Page 39 of Dirty Diana
I shift on my stool. “I’ve been staying up too late. It’s just a money thing right now. I need both jobs…”
Justine’s forehead is scrunched.
“You’re very talented, Diana. You’re the best assistant I have. And money isn’t everything. What’s money? I slept on floors when I was your age. I ate scraps. I did nothing but my art, and now look at me.” She sweeps her arm around the room—and for a moment, her smile falters. She looks down at her hands, twists the ring on her finger. “Mark didn’t build this.”
She announces it like the answer to a question I didn’t ask. “Of course not,” I say. Is that what she thinksIthink? Thateveryonethinks?
“No, it’s okay, I see you eyeing it.” She gives me a shy smile. She holds up her left hand, showing off her enormous diamond and ruby ring.
“When I first met Mark, I thought, No way. None of it’s for me, marriage, compromise, none of it. But then, instead of getting harder, it all got easier. With Mark came a different kind of freedom.”
She slips the ring from her hand. “Try it on. See how it feels on your finger.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” It’s as if she wants me to hold a thin glass vase and my hands are made of butter.
“Diana, don’t be shy.” Justine drops the ring into my palm.
I slide it onto my ring finger.
“You have to be practical, Diana. Yes, pour yourself into your work, but don’t make yourself sick.” Her gaze lingers on what I guess are the circles under my eyes.
“Right,” I say.
I feel the flush return to my face. Sometimes I’m not sure what Justine is trying to instigate. She gazes at me benignly. She gets up and pulls my portfolio off the bookshelf, where it’s been waiting since last month when she promised to have a look.
She places it on the counter in front of me and opens it. “It shouldn’t have taken me so long.”
“Those works are older…” I say as she flips through photographs of my paintings. I wish they were better lit, maybe they’d pop off the page more. Or maybe the colors I chose are just too muddy.
After several quiet minutes she stops at a painting of a woman named Clea, sitting next to a blank-faced man on a bench. They’re in a garden maze, two figures in color against a black-and-white background. I painted strings of words in rose-shaped formations all around them—Clea’s description of the fight they’d just had in the park. The type is so small, I’m not sure Justine can make it out. “To me, this one is the most interesting,” she says. I peer at the image. It’s one of the first in a series I’d done last summer, and the brushstrokes are too thick. Justine taps it. “This has all the energy of the others rolled up in it. Like they were all practice to get to this.”
She flips through the rest with thoughtful nods and I watch closely to see which paintings she responds to, taking careful mental notes. Then, she shuts the book with a kind of finality. “I’m so glad we had this talk,” she says. “It’s important to me to be a good mentor to the girls who work for me. To take care of you.”
“Thanks.” I rinse my teacup in the sink. “We all really appreciate it.” And by “we” in this moment, I’m pretty sure I speak only for me and Henri, swimming laps in his tank.
“Good,” she says, nodding. “Well. You should get to the dry cleaner.”
For a second, I’m confused. Does she think I work at a dry cleaner too? “Sorry?”
“You didn’t see my note? I need you to pick up my dry cleaning. I leave for L.A. tonight. I need that silly dress for an opening.” She’s already on her feet. As she walks past me, she reaches for me and for a moment I think she’s going to embrace me.
“One last thing,” she says. Then she gently retrieves the cashmere she’d draped around my shoulders. “My scarf. I need it for the plane.”
Chapter 12
—
That night I sleep at Jasper’s place. I hear him get up in the middle of the night, and when he doesn’t come back, I wander out to the living room. He’s standing in his jeans and no shirt, his hands in his pockets, looking out the sliding glass door into the pitch-black backyard.
“Want to go for a walk?” I thought my voice might startle him, but he turns and smiles at me like I’m handing over the keys to a cage.
“Sure.” Without bothering to put on a shirt, he pulls on his coat and boots. I dress quickly, and we call for Pippi, asleep on Jasper’s bed, to see if she might want to come. She lifts her head, barely, then snuggles back into the quilt.
The New Mexico night is so dark that it takes my eyes a few moments to adjust before I can make out the ground beneath my feet.The new moon is just a sliver of light over the mountains, and heavy clouds obscure the stars. I hold on lightly to Jasper’s elbow, and then he takes my hand and presses it firmly beneath the warmth of his arm.
Jasper owns a small gray house nestled in the foothills. There’s a trailhead not far from the end of his street, but we stay on the sidewalks, following the row of cottonwood trees. It is already April, but still we pass the occasional tree wound up in unlit holiday lights. The air smells of chimney smoke. For several blocks, neither of us speaks. I watch the fog of our breath and listen to our work boots on the pavement, the soft swishing of our nylon coats. In the distance we hear the high-pitched howls and yips of coyotes. I consider telling Jasper about the art grant I applied for. It’s small, only a few thousand dollars, but it would take the pressure off a few months’ rent. Introducing my money stress, though, would only kill the moment. It’s so peaceful, everyone else in these houses asleep in their beds. I slide my hand from beneath his arm, link my fingers through his. He gives a gentle squeeze, and I know he is right there with me. I am wide awake.
We stay away from downtown and gallery row and instead make slow laps around his neighborhood. We pass an elementary school and stop next to a chain-link fence. Just behind it sits a rusted swing set that looks like it belongs on the set of a movie, one where two impossibly fetching actors come on a night like this one to confess their love for each other. Jasper drops my hand and leans against the fence. “Thanks for the walk,” he says, his voice soft.
