All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [53]
When I get home I Googled him and realized that though I didn’t particularly care for his art, all surface and no soul, he was rather famous and quite wealthy, for an artist. He flew to San Francisco to take me to lunch at one of my favorite places, where we ate two dozen oysters with a delicious bottle of wine. He marveled at how down to earth I was when I told him I could hop a bus home—no one he knows takes the bus. He was fascinating, with a huge imagination, telling me about his projects all over the world.
I heard from him several times, calling me with updates from Japan or Greece or an island in the Pacific. Then he sent me first-class tickets to see an opening of his show in Bilbao, and of course I went, staying in a luxury hotel right by the Guggenheim Museum, enchanted by the city’s art and architecture, finding a wonderful place to eat squid in its own ink, chatting in Spanish with young strangers at the packed opening. After the opening, I ran into the artist having dinner with some donors or gallery people. I congratulated him, and he acted as if I were a stranger, shaking my hand, not bothering to introduce me to the people he was seated with.
“Please tell me you didn’t see him again,” says Kathy.
“I did.” We met up a few days later in Sardinia, staying at a four-star inn tucked up against granite cliffs near Nuoro, in the middle of the island, going to the ocean to explore its coves by boat, visiting villages, watching a parade of local costumes.
On our last evening, the artist told me he was in love with me and wanted to buy me a house in Ojai to live in so that I could always be there when he returned from his trips. But I don’t know anybody in Ojai. I realized it would be easy to stay with this guy and be wealthy for the rest of my years. I could get used to the $600 bottles of wine he orders at dinner, especially if every sip didn’t remind me I was drinking up half my rent. I could fly with him to one of his islands when he wanted me to come along, or to the Biennale in Venice or the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg when he had a show. I could travel whenever I desired, not worry about having to make a living, and have time to write what I please. It was tempting.
Even Kathy, I can tell, suspiciously quiet on the trail, is tempted.
At home, I heard from the artist, when he was in airports or checking into hotels. We saw each other a few times when he passed through San Francisco. Often, he would say he was coming and then forget or cancel. He’d apologize but say that’s just the way he is, he does that to senators and wealthy art collectors, too, and then he’d tell me again how we were meant to be together.
Kathy groans.
“I know, he can’t be trusted, not even to show up,” I say. “When he left me waiting at one of San Francisco’s best restaurants, me pretending I had planned all along to enjoy a five-course tasting menu by myself on Valentine’s Day, I finally called and said that’s not how my friends treat me, it’s a matter of the most basic respect, and being rich and famous doesn’t make up for bad manners and he could go fuck himself.”
“It took you long enough,” Kathy says.
“I was never serious about him,” I said. “The truth is that I really didn’t like his art, so that was a deal breaker.”
“That and the fact that he had no respect for you.”
“Yeah.”
We walk along quietly for a while. Clearly, I tell Kathy, I haven’t figured out how to find a man who can take care of me, and vice versa. It is a mystery to me how other women attract men who wait in the car when they drop them off to see that they’re safely in the house, pay for meals, get up in the middle of the night to bring them a glass of water, and inquire solicitously after their needs. I find guys who want to be buddies, split the check, and figure I can make it home fine by myself.
I always