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“You know, you only contact me you want something.”
“You never contact me at all.”
He has a point, you muse, as you rise from the bed, gathering his robe around you. You are not the type who tends to pay for such delights (you have little need) but this arrangement is more complex than that. He is hardly the type to wear scarlet stockings – although the image isn’t unpleasant.
You are his patron, you suppose, and you don’t need all of that jade. They are but fragments, trifles.
“You aren’t going to apologise.”
You glance back at him. “Have you ever known me to?” A slight smile, the one that used to make him lose any doubts, any troubles, any cares. Artists are always troubled, and you knew he would be the most troublesome of the lot, you knew you should avoid him – but he is young, and he has a smile of his own, and there is such talent...
“I don’t deserve such treatment.”
“Then source your jade elsewhere.” You reply mildly, not certain if you mean it, if he means it.
You have a weakness when it comes to him. He was, after all, your first conquest – well, the first down here. You moved onto his model quickly enough (although favours for her don’t involve bedding her – they usually involve bedding someone else, in fact, the paper flowers have been piling up on your dressing table for quite some time now) but he held a special place in your heart. He accused you – more than once, as it goes – of not having a heart at all, but it simply isn’t true.
Or perhaps it was that look in his eye that caught you off guard, as your arm slipped around the model’s waist, as you sipped honey with the heiress, as you charmed the jewel thief. Perhaps it was knowing that he still felt for you, despite all that had happened between you.
Your jewel thief is in a honey den somewhere. Your model will probably contact you soon to ask your assistance in ridding her of another lover. Your heiress – well, it has been a long time. She will probably be married off soon.
Your artist is here, in your bed, watching you move so delicately, gracefully in his clothes.
“Perhaps I should.”
“You almost certainly should.” You shrug the robe off, having slipped a few fragments into the pocket. “But I doubt you will.”
He studies you as you sit before him, uncertain whether he’ll take you in his arms or if he’ll take up his sketchbook (you see his pictures, sometimes, and you see your own form, especially in his nudes – just as well, you’d feel a small spark of jealousy if you didn’t).
“Do you love me?”
It’s a question you don’t know how to answer. He knows you too well for you to brush him off, or (worse) lie. You meet his eyes – neither of you know the answer, neither of you know the truth.
He seems to realise that you don’t know, and reaches for your hand. It seems childish, ungainly, almost frigid – he is acting as if you are a chaste pair. It is almost as if he intends to try again, to start from the beginning.
You flirt with the idea – it isn’t something which hasn’t crossed your mind. Could you be the companion of an artist? Demand his loyalty in return for yours? Share days and nights with him, never know another’s touch? Never learn another’s secrets?
You remove your hand from his, move closer to him, making a move that is much less chaste. It is simultaneously more and less intimate – you have done this oceans of times, this does not require deep affection, even if it present.
He tries to hide the disappointment in his eyes, even though you both know it’s there.
He is gone when you awake – it isn’t the first time he’s done that – and so is the jade.
If there are tears in your eyes you aren’t going to admit that they’re because of him. You have matters to attend to – a curate, his sister (but is she?) amongst others. There are things to be done.
In a matter of months you will see one of his paintings, one that is unquestionably you (although it is still without a face). You will catch his eye across the gallery, note the beautiful creature on his arm.
You will pat your pocket, and wait until the next time you receive your payment in kind.