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“Bianca…” I don’t even know what I’m going to say, what I can say to make this right.
“What? Are you going to tell me you changed your mindagain? Suddenly, having a family and a child of your own doesn’t matter to you anymore?”
I don’t know what to say. I can feel my mouth opening and closing but not a single word seems to be able to pass my mouth.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She lets out a laugh that’s cold and hallow, nothing like the Bianca I know and love. Instead of looking at me, she clutches the canvases tightly to her chest and starts walking away without a backward glance.
“Bianca,” I try again. This time grabbing her arm so she’ll turn and look at me. She wrenches her arm out of my grasp and looks at me with cold dead eyes.
“What the fuck, Carson? I’m not somebody you can play games with. You think you can still have some fun on the sidewith me while you go out and find the woman you want to settle down with and have your babies? I don’t fucking think so.” Her face is turning red and I can feel the anger coming off of her in scalding waves, so much so that I have to take a step back from the vitriol in her voice. “Don’t you touch me ever again. You don’t have the right, understand?”
She stands there, clearly waiting for an answer from me and all I can do is nod my head at her and watch as she turns and slowly walks away with her head held high. Every step she takes further away from me feels like miles she’s putting between us. Miles I pray to fucking God she’ll let me cross some day when all of this is over.
We need to find this motherfucker right now before I lose her for good.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bianca
I’m chewing on my bottom lip. It’s a nervous gesture that only Margot Gault brings out in me. Every time she looks at a piece of my work I feel like I’m a bug under a microscope and she’d be all too happy to crush me under the heel of her shiny leather boots.
She’s been staring intently at the two paintings I’ve brought in for her to look at for the last five minutes. She hasn’t said a word to me about either one of them. She’ll occasionally make a humming noise and tilt her head to the right and then the left before facing it straight on again. I honestly have no idea if that means she likes them or not.
I was nervous about bringing these to her. I know they’re good. Well, at least I think they’re good. But these are two raw and emotional paintings for me. Though they’re both the same subject matter the emotions provoked by each couldn’t be moredifferent. The first is the portrait of Carson I did the day we decided to have a real relationship with each other. The piece feels surrounded by love and full of hope. All the feelings that were bursting straight out of my chest and onto the canvas at the time. It’s full of pinks, yellows, and blues with just the faintest hint of red here and there. The only other color is his moss green eyes. Those fucking eyes seem to still haunt me in my sleep no matter how I try to shake him.
The second painting is one I did a few days ago. It’s still a portrait of Carson but the emotions radiating off of it are entirely different than the first. This canvas is filled with black, reds, and purples. Not even the moss green of his eyes survived this one. No, his eyes are steady, unyielding black holes of despair. The lines of his face that in the first painting make him seem so handsome, come off as cold and severe here. I fucking hate this painting. But again, I know it’s good. I wanted to burn the fucking thing but why waste such an amazing piece when it could possibly catapult me to a place in a showing. It’s not like Carson would give a fuck how I portray him. If he cared that much about what I thought of him, he wouldn’t have treated me the way that he did.
I’m completely lost in my morose thoughts when Margot slides those signature red framed glasses from the tip of her nose back to the bridge before turning to me and smiling.
“I always knew you were capable of this, Bianca. I wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t think this was the kind of work you could produce.”
“You really like them?” I ask, a bit stunned. I mean, sure,Ithought they were good but my opinion is a far cry from Margot Gault’s.
“Like them? They’re spectacular. You can feel all the love and hope in this one,” she indicates the first painting. “Then you can see it ripped away from you. This man betraying you and leavingyou a shell of your former self.” She’s staring at the second painting again, nodding up and down.
Jesus Christ. Is that what it looks like? I’m a fucking shell of my former self? I guess I should just be happy she likes them. I certainly left everything I felt on the canvas for both these paintings.
“I see you’ve found your muse,” she says, like it’s a given.
“Well, I don’t know about that.” I mumble. The thought of Carson being my muse makes me a little sick to my stomach. I don’t want to need him for anything, let alone for him to be the reason I can finally create a piece of art that Margot enjoys.
“Don’t be silly, of course you have! Now, don’t let this gentleman get away. I can only imagine the great things you’ll create with him by your side to draw out these kind of emotions.”
“Well, that’s kind of the thing. I painted this one after we broke up.” Margot has her hand on her chin and is nodding at the painting as she studies it once again.
“Yes, I can see that. But there’s so much emotion here. You don’t plan on letting him get away, do you? I’ve been with many many men in my life and only a handful have been able to provoke such a strong reaction that it’s shown through into my work.”
This conversation is getting distinctly uncomfortable for me. I just wanted to show her my pieces, I didn’t want to go over my dating history. “Well, that’s going to be a problem. He broke up with me. It’s not like he’s waiting in the wings to inspire my next piece.”
Margot crosses her arms over her chest. “Hmmm well, that could be a problem. I have a spot open for the next exhibition that’s happening in two months and I was planning to offer it to you. It would be these two paintings and then two more. But if you don’t think you could create something of the same caliber then I may have to rethink this.”
“No!” I shout, immediately embarrassed at my outburst. “I mean, no, that’s totally alright. Just because I’m not seeing him anymore doesn’t mean I can’t produce something similar. I mean, the emotions are all still there, right?”
Margot eyes me skeptically before slowly nodding her head. “Well, they obviously don’t have to be exactly the same but the pieces should all tie in together. Look, I’d like to see the other pieces before I commit to giving you the spot. Can you have them for me to review in three weeks?”
“Three weeks?” I squeak out. That’s not much time. Sure, when I’m on a roll I can really pump out the pieces but if she’s expecting something like these two, it’s not exactly going to be easy to bring those kinds of emotions to the surface.
“Maybe you’re not ready yet.” Margot turns away from me and starts sorting through the stacks of paperwork on her desk that are piled so high they are threatening to fall over.
