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She heard the exhalation of air Vi let out before she turned away from the hurt expression in those eyes. With that, she gave into that overwhelming wish to get away and swept out of the office and out of the studio and kept walking, the crowds of Mercer Street swallowing her in their soothing bustle.
* * *
She didn’t returnthat afternoon, choosing to walk away rather than face the scrutiny of a makeup artist and a sharp-eyed interviewer while marked by hands and teeth in quite a few visible places.
Instead, she spent the rest of the day on the streets of Manhattan losing herself in the crowds and the movement of the city that never stopped and didn’t care. It felt good to be a speck of lint on the miles of the urban canvas.
Despite the pleasure of being unknown and lost in the crowd, she was aware she would pay for her willfulness and her irresponsible decision to waste the afternoon in light of their restrictive timeframe.
Her predicament became evident as soon as she returned to Chiaroscuro once the dusk was settling behind her on the now much emptier Mercer Street.
“At some point in the last five years you might’ve mentioned that you and Courtenay did more than solely stare at each other in a haze of longing and unrealized lust, Chiara.”
Aoife was on the stairs leading up to the atelier, her voice muffled by what looked like a churro she was chewing.
“There wasn’t any point in that.” Suddenly, hit by a tiredness that permeated her bones, Chiara sat down, hugging her knees and letting her chin rest on them.
“Point…” Aoife repeated the word as if it was foreign to her. Chiara reached over into her friend’s flannel shirt’s front pocket, trusting she’d find what she needed most in this moment. Faster than Aoife could swat at her, she pulled out the pack.
Aoife still batted her hands away, but offered her the lighter regardless, as Chiara wrapped her lips around a cigarette. The first drag was like a lover’s caress. She relished the sensation, the familiar movements, the taste of the smoke on her tongue.
“You quit.” Renate’s voice, in all its accusatory glory, sounded from behind them, and both of them jumped at the interruption. But Renate just waved them off and opened one of the massive windows overlooking the interior garden, letting in the sounds of the evening city. In the distance, a cacophony of sirens and screeching tires could be heard. Chiara closed her eyes.
“Did I screw up today?”
“If you mean the overall schedule, then no. Courtenay used the afternoon to get some pictures of the atelier itself. Hounded Aoife to pose for some action shots of ‘her process.’ As if Aoife has a method to her madness—”
“Hey, hey!” Aoife’s protest was ignored as Renate went on.
“But if you mean the whole thing about fucking the chief photographer instrumental to the success of your first Poise issue as a designer… A photographer who alsofucked you overfive years ago… One who just happens to be a Courtenay? Well, it seems you crossed that line already, Chiara. Please don’t tell me you did it simply because she was there. Then or now.”
“I don’t know why I did it now.” She still remembered the confusion, the anger, the guilt that were all eating her alive, and Vi provided such an outlet to all those emotions she herself was causing.
“And back then?” Aoife’s voice was quiet, even as she snatched the cigarette from between Chiara’s fingers, took a long drag, and handed it back to her. Before she was able to react, Renate reached for it, and they proceeded to sit in silence as her former sister-in-law polished it off and masterfully flicked it out of the open window.
“Isn’t that the million dollar question, Aoife? Because some things make so much sense now, Chiara.” Renate’s smile was sad. “All that guilt I couldn’t understand. With the divorce and with every reference to Courtenay herself. Must have choked you for all those years, didn’t it?”
“There was nothing I could do about it anyway.” Chiara pushed her guilt aside. She had told the truth. What good was wallowing when she did what she did, using Vi as a catalyst for her new life? Chiara shook her head before slowly unfolding herself from the stairs and took several steps towards the studio. At Aoife’s call for her to stop, she looked back down at her friends.
“Although I wasn’t able to do anything whatsoever about it then, maybe there is something I can do now. I certainly wasn’t expecting her. In fact, if you had told me I’d see her again, I would have been convinced I wouldn’t even have recognized her. And yet, it’s been years and I still knew those eyes, and they knew me. Not a stranger at all.” She ran her hand through her hair, decision made. “I’m sure you could wheedle her address out of Arabella, Renate.”
She deliberately did not phrase her request as a question, and the look on both Aoife and Renate’s faces told her they disapproved.
As she turned away, Chiara had to smile. If she had been thinking clearly, she too would disapprove. But she didn’t have the strength to stay away in those days either.
Five years was a long time to be numb. Vi had awakened her before. And Chiara wanted to be alive again. Plus, she had a debt to pay, and she was never one to renege on her debts.
19
IN A FARAWAY LAND OF ROSES AND DEBTS
Chiara Conti wasn’t sure what she’d envisioned when she knocked on the door of the attic apartment just a few blocks from Mercer Street. Her feet hurt, her heart thudded, and her mind reeled.
What was she doing here? What was she doing, period?
Hadn’t she done this once before? When she’d first entered the building, she had half expected a man to exit, like five years ago when she had been in a very similar situation.
Except this particular blue door, so much like Vi’s Parisian one, stayed closed, and the building sighed heavily around her in a suspended silence. A silence of anticipation, a silence of foreboding. One that spoke of something that was equally horrible and magical.
