Page 82 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

“You can have your own stall and I’ll go back to busking,” he said just as if he hadn’t signed a record deal.

A thin, wiry guy with dark hair sticking up in ten different directions rolled a rack of tweed jackets over the grittycobblestones, and every kind of music played, blasting from boomboxes in stalls and buskers performing on the streets.

Gabriel tossed twenty quid into the open case of a saxophonist with braided locs playing ska music then slung his arm around my shoulders and steered me toward Camden Lock.

“I don’t think you’ll ever have to go back to busking.”

“I don’t care if we’re tortured Bohemian artists for the rest of our lives,” he said as we walked past houseboats rocking on the bottle-green water of Regent’s Canal. “In fact, I’d prefer it. What matters is the art. The process. The actualdoing. Creating something we can be proud of. Fuck the critics. Fuck the suits. No money in the world is worth selling out.”

We were still struggling artists, but our souls weren’t for sale. We had our convictions, and we had each other. We were happy to be in the trenches together.

That night, some of his heroes and favorite musicians came to watch him perform. Gabriel was so overwhelmed thattheywould come to seehim, that he barely spoke for two whole days afterward.

In Edinburgh, his fans followed him through the streets to a pub where he played for another two hours after the show.

In Paris, the fans embraced him like a long-lost son. He was the darling of France, the “chanteur.”

When we went to a bar with Annika after one of his shows, the proprietor asked him if he would sing. He was carrying a guitar.

“Still singing for my supper,” he griped, but he was a good sport so he played a few songs, and even sang one in French. Like a chanteur.

Annika was still trying to find herself in Paris and admitted that she was more attracted to Parisian girls than guys. “Kissing girls is so much sexier than kissing boys,” she said. “No offense, Gabriel.”

“None taken. I happen to agree with you.”

We laughed about that like three old friends. I could barely remember a time when he was dating Annika and not with me. She said she couldn’t either. “No two people are more perfect for each other than you and Gabriel.”

Europe loved him, and everywhere we went, he built a cult-like following.

I knew that he’d eventually win over America too.

We celebrated his 26th birthday in Vienna and my 24thin Milan. I gave him a shirt I made for him, and he gave me a stack of love letters, one for each day we were apart, and a brooch that looked almost exactly like the one I’d stolen from the flea market. A robin’s egg and a tiny pearl in a gold bird’s nest.

We were in a king-sized bed in Milan after his show when he tossed a small velvet pouch into my lap. “Where did you find this?” I turned it over in my hand, studying the delicate gold branches.

“I had it made for you.”

My God. This man. “How did I ever get so lucky?”

He gave me a dirty kiss and I forgot all about the brooch when he ripped off my panties, just ripped them right off my body and tossed them across the room.

That night we fucked like rock stars. Me, gripping the headboard with my ass in the air, and him pounding into me like it was an Olympic sport. The headboard kept banging against the wall, and I was screaming so loud that the entire hotel probably thought someone was getting murdered.

The following day he left for Australia with the band, and I flew home and got back to the drawing board to design my next collection.

Gabriel and I weren’t overnight successes, but our careers were starting to take off.

The weekend after my twenty-fourth birthday, I took the train up to Hudson Valley.

As soon as I walked through the door, my mom presented me with a gift I didn’t want. No fun plans on the agenda this weekend, apparently.

“Wouldn’t you rather take a walk or go into town and check out that art gallery.”

“As a matter of fact, I would.” She grabbed her car keys and headed right back out the door. “I’ll see you this evening.”

“You’re evil,” I called after her.

I sat at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and shot dagger eyes at the thick manuscript in front of me. I slid it closer.