ALONE ~
THROUGHOUT MY whole life, I was comfortable being alone. It never really bothered me until he left me standing on my own tonight. It was then that I realized I had never really known what it was like to be truly by myself. Ironically, this occurred when I was surrounded by a room full of people.
Phillipe’s paintings took off. In the past two months, prints have been replicated and sold around the world. From the exposure afforded by that little art gallery and first newspaper article, the media has courted and hounded Phillipe, trying to get a piece of him ever since. In fact, just the other night on the radio, I heard an announcer jokingly discuss the talent that had propelled him into the spotlight. She laughed and went on to say that the ladies of the world thanked him for his skills, because now they could admire his smoldering good looks.
For once in my life, I truly hated the fact that I could not see what the world sees.
Tonight, as I stood in a room full of beautiful women—of that, I had no doubt—I let my insecurities slip between us.
His success was both amazing and completely unreal. The level he’d reached in such a short amount of time—not tomention the fact that thousands of people now had pictures of me in their homes—was slightly mind-blowing. I had known all along that he would succeed. He was so passionate about everything he did that it had made sense that his paintings evoked such a strong reaction.
But tonight, he wanted me to go to a gala with him. So far, I had declined every invitation, realizing that people wanted to know all about the woman behind the paintings. After all, in a recent interview, one reporter had asked if I was, in fact, real or a figment of his imagination. He had assured the man that I was very real.
Now he was asking me to confirm it. How could I refuse?
I tightly clutch the journal to my breast as I make my way downstairs. I cling to it as if loosening my grip on it might make me lose my place—or, even worse,the words might vanish. It amazes me that Chantel was so reluctant to be in the spotlight, only because she seemed so comfortable there when playing Diva and posing for Phillipe.
I know it had to do with the content of the paintings, but really, there was nothing to be ashamed of. Like she wrote, Phillipe’s work propelled him into the spotlight, and his brooding, dark looks made him a solid bet when it came to magazine sales. One minute, no one had heard of him, and suddenly, he was everywhere, not only with his paintings but as the man himself.
He is the enigmatic, mysterious artist who is undeniably attractive, and he is the man every woman wants to pose for, but he wants none of that. He only wantsher.
It all begins, and consequently ends, with Chantel Rosenberg.
The gala was at seven thirty p.m.
I was sitting up in the studio, waiting for him. He’d left around twenty minutes ago to get ready, and I had done the same.
I was dressed in red silk. Phillipe had picked an evening gown the color of Diva’s velvet violin case. He told me that my complexion and dark hair reminded him of Snow White.
It was appropriate, because we would be tested tonight. Our foundation would be shaken, and for a minute, I would forgot who we were.
Someone would offer up temptation, a whisper of doubt, but it wouldn’t come in the form of an apple. No, it would come in the form of something much worse. For the first time ever, I would doubt Phillipe, and with doubt trickling through my veins, I would feel like I had nothing else in the world.
For that moment in time, I would feel completely alone.
I finally reach the bottom of the stairs and step into the music room. I move over to the light switch I saw him use the other day. The bright lights illuminate the stark white space with the odd-shaped boards on the walls. This is the first time I have been in here alone, and I am almost positive that I can sense her presence here, stronger than before.
I make my way to the sound system and look at the rows of CDs. Each label is different:CR-Canon in D,CR-Requiem for aDream (Lux Aeterna),CR-Vivaldi,Four Seasons (Winter).This is her collection. Thisis her.
I look through all of them until one in the back under a stack of books catches my eye. Pulling it out, I read the label—CR-Air.I haven’t heard this one yet, and I’m curious. That’s one of my favorite classical pieces, and Chantel was a musical genius. The fact that she learned to play each of these pieces by ear just makes her even more incredible to me.
I put the CD in the stereo, hit play, and wait for the music to begin. Instead of the sweeping strains of the violin, I hear a hell of a lot more than I anticipate.
Suddenly, the room is full of happy laughter. From every corner of the room, a female voice surrounds me. I stiffen automatically, knowing it isher.
“Really, Phillipe? Give me Diva. Let me play.”
I clutch my throat. My breath leaves me, but nothing prepares me for the deep rumble that follows.
“Come and get it.”
“No, you wanted to hear my favorite piece. Remember?”
“Yes, but now I want you to come here.”
“Well, too bad. You can’t always get what you want.”
I listen to every second of this intimate captured moment. There’s a shuffling noise, and then his voice. The sound is now so familiar, yet it’s so completely foreign as it drifts over me.
