wooden tables, lanterns on the ceiling, and a couple old bicycles affixed to the wall. He orders the black pepper chicken with coconut rice and a side of noodle salad. I order the tofu and mushroom pho, which I’m fully expecting to have to ask them to bag up and let me take home.But I don’t. I finish the lot. I even have some of his noodle salad. He tells me a little about his job, this one and the previous one, and it becomes clear pretty fast that the previous one is most likely the cause of his heart attack. Negotiating the extradition of terrorists, peace treaties between warring nations, meeting with world leaders about foreign and diplomatic policies: it’s a lot to get my head around. But he explains it all well, and never once talks at me as though I might not understand. He’s articulate and intelligent and extremely diplomatic (ha ha) and reasoned even when talking about things which make my eyes pop. I imagine he got a lot of shit done in government. He has a really charming and persuasive way about him and comes off like he cares about people. He certainly seems to still care about the country he left behind, the politics of it all, the people, the way his country and his party seem to be shifting dangerously toward the right. It makes me wonder why he’s here at all, why he left. I can’t help but think of the ballet dancer. Did he leave England because of him?He’s very happy now, and I’m very happy for him.
It had sounded like the truth when he said it. But maybe their break-up had been devastating to Christian, just like losing his wife had been, and he couldn’t stand being in the same country watching him make a life with someone else. Why am I even thinking about this? This isn’t—
“What do you think?” Christian asks, cutting through the spiral.
“Huh? What? Sorry?”
“You were miles away.” He smiles fondly.
“Sorry, I was listening. Mainly.” He waits. “I mean, I didn’t hear that last part. What do I think about what?”
“About this weekend. I was thinking perhaps I could manufacture some reason to take a trip out of state. Somewherequiet. To rest.” He gives me a meaningful look. A look that means we’d be doing a very specific sort of resting. “We’d be able to be alone, together.”
My heart leaps giddily. “You wanna take me out of state?”
“Well, not against your will. But if you don’t have plans.” He brings his head a little closer and lowers his voice. “I’d love to be alone with you somewhere.”
Fuck, his voice. When he lowers it like that and looks at me like that, I don’t even know what ballet dancing is. Double fuck.
“Shit. I can’t. I can’t do this weekend. I’m going to New Jersey on Friday. I have a shoot, and I can’t cancel. I really can’t.” If I cancelled on Cole again, I wouldn’t blame him for refusing to ever work with me again. I don’t want the reputation that I’m a flake, that I cancel constantly and fuck up everyone’s plans. Plus, this is my job, and I need to pay rent.
Some interesting expression has come over Christian’s face. It’s not disappointment, it’s closer to consideration, even calculation.
“A shoot? I assume you mean…”
“Yeah, I mean.”
I see his eyes spark with something, and I know—I think—he’s imagining it. He’s into this kind of thing; he liked watching me get fucked, so yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening. I meet his eyes and flick my tongue over my straw.