casual announcement.
She’d been so close to telling him more about her aversion to medical procedures. Revealing her inner horror, one that amounted to phobia, had been her declaration of trust, but perhaps he thought differently and saw her as needy, something she hadn’t been for a very long time. He wouldn’t know the battles she’d had with her overprotective mother. The way Vashti had insisted on making her own decisions on her career after she’d hit twenty, tried to break away before the final argument and the moment’s inattention that had led to the car accident. The way she gritted her teeth and got on with her recovery, suffering numerous operations to put her body together until she thought she’d go mad with tension and her therapist had advised her to take time off before she had a complete breakdown.
Perhaps she was a coward, after all. Perhaps he was right and it was time she got on with her life, found out what came next. It wasn’t going to be Zoltan .
So why wait? His comment left Vashti shocked and humiliated. She had never let anyone into her life that far before. And if this was the result, she never would again. She could start the game of ‘maybe,’ but it wouldn’t change anything.
He’d never seen her as a permanent fixture in his life, never considered the possibility. And she wasn’t about to wait around to find out. No more. Fuck him.
When Zoltan returned to the studio with a tray, he found an empty room and a note.
“ I need to go. V. ”
Nothing else. He tried to go back to work, but he couldn’t manage it so he called it a day.
Chapter Four
Three months later. The
Guggenheim
Museum
,
New York
.
Standing outside the retrospective with his agent, Zoltan felt a moment of dread, something he was unaccustomed to. He’d always presented his art for what it was—take it or leave it—but this time he felt undeniably nervous. Not because of the art, but because of her. He’d sent her an invitation, but she hadn’t replied. He deserved that.
Three months hadn’t been long enough to get her out of his heart. Three years wouldn’t be enough, or thirty for that matter. After she left, it had taken him a month to stop reaching for her in the night. When he’d tried to contact her to apologise, to fucking beg her to come back, her agent had refused to say where she was, except that she was not at home. He’d made other enquiries, without result. Until last week, when his agent had received a cool little email informing him that she would attend the Guggenheim opening night.
Right now that was all he cared about.
Crowds were gathering, and some recognised him. He gave his agent a quick smile, trying to relax, but Tom knew him better than that.
His first comment had been, “You haven’t been eating, but that’s nothing new. What’s wrong, Ed?”
Zoltan hadn’t replied, only ordering Tom, yet again, not to call him Ed. Tom never did it when anyone could overhear, but once he’d discovered Zoltan’s first names, he’d howled with laughter and had used the derivative constantly. Deep down, Zoltan liked it. Usually. Not today.
Dressed in a black mandarin-collared jacket, with hidden bright orange satin lining and slim trousers, his unruly hair cut by an artist into a sleek, backswept style, Zoltan knew he looked every inch the enigmatic artist. He always used suits in this style in public, but he had them in a myriad of colours, making up for the lack of colour in his abstract work. Today had been a black day, but he’d kept the orange shirt and jacket lining as his symbol of hope.
So far she hadn’t come but he wouldn’t stop looking for her. Perhaps she’d appear after the opening, when he was busy talking to the public.
He turned to his agent with a smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m nervous, I guess. They might hate what I’ve done.”
“Would that make any difference to what you do?”
He shrugged. “No. I’ll go my own
She’d been so close to telling him more about her aversion to medical procedures. Revealing her inner horror, one that amounted to phobia, had been her declaration of trust, but perhaps he thought differently and saw her as needy, something she hadn’t been for a very long time. He wouldn’t know the battles she’d had with her overprotective mother. The way Vashti had insisted on making her own decisions on her career after she’d hit twenty, tried to break away before the final argument and the moment’s inattention that had led to the car accident. The way she gritted her teeth and got on with her recovery, suffering numerous operations to put her body together until she thought she’d go mad with tension and her therapist had advised her to take time off before she had a complete breakdown.
Perhaps she was a coward, after all. Perhaps he was right and it was time she got on with her life, found out what came next. It wasn’t going to be Zoltan .
So why wait? His comment left Vashti shocked and humiliated. She had never let anyone into her life that far before. And if this was the result, she never would again. She could start the game of ‘maybe,’ but it wouldn’t change anything.
He’d never seen her as a permanent fixture in his life, never considered the possibility. And she wasn’t about to wait around to find out. No more. Fuck him.
When Zoltan returned to the studio with a tray, he found an empty room and a note.
“ I need to go. V. ”
Nothing else. He tried to go back to work, but he couldn’t manage it so he called it a day.
Chapter Four
Three months later. The
Guggenheim
Museum
,
New York
.
Standing outside the retrospective with his agent, Zoltan felt a moment of dread, something he was unaccustomed to. He’d always presented his art for what it was—take it or leave it—but this time he felt undeniably nervous. Not because of the art, but because of her. He’d sent her an invitation, but she hadn’t replied. He deserved that.
Three months hadn’t been long enough to get her out of his heart. Three years wouldn’t be enough, or thirty for that matter. After she left, it had taken him a month to stop reaching for her in the night. When he’d tried to contact her to apologise, to fucking beg her to come back, her agent had refused to say where she was, except that she was not at home. He’d made other enquiries, without result. Until last week, when his agent had received a cool little email informing him that she would attend the Guggenheim opening night.
Right now that was all he cared about.
Crowds were gathering, and some recognised him. He gave his agent a quick smile, trying to relax, but Tom knew him better than that.
His first comment had been, “You haven’t been eating, but that’s nothing new. What’s wrong, Ed?”
Zoltan hadn’t replied, only ordering Tom, yet again, not to call him Ed. Tom never did it when anyone could overhear, but once he’d discovered Zoltan’s first names, he’d howled with laughter and had used the derivative constantly. Deep down, Zoltan liked it. Usually. Not today.
Dressed in a black mandarin-collared jacket, with hidden bright orange satin lining and slim trousers, his unruly hair cut by an artist into a sleek, backswept style, Zoltan knew he looked every inch the enigmatic artist. He always used suits in this style in public, but he had them in a myriad of colours, making up for the lack of colour in his abstract work. Today had been a black day, but he’d kept the orange shirt and jacket lining as his symbol of hope.
So far she hadn’t come but he wouldn’t stop looking for her. Perhaps she’d appear after the opening, when he was busy talking to the public.
He turned to his agent with a smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m nervous, I guess. They might hate what I’ve done.”
“Would that make any difference to what you do?”
He shrugged. “No. I’ll go my own
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