***
The next day or two, I was glad for the silence. I lived with the paintings, cultivating them, coaxing them layer by layer into what I needed them to be. I felt like I was in a race. They needed to be finished before the next time anyone wanted to barge in and rip the dressing off the wound. That was too hard. It made me say terrible things.
Things I hadn’t meant. Well, hadn’t entirely meant, anyway.
For a few days, or two days, I couldn’t be sure, I left my attic studio only to pad down to the bathroom or kitchen and swipe food from the abundantly stocked refrigerator. Once I surprised Mike in my flimsy t-shirt and panties, closing the fridge door with an apple pierced between my teeth.
“Can I… make you something, Margot?”
“Me?” I mumbled around the apple. “Oh I’m sorry I didn’t know anybody was… Hey, you’re here. In Amsterdam.”
He nodded and dropped a canvas bag on the wide marble counter.
“Have you tried the food here? Inedible. Declan brought me.”
I glanced down at my armful of packaged chocolate cookies, cakes and fruits, embarrassed by my frat-boy-quality selection.
“Well,” he scowled, “looks like you’re all set there.”
“Yep!” I answered brightly and slunk away, hoping I didn’t have too much ass cheek hanging out.
As soon as I was back in my studio, I was humming again. Munching snacks as I stared at the paintings one by one, then stepping back to see them all together, I built up a list of changes in my mind. A to-do list.
I ate and then painted, attempting to parse my changes judiciously and not advance past the optimal point for stopping. There needed to be a dither in the layers that wasn’t buffed out or obscured by fussy perfection. I needed the rawness to bleed through.
I heard voices in the hallways sometimes, prompting me to pause in mid-stroke like some nocturnal raccoon caught in the middle of a garden raid. But no one came in. I felt some relief that apparently our business obligations had miraculously synced up. They were busy. I was busy. Perfect.
At some point much later, I sat down crosslegged on the bare floorboards and just stared at them while the sun set. The room flamed bright orange as the last rays of sunlight crept across the ceiling angles.
They were done. Well... they were “complete,” or at least I thought so. I wasn’t entirely sure. I needed a day or so to simmer, then look at them again. But they were past working on, at least for now.
I tipped over where I sat, staring at them sideways from a fetal position until the room went dark.
***
Declan woke me by flipping on a light and dropping a box on my bed.
“Whoa,” I said into the floor, then pushed myself up on one elbow.
“Oh, geez, I didn’t even realize you were in here. I thought you’d gone out,” he said apologetically. “You’re going to be late, you know. We do fashionably late well enough, but you’re like really late.”
“What are you talking about?” I mumbled, standing up on unsteady, fatigued legs. Apparently sleeping on a three-hundred-fifty-year-old attic floor was not as rejuvenating as I had presumed.
He quirked an eyebrow and shifted his weight to one side. I noticed that he was wearing a beautiful, sleek suit in midnight blue. The slim cut of the trousers showed off his perfectly male physique to its best advantage. If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have demanded that he let me draw him.
“Your party, highness.”
“That’s Friday,” I replied automatically.
“Yes.”
“Today is not Friday.”
He cocked his head at me.
“It’s not, though,” I insisted.
“Suit yourself,” he sighed. His finger trailed along the top of the box. “I brought you a present.”
“I would like to talk,” I said suddenly, surprising myself.
“No time,” he shrugged. “I would love to talk. Love to. But your admirers await your presence.”
“No, I--”
“Ahp!” he said brusquely, holding up his hand, Stop.
Seriously?
“Come down when you are ready, Margot,” he said suavely, flashing me a magazine-quality smile. “I can’t wait to see you in this.”
Cary Grant-style, he turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him. Pushing at my fluffy rat’s nest of hair, I walked to the box and gave it a sullen poke with my finger.
“Whatever you are,” I informed the box, “you are not worth it.”
When I opened the door to my room, box pinned under my arm, I could hear voices and someone playing the piano. A lot of voices. It sounded like the party was in full swing.
How long was I asleep? Had I really lost the whole week to work? It seemed impossible, but then again, not impossible at all. Other than Bridget calling me incessantly to remind me that I was late for whatever next thing I was late for, I didn’t really have to keep track of time. Days just blended together.