Aftermath of Dreaming(41)

Andrew’s friend, a famous actor whose films even I had seen, arrived after lunch, just at the moment when I thought we’d go to bed. At first I was annoyed at the intrusion, then thrilled to be meeting Andrew’s (from what the press said) best friend. The maleness in the room multiplied exponentially when he walked in. Sitting between them, these men whom most of the world experienced writ large, and listening to the actor tell me stories about Andrew, which Andrew laughed at, was like being in a deftly orchestrated scene with them.

“She’s perfect,” Andrew said, after he had told his friend all about me. “An artist—beautiful, talented, and young. Name another with all that. Female ones, I mean. See? She’s perfect.”

The actor was looking me over. “I’ll say.”

“Okay, honey,” Andrew said, as he stood up and took my hand. “Where are you headed to now?”

I didn’t want to go. I wanted us to tell his friend goodbye, so we could have sex while the afternoon began to end.

But Andrew was looking at me, waiting for me to get up and go. The actor stood up and kissed my other hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Broussard. I look forward to seeing you again.”

But before I could respond, Andrew helped me up by wrapping an arm around me and pulling me away from the actor. I looked over my shoulder as we left the room. “It was nice meeting you, too.”

“Call me later, honey.” Andrew and I were in the outer hallway; the elevator button had been pushed.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’m going out.”

“Out? Where?” He sounded growly again. “Who are you going out with? I’ll f*cking kill him.” The elevator doors opened. “Who are you going out with, Yvette?” I kissed his face and stepped inside. “You’d better call me. And you’d better not f*ck him.” Andrew’s hand held the door open. “Call me. Okay?”

I nuzzled into his neck, grinning and kissing him quietly. “Bye,” I said, moving backward, and the elevator doors gradually partitioned Andrew’s face out of view, as I heard him say, “Call me, Yvette.”



“Did I meet you this summer?” Peg asked, when I called her at Sexton Space that afternoon.

“Yes, I was in—”

“I thought that was you. When Tory showed me your slides, I recognized them and…it’s so funny that it’s you.”

“Yeah.” I remembered how short Peg was—one of those tiny girls who look capable of breaking a wild horse while keeping their cashmere sweater set impeccably clean.

“Well, this is great. I loved your work, but Tory would never take an artist on without them having a show somewhere first or someone knowing them. When can you come down here? We should meet to go over everything we need to do.”



I didn’t call Andrew as he had told me to. And that night, I let my phone ring and ring before listening to the machine click on, then hearing his barely audible, “Hmm, hmm,” noises, as if he were able to ascertain my whereabouts by his voice infiltrating my room. He called five times. I liked having him try to find me, but being unable to, the same way I couldn’t reach him physically when I wanted to. It was like letting some of my skin grow back on, a layer from the inseparableness I felt with him, especially since we hadn’t had sex again. Not that that was all I wanted from him, but sex solidifies things, and with Lily Creed in the picture, I wanted the reassurance that he wanted me that way, that he loved me that way. Besides the fact that it was so out-of-this-world f*cking incredible. I wanted more.





14




“Please tell me you’re kidding me.”

“Thanks for the nice reaction, Suzanne. No, I’m not kidding—I really am going to be in a show at a gallery in SoHo.”

Carrie and Ruth were out of the apartment, so the curtain in my doorway was drawn back, the window overlooking the alley was open, and I was sitting in the middle of my room, drinking an iced tea while a summer breeze cooled me down. I knew I would need all that during my conversation with Suzanne.

“I’m not talking about that part—I can’t even get there yet, I’m so flipped out about this Andrew Madden stuff. Andrew Madden, for Christ’s sake, is the biggest womanizer in the goddamn world. How do you not know that? What’d you do—move to New York and completely lose any sense you ever had? I knew that relationship with that married man in Mississippi was going to screw you up.”

“He was widowed, and it’s not like that with Andrew.”

“Not like what? So you’re not having sex with him?”

“Yes, I am, but…” At least I thought we were, though he hadn’t let us since that very first night, as if he suddenly didn’t want to anymore, which I couldn’t figure out why, but I wasn’t going to tell Suzanne any of that. “Look, you don’t know him, you don’t understand. And besides, when did you get so small-minded to believe gossip anyway? You haven’t even met him.”

“Gossip? Oh, please. Yvette, where there’s smoke, there’s fire; that’s all I’m going to say. Andrew Madden, for Christ’s sake. Well, when you get exploited in this relationship, or whatever it is you want to call it, because you will, it is only a matter of time, don’t say I didn’t warn you. And you’re not even in L.A.—how’d he get to you out there? Never mind. I knew I should have insisted you go to Tulane. You are still applying to the School of Visual Arts in the fall, right?”