I’m not sure how the conversation started, but a shrink I was seeing after a painful breakup with a boyfriend told me I obsessed about small, unimportant details. She said it in an almost accusatory way, as though it were part of a personality disorder. I didn’t agree then, but driving home with the sun getting lower and the sky growing smoky dark, it occurred to me that she might be right, because I was fixating on the black tin of Fauchon tea with the yellow logo. It was just a stupid, unimportant, overpriced tin of tea, something he could have gotten anywhere—still, it didn’t strike me as something Luke would buy. Fauchon tea went with Frank Cooper’s marmalade, the queen’s favorite, and French roast coffee. It went with smoked salmon and kippered herring. It wasn’t a staple in the kitchen of a man who went to bed without dinner because he couldn’t afford food. I noticed it the way I would have if I had been watching a movie about a poor family and saw a Baccarat vase in the living room.
It occurred to me then that he didn’t even make a cup for himself. He was probably a coffee drinker. If that were the case, how did it get there and who was it for? He had just come from Paris and it was a new tin, so more than likely it was bought there. So now Kyla was in the picture. Assuming she bought it, how did it end up in Luke’s house? Was she out there? Did she drop it off? Did she have it in the morning for breakfast? The more I thought about that scenario, the more likely it appeared. They probably went shopping together in Paris, she bought the tea and left it at his house so she could have it for breakfast. She had probably been to his house before. She knew the kitchen cabinets would be empty. No wonder Luke showed no interest in me, other than the perfunctory compliment to keep me posing for him—he was sleeping with her.
I should have snooped around—checked the medicine cabinet or the bathroom closet. Maybe I would have seen a robe. I imagined her wrapping herself in a flowing black silk kimono she bought on a trip to Japan, or a long white robe of Italian silk from Como. More likely she didn’t have anything other than the clothes she wore when she got there. They made love, she stayed over and wore his shirt. There was probably one hanging somewhere with her perfume on it. The name of her fragrance came to me then—Guerlain’s Nahema—heavy, floral, with hyacinth and rose. More complex and Old World than the beachy or citrus scents women like me wore. Someone I knew who worked at Bergdorf’s used it. It was provocative, like Kyla.
I fed Harry when I got home, then climbed into a hot bath and stayed under water until my fingers shriveled. Going out there and seeing him was worse than not going. I turned off the light by nine. I hadn’t done anything more strenuous than sitting and then driving home. Why did I feel so exhausted and beaten down?
In the morning I sat up in bed and stared out the window at the high-rise across the street. Cars battling their way up Third Avenue announced themselves with blasts from their horns. A fire engine made sure no one slept late.
I thought about Luke in his house on Long Island. How would it be to wake up out there—in his bedroom? Where would I have slept? Would anything have happened?
• • •
Between the hours of nine and ten, when most people were asleep, out running, or just lounging at home and reading the paper, I was playing mind games with myself.
The hell with him, I wouldn’t go back there.
I would. I agreed to let him paint me. He needed to finish.
He kept me out in the cold, oblivious to everything except his sketchbook. I was an object. Go all the way back like someone with no self-respect?
Was he really so bad? Maybe that was my slanted take on it. Or maybe he really was cold and indifferent. Or he didn’t like the way his sketches were going. Or he didn’t like his model. It didn’t matter. I looked at the clock and thought about going back to sleep versus lining up at Avis and punching myself up for another long afternoon of sitting out in the cold. I pulled up the blanket and the decision made itself.