Arm Candy (5 page)

“This place is kind of expensive,” Eden said.

“Hey, it’s a special occasion, Maple, it’s worth the splurge.” Wes smiled warmly. Eden reached for his hand and held it.

“Jesus, your hands are freezing, let me warm them up.” Wes took each of her pink hands and rubbed them quickly with his.

“Thanks,” Eden said, feeling his warm hands comfort hers.

“So how was your day?” Wes asked.

“It was fine, Wes, but we really have to deal with the roach problem in the apartment.”

“Oh no. You saw
another
one?”

“It was literally bigger than a taxi.”

“I’ll have Max send the exterminator again,” he promised, shaking his head. “Did you kill it?”

“Hell, no! I sprinted out of there!”

“I’ll get him when we get home, don’t worry,” he said, kissing her now-warmed hand. “I have so much work tonight anyway on my term project that I’ll be awake to defend you from crazy vehicle-sized insects.”

“Thanks, Lancelot.” Eden smiled and sipped her water from a taupe-hued glass goblet. “Gosh, can you believe this place? Everyone is so . . . beautiful.”

“That’s why they call them the Beautiful People.” Wes shrugged. He honestly hadn’t really noticed. But Eden spied the scene—the edgy and chic fashionistas, the cool young musicians carrying guitars, the offbeat vibe. It was everything she’d fantasized about New York all in one room. Of course she’d seen people like this all the time in the record store, just not all at once, with this lighting, at night, dressed up, being fabulous. Frequenting their hives was hardly within her financial reach.

“I’m going to just run to the bathroom, quickly,” said Wes, popping up. Before he walked away he kissed her cheek once more.

After a moment, the door of the restaurant burst open and in walked a noisy, colorful crew. A girl with spiky purple hair and a ton of piercings, two gorgeous male model types, a tall black woman with cheekbones in drastic angles that rivaled Mount Everest, and behind them all, Mr. Otto Clyde: the most famous living artist in New York, perhaps the world.

Eden sat up straight, instantly noticing the famed artist who already, at thirty-seven, was an international sensation and one of the most collected painters in the world. She had heard he resided and worked nearby in a double-width townhouse he had renovated from scratch, and she knew he ran with a crowd akin to Warhol’s Factory—kids coming in and out, posing for him, clubbing with him, snorting with him.

As the crew was ushered immediately by the chain-smoking host to a huge table nearby, Otto’s dark eyes washed casually over the scene. And then . . . his eyes darted back, in a lightning-fast double take, to the most striking creature he had ever seen. He suddenly stopped still, inhaling his cigarette and staring down at Eden in her booth. While many women would quickly look away, Eden simply gazed back, unfazed. She was used to it. Her green eyes shone in the low light, and her long shiny hair cascaded down her shoulders and back. Though she was still chilled from the air outside, she delicately took both hands to her shoulders and pulled off the crimson cardigan, which revealed her sensuous body under a tight-fitting, lace-trimmed ivory tank top.

“Hello,” he said, approaching her, fixated.

“Hello.”

“I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she said in a monotone way, not letting on whether she was impressed or not. (She was.) “I’m Eden.”

“Of course your name is Eden, how fitting. You’re too stunning for the earth as we know it.”

“Please. Is there also an angel missing in heaven?” she teased, batting her lashes. “Or wait—is my father a thief because he stole the stars right out of the sky and put them in my eyes?”

Otto was stunned. Here he was, a legend who could bed any skirt in New York, and this young girl mocked his advances? He felt himself getting hard just hearing her verbal slap. “Touché, my dear. I suppose you have heard such words before.”

“A few times.”

“Hello,” said Wes, returning to the table. “I’m Wes. You a friend of Eden’s?”

“I hope to be,” he said slyly.

“Wes, this is Otto Clyde,” she said, introducing the two men.

“Oh, wow, I’m a huge fan of your work, sir.” Wes beamed, in awe that he was face-to-face with the world’s most celebrated painter.

“‘Sir’? Hey, guys, I’m a
sir
,” Otto yelled to his table with an amused grin. “Why, how old are you two fresh-faced young ones?”

“Nineteen,” answered Eden.

“Well, almost twenty,” added Wes.

Eden shot him a look. For a young model like Eden, twenty was a dreaded threshold. She had been born January 1, 1970, the first day of a new decade. Wes’s stork flew three months later. And there, in that restaurant, in the final weeks before her twentieth birthday and the dawn of the 1990s, Eden caught her first glimpse of her first
real
celebrity in New York. Sure, Cameron had his legions of fans, but the German-born artist was known uptown and down, by art lovers old and young, across the country and across the world.

“Well, then, happy birthday, Eden,” Otto said, leaning down to kiss her hand. “It was truly a pleasure.” And with that, Otto Clyde turned and walked toward the rest of his party’s table, where he sat facing Eden, and Wes’s back.

Throughout their anniversary dinner, Eden’s eyes locked with Otto’s as he exhaled smoke and narrowed his eyes, as if to Xerox her visage into the labyrinthine cortex of his brain. For spank bank or for inspiration, he didn’t know. But he knew one thing for sure: He was obsessed. He couldn’t get her face, her body, out of his mind. And as an artist whose unique portraiture had a style all its own, there was no way he could easily get over a visual lightning bolt like that; he would have no peace until she flashed in front of him once more. Otto was determined to run into her again.

After the lovebirds left, Otto asked the restaurant’s owner what the name on the reservation had been, and the next day, he had one in his cadre of assistants find all the nearby Bennetts. When they determined the right address, Otto went to the espresso bar downstairs and nursed a cup of coffee until he spied Wes at the foot of the steps, rubbing his little gold glasses on the bottom of his sweatshirt as he adjusted his messenger bag laden with texts and drafting papers. Bingo.

Not long after, his girlfriend emerged, even more breathtaking than before; her black jeans were tight and sleek, her long hair flowing over a sexy blouse she wore with the sleeves pushed up and a ton of bangle bracelets. Like a proto-Kate Moss, she had a style all her own, which cost little and was the trademark confident type that money can’t buy. She tucked a lock of long hair behind her ear and walked smack into Otto.

“Miss Eden,” Clyde said in his British-inflected, light German accent on her street corner as she was on her way to Tower Records. “How would you like to do some modeling for me?”

“Sure.” She shrugged nonchalantly. She played it cool with her relaxed body language, but inside she was doing Romanian-caliber triple back-handsprings. They walked to a pay phone on the corner and she called in sick to work. She hung up with a big smile and turned to Otto. Otto took her hand.

“Follow me.”

When Eden first arrived in the enormous, bustling Clyde studio, she was blown away. There were gorgeous, gamine hangers-on, rock music blaring, eyeliner-heavy assistants preparing a canvas with gesso. Otto showed her how to do the various poses, which came quite naturally that morning and over the next few technicolorful days. It was like a big, loud, raucous party that never ended, and Eden, lying on a white couch as Otto sketched her, was at its center. There were whispers from his circle of onlookers about her exquisite beauty, her perfect body, the fierce soul in her eyes.

She started going to the studio every day, and each night she would come home and gush all about the day’s “work” to Wes, whose expression lit up as he watched his girlfriend excitedly describe her incredible day modeling.

“This is huge,” Wes said beaming. “He is such a brilliant artist.”

“Yeah, he’s kind of as big as it gets right now,” Eden marveled.

Wes was thrilled for her—he was so proud of Eden, not just because she had been noticed for her amazing beauty but because of her uniqueness, the fire in her eyes, her penetrating, burning soul, and the charm she emitted. She was enchanting, and together Wes knew they would make great art. But little did Wes know that Otto was a pair of shiny, searing hot scissors that would soon leave his heart in tattered ashen shards on the Bowery.

 

 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Allison asked, astonished when Eden said she wasn’t sure if she’d stay with Wes long-term. “You guys are made for each other. By the way, news flash: He’s the greatest thing to ever happen to you!”

Eden scoffed, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“Wes
is
amazing,” Allison continued. “He cares about you. And stop smoking! Didn’t you promise him you were through with those Satan Sticks?”

“I can’t quit now. Things are starting to happen for me! I just want to see where all this goes. If it works out and I join Clyde’s studio, then I’ll quit.”

“If, if, if !” Allison teased. “Don’t always look to the next thing, Eden; you’ve been doing it your whole life. It’s a very bad habit.”

“Oh yeah? Guess who I learned that from? You were the one goading me on,” Eden said, flicking her ash, annoyed. “You told me I could make it here as a model. Is it so wrong to hope the wish we hatched back home comes true? What’s so awful about looking to the next thing?” Eden asked.

“I’ll tell you,” said Allison, staring down her best friend across the table. “You miss what’s right in front of you.”

Everything appeared to be perfect with Wes: They made love at all hours, kissed in their rusty tub with Johnson’s baby shampoo as bubble bath, lounged outside in the spring and picnicked on the Brooklyn Bridge on warmer nights. But would this be it
forever
? And while their little dumpy apartment was certainly romantic, was this all there would be for her?

Eden loved Wes deeply. She loved his passion for his architecture, the way he’d hold her hand as he taught her about design. She loved his warmth and shy humor. She even loved his adoring family, especially his mom, Penelope, who occasionally came to visit, taking the couple to Broadway shows and on fun excursions. She loved watching Wes study and sketch his projects for school, the large vein that ran down his wrist as he earnestly drew blueprints for class. Eden loved everything about him. But after years of dreaming of a career of her own, she knew one fierce unwavering truth: She loved herself even more.

After a month of Eden’s modeling for Otto, poor Wes Bennett’s exodus was written all over Otto’s brushed canvases.

“I don’t know,” Eden confided in Allison. “When Otto’s painting me, I feel this . . . strange attraction to him. He says I’m his muse. I think he really likes me. He said he wants to do more canvases of me and that his gallery was obsessed with the paintings.” Eden exhaled guiltily. “I care about Wes, I do, but . . .”

“
Buts
aren’t good. Love is supposed to be unconditional, no buts—”

“I’m young. I have a future. We didn’t come to New York so I could struggle my whole life. Look, I said before I
think
Otto likes me. But, Allison, I
know
Otto wants me. He ravages me with his eyes. And frankly, I kind of miss being worshipped like that. Wes is so gentle and sweet and loving but he’s a student; Otto is aggressive, a manly man. He’s bold and strong and—”

“Are you out of your mind? Poor Wes practically has a shrine to you! He adores you. And not because you’re hot.”

“I know,” Eden said, sadly. “You know, I almost feel like Wes is the perfect person for me but that I met him too early. Like I was supposed to meet him later in life or something. We’re too young now. I have, you know,
dreams
. Okay, that sounds so cheesy but it’s true.”

“Why can’t you accomplish them together?” Allison asked, crushed.

“That’s a long, long road. And I’m impatient. Otto is like that magic card in Candy Land that shoots you to the top. Wes is the long winding path.”

“But it’s a colorful path! It’s fun with him,” said Allison, devastated for poor Wes, who she truly thought was the best thing to happen to her best friend. “E, you
love
him.”

“Maybe he’s the right person, but it’s the wrong time.”

“Bullshit,” said Allison, shaking her head. “If it’s the right person, then I believe there is no such thing as the wrong time! If you really and truly believe it’s the wrong time, than it means it’s the wrong person.”

“Then I guess he’s the wrong person,” Eden said.

“I really don’t think you’re right,” Allison protested. Eden sat in silence. “So . . . what are you gonna do?”

“I know what I can’t do. I can’t sit and feel guilty and terrible about pursuing my own goals because of Wes.”

“So is the hatchet falling on this relationship for real?” Allison asked, brokenhearted for sweet Wes.

“I don’t know,” Eden lied. She knew damn well it was.

—Doris Day

 

 

 

W
hile the little diner on the Bowery was really all that Eden and Wes could hack wallet-wise, they also continued to go there because of the sentimental history. It was
their
place. There were so many nights when Wes, laden with books in his messenger bag, snow falling all around him, would see Eden through the window across the street and feel as if he were coming home.

As he warmly kissed her hello after a freezing day apart, Eden felt a bolt of heat soothe her chest.

“Let’s go get some sandwiches to go and sit in the park and see if those blues guys are out there singing,” he suggested excitedly.