The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [38]
“Is it true…the rumors that you faked a heroin problem?” Fallon felt nervous asking that, felt raw having this conversation and seeing Max as more than two-dimensional, as more than a footnote in this bizarre chapter of her life.
He laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “It was nothing so elaborate as that. I left, and people demanded to know why. I was fed up with everything to do with the art scene. I said all sorts of things. I was sarcastic. I said yes, I am going to rehab. I am joining a cult. I am having a sex change. Anything but admit that I was grieving and disillusioned, that I couldn’t take the pressure anymore. The heroin lie stuck, though I never really tried to make anyone believe it. It was a joke to me, because you have no idea how little these people actually care. They probably wished I would overdose, so my work would be worth more. Plus, you know, I wasn’t so innocent with drugs then. It wasn’t such a stretch, that rumor. Compared to the others.”
“I see. So you haven’t lived in France for…over twenty years?”
He nodded.
“You’ve still got a heck of an accent.”
“I know. When I first left, I didn’t speak very much. Not English or otherwise. I didn’t need to, and I didn’t particularly want to. I wanted to be left alone, though that was not to be. Plus everyone in the classical art world, they’re always so eager to show off their French. But you’re right, I haven’t done a very good job assimilating.”
“That’s okay. It’s sort of charming… It goes,” she said, waving her hand to encapsulate Max as a package. She stared at him a long time, sipping her wine, watching his black eyes glittering across the water into hers. He trailed a lazy hand through the surface, making the refracted firelight bounce and shatter, and finally looked away.
“What is this?” Fallon asked.
Max met her gaze again and his lips tightened. “This?” He pointed a finger at himself, the tub, Fallon, the fire.
“Yeah, this.”
“Your clothes are drying. We’re warming you up,” he said, sinister.
Fallon shook her head, exasperated but deeply enjoying flirting with him, thanks mainly to the alcohol. “You’re a very bad man.”
“Oh? And what sort of man do you prefer?”
“Romantically?” She thought for a moment. “Safe men, I guess.”
Max looked amused, flicking his fingers in the water, his smile in the firelight pure mischief. “Safe men? Who are these safe men you speak of?”
“You know. Responsible guys. Reliable guys with normal jobs and student loans and mortgages. And golden retrievers.”
“And what am I then?” He grinned deeply, clearly pleased to be in a separate camp from the breed of male she was talking about. “Unsafe? Dangerous?” He reached both arms into the water and took hold of her toes.
“You’re…I don’t know, Max. You’re something different.” A tide of intimacy seeped over her and he caught it too.
“That is the first time you’ve addressed me by my name.”
“Yes, well. I’m quite tipsy.”
“Too tipsy to walk back to your cottage?”
“I’m not going to sleep with you. Literally or figuratively.”
“I know.”
“You’re probably not used to hearing that.” She hated the bitterness that edged her voice.
His brows rose. “Pardon?”
“I bet you sleep with all your models, don’t you?”
He drew his arms out and slumped to one side, propping his chin on a wet hand on the tub’s rim, looking puzzled. “You sound like that Carly Simon song. And you might be surprised by how many of my models I’ve slept with.”
Fallon fell silent, knowing the flirtation had cooled. Her fault. Against the many windows, tiny winged bodies struck like raindrops.
Max stared thoughtfully across the studio and didn’t speak for several minutes.
“You are a biologist,” he said eventually, looking squarely at her. “The moths. Why are they forever slamming