flat hand. “I don’t know how you’re wearing a sweater. It’s hot as Hades in here.”
Self-consciously I tug at the cuff of my black sleeve. It’s been years since I’ve worn anything shorter than a full-length sleeve, and I’ve grown used to always feeling like I’m being roasted, but I am ever aware that my outfits come across as odd at certain times of year and in certain situations.
“My temperature runs cold,” I say, practiced in the excuse.
“God, I wish. I’m always a sweaty Betty. My makeup has probably melted into a mess of goo under my eyes.” She glances at Hendrix, as if inviting him to say otherwise.
When he doesn’t, I pick up the cue. “You look fine.” I don’t manage to sound very convincing. Granted, I don’t really try.
It’s a good enough attempt for Kaila with an i. “You should come sit with us,” she offers. Her eyes are hooded, though, and as dark as her skin, and I know the only one she wants to be sitting with is Hendrix.
Yes, I’ve been there. And of course, the one who is jealous now is me.
“Actually, I’m leaving.” I dig into my purse and find a ten pound note that I leave on the counter. It’s a tip. I rarely keep a tab open, paying out after every order. I tend not to like things that keep me anchored to a place, and I avoid them at every turn.
“Oh, then.” To her credit, she sounds disappointed. “We’ll see you in class.”
The “we” feels barbed, and I hate that I wonder about it. Wonder if Hendrix is as keen for that “we” as she is. Wonder if it’s a standard routine for him to charm female photographers with negronis and his American dialect. I wonder if he’ll strip her from her sleeveless romper later, if he’ll bury his face between her thighs, if he’ll say she tastes like tangerines, and if she’ll swear it’s from all the citrus drinks.
And when he moves above her in a slow, languid dance that surely mimics the stealth it takes to capture a leopard in the wild, I wonder if she’ll let him keep the lights on.
“Camilla...” he says, some sort of apology in his tone, and with that single word, I’m sure he knows the color of my thoughts.
It’s a relief, almost. Worrying so long about remaining hidden, to be on the brink of being seen. It’s like standing at the edge of a cliff, so fearful that you’ll fall that you consider just taking a step and getting it over with.
It felt like that last time with Hendrix, too.
I take a breath, and the air clears.
“See you next week,” I say, blatantly shutting down whatever point he meant to make. Then I push past them both, relinquishing the space that had always been mine.
Relinquishing the man who was never mine at all.
Chapter Three
Angular: An object, outline, or shape having sharp corners, or angles.- MoMA Glossary of Art Terms
I dump a package of pasta in the boiling water and make a mental note to take it off the burner in ten minutes. Vegetables are strewn over the cutting board, but I haven’t yet got to the chopping, which means the pasta will definitely be done before the sauce. And if Freddie continues to need to show me every single one of his robot drawings with an expectation of a full art critique, there’s no way I’ll be getting to a salad.
Of course that’s when my mobile begins to ring. A glance at the screen shows it’s my brother, Edward, and God I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail.
It’s not always this hard.
Or I tell myself it isn’t always this hard. I’m spoiled, to be truthful. I was born into privilege and have spent most of my life basking in its advantages, but I also spent several years of my youth in a foster home where my guardians lived very much payday to payday. It was a household as short on love as it was on money, and the suffocating awfulness of those poverties is not only vivid in my memory but also branded on my skin.
So I recognize what I have is luxury. A cook and a nanny on the weekdays. Another nanny who does the cooking on Saturdays. But employees take holidays and Anwar certainly didn’t plan to get sick, which is why I’m stuck both caring for my child and cooking on a Wednesday. When you add the burdens of