SHE WAS BLOND. SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL. AND SHE WAS DOOMED.
The tragedy was etched into her face as she slipped from her lover’s grasp and plunged backward into the abyss, their fingertips an agonizing inch apart, a single tear escaping her piercing blue eyes, the drama of their entire lifetimes captured in that single pivotal moment.
I didn’t know her name. Her age. Where she lived. If she had a job. Whether she survived the fall. But I did know what she was thinking: I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN I’D NEVER HANG ON TO A GUY AS GOOD AS JEFF. Lichtenstein had written it in a speech bubble when he created her, back in 1964. That was all the information he’d given us, apart from the title. The Break-up. And I knew that because Troye had written it on the appraisal, back when I bought her.
“Is that how you picture us?” Carolyn took me by surprise. I hadn’t heard her come into the study behind me. “Are you Jeff? And is she me? I always wondered.”
“No, I’m not Jeff.” I turned to face her, and struggled to keep the dismay from showing when I saw she was still wearing her office clothes. “You’re not her. And I resent the implication.”
“But that’s where you were, right? This morning. When I couldn’t reach you? I was frantic, and you were at the gallery.”
“Right. I like it there.”
“You lose your job, and instead of talking to your wife, you go look at stupid overpriced cartoons. Don’t you think that’s just a little bit messed up, Marc?”
“You’re jealous of a painting? Is that what this is about? Because that’s ridiculous, Carolyn.”
“I’m not jealous.” Her tone turned icy. “And I wouldn’t call it a painting, either. I just think you’d relate to me better if I covered myself with dots and stood motionless against the wall.”
“You don’t think we relate well enough? Seriously? What does that even mean?”
“I get that this is difficult for you, seeing as you only understand things that don’t have a pulse. I realize it must be hard, not having any friends, to grasp the concept of listening to another person. And I know it might not get the needles spinning on your precious geek-ometer. But I really, really need you to stop. Take a moment. Open your ears. And hear what I’m telling you.”
“If you have something to say, say it. No need to insult me first.”
“For goodness’ sake, do you not understand? Do you need me to send an email?”
“What? I don’t know what you want.”
“The data, obviously.” She held out her hand. “Give it to me.”
“What is it with you and that damn data? Why don’t we just forget about it, and go in search of tequila instead?”
“No.” She shook her head, definitively. “We’re not going to forget about it. I need you to give it to me. Right now. As your wife, Marc, and after everything we’ve ever been through together, I’m asking you. Please. I need you to do this one, simple thing for me.”
I wanted to help her—really—and not just because of the thunder in her eyes. But before I could figure out how, I was hit by a vision of Roger LeBrock, standing behind her, pulling her strings. And he wasn’t just asking me to pass back some data. He was asking me to pass up a golden opportunity—maybe a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—to create something truly amazing. I could understand why he wouldn’t care about that, but what about Carolyn? What earthly reason was there for my wife to side with him?
Then it struck me. All Carolyn could see when she thought of the data was base metal. The same thing everyone else could see. The vision of the gold it could become was still in only one place. Inside my head. She should have trusted me—I was annoyed that she didn’t—but if I explained to her what I was planning, I knew she’d soon understand.
“If your man Roy was going to paint what happens next in our lives, what would he call it?” Carolyn broke my train of thought. “The Kiss what? How many of them did he do? Forty-seven? Or The Break-up Two?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m telling you to make a choice. Give me the data you stole, and we’ll go forward, together. Refuse, and you’ll lose me as sure as Jeff lost that bimbo on the wall behind you.”
“You’ll walk out over a bunch of someone else’s data? You haven’t even let me tell you what I need it for, yet. If I could just—”
“That’s your decision?” She turned away, then stopped. “I’m really disappointed, Marc. But you’ve made your choice. Now live with it.”
“Wait. Come back. Let’s start this conversation again. Talk things through properly.”
She strode the whole length of the hallway, then paused with one hand on the front door handle, breathing heavily. For a moment she was transformed into the girl I’d fallen in love with at college, all those years ago. Lost. Out of breath. An air of bewilderment adding spice to her beauty as she blundered into my lecture theater. My pulse spiking dangerously before she realized her mistake and retreated from the room.
Back then, it had taken me two days to track her down. And another three to conjure an opportunity to speak to her. But now, before I could say another word she yanked open the door and walked out of our house, not bothering to close it behind her.
“You bastard, Marc.” She fired her parting shot without even turning her head. “You selfish, miserable bastard. You have no idea what damage you’ve done.”