Easy Virtue
Page 11
They are all lies.
I’ve always known who I am. No point pretending I’m a good girl with great values because that would be a complete lie. I like money too much. I like the safety it offers. The power. And all the things I can buy with it. But as I turn around, walking out of his kitchen and leaving Walker behind, I realize I’ve done it again. I’ve made myself vulnerable, breaking my promise, a promise that I would never let someone hurt me.
And that’s exactly what Walker has done.
I may not have physical scars. And in many ways my life has been easy compared to others who grew up on the streets or have faced cruelty at the hands of people who’re supposed to protect them. But there’s nothing like a bitter dosage of neglect and lack of attention from your parents while growing up to fuck with your head and sense of self-worth.
Trust me. I know.
As I get in the elevator with its cherry wood covered walls, smelling the fake clean cotton aroma embedded in the rug, feeling my heels sink in it, I wonder how I got here. I don’t love Walker, but it still hurts. It hurts because someone else just proved how unworthy of love I am. So as I wait to make it back to the lobby, watching the numbers of floors decreasing, I recite that old and familiar chat.
Love is selfish.
Love is unkind.
Love hurts.
It wasn’t his fault though … he didn’t make me do anything. It was all me, and maybe that’s why it’s so painful. I have no one to blame but me.
I look down and try to slow down my breathing. I’m not a crier, so I can’t say that I want to cry, but I am hurt. And my pain is clearing a path for anger to follow with regret one step behind.
When I step outside the building, the doormen avoid me as if they already know I’m an outcast and not welcomed anymore. I glance down at my body dressed in the same outfit from last night; I look like a hooker and feel like one. As humiliation and heartache fill every crevice of my body, I decide I need to move. I’m attracting too much attention standing on the corner while I wait for a cab. Maybe my feet will take me away. Maybe my feet will take away the pain that comes with the knowledge of who I am.
After a couple of minutes pass, I’m calmer and standing in front of an entrance to a subway station. Laughing, I have to be honest with myself. What did I expect? How can I be angry with Walker for using me when I was pretty much doing the same? It was his money, his name, and his handsome face that attracted me to him at first, so if I’m hurting at the moment, it’s my fault because I let my guard down.
As I walk down the stairs, submerging myself in the subterranean darkness, the acrid smells of pee and sewage fill my nose. I scrunch up my nose at the subway perfume while I avoid stepping over a homeless man sitting on the bottom step. And because it looks like he could use a cup of coffee more than me, I take a twenty out of my clutch and hand it to him.
“Oh, thank you, miss! Thank you!” he says, smiling a toothless grin.
“No problem,” I say as the kindness in his eyes makes my heart contract.
I’m about to close my clutch when I see my ticket out of this mess. My heart starts to beat faster as I grab the card and hold it in between my fingers. Maybe that upgrade came sooner than I’d expected.
That night…
I STAND IN FRONT OF MY MIRROR once more and take in my appearance, applying lipstick over my bruised lips until they are a dark red. I observe how, layer-by-layer, I create my phony façade until I’m Blaire again. Until I hide all of my flaws.
But I’m a fraud.
As I continue to stare at my reflection, I remember a memory I had forgotten about. And it paralyzes me.
“Mommy! Mommy! Don’t leave!” I cry desperately. My arms are wrapped tightly around her middle. My mom tries to push me away, but the harder she pushes, the harder I grip her. I can’t let her go. “No, Mommy, please stay! Don’t leave me. Please, please, pl-lease.”
Tears stream down my face. The pain goes on and on, but I continue to beg her and hold her. I hope that she will hear me this time. I hope that she sees how much I need her.
“Blaire, let go,” she says, struggling to break free from my hold. “I can’t stand being in this house with your drunk of a father for one minute longer. It’s driving me insane.”
I hear wild laughter behind us. I turn to look at my daddy as he walks into their bedroom, making his way toward the edge of the bed where my mom’s suitcase is lying open. His eyes are bloodshot, his untucked dress shirt has a greasy stain in the middle that spreads like spilled ink, and he’s slightly swaying with every step that he takes. My heart contracts when the smell of alcohol surrounding him hits my nose. Grief laced with fear flows like a muddy river through me.
“Don’t beg, Blaire. Only weak people beg. Let her go. She’ll come back, like she always does,” my dad says.
My mom turns to look at my dad, scorn in her eyes. “Don’t fool yourself, Oscar. I’m not coming back.”
“But what about me?” I cry.
My mom’s gaze lands on me, softening a little, but then she turns to look at my dad and hardens instantly. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore.” She closes her suitcase and walks out the door.
“No, no, no, no!” I cry desperately, running after her, but she doesn’t stop walking. She doesn’t stop until she’s out the door, leaving me behind …
Sick to my stomach, I want to run toward the bathroom and throw up, but I fight the feeling like I fight everything else. I won’t let Walker or memories of my parents win. Like the strong conquer the weak, I will conquer my emotions. And really, it’s not like Walker’s desertion is the first one in my life.
So I’m going to do what I do best. I’m going to erase Walker from my life. I’m going to pretend that he never happened or existed, burying any kind of feeling and emotion so deep within me that my heart and head will forget they exist in no time. And like the vicious cycle that my life has become, I’ll find someone else.
I always do.
I have one goal in mind. To find out who Mr. Rothschild was.
I sit on my bed, open the computer, and Google his name. I skim the articles written about him in magazines and newspapers such as Time, The New Yorker, NYT, and Forbes. To say that he is rich would, honestly, be such an understatement. It becomes very obvious that he could, in fact, easily afford that necklace we saw and many more. He comes from old money from the Gold Coast of Long Island, and he is now the sole survivor and ruler of a media empire worth billions of dollars.
Once the truth settles in my mind that he is indeed as rich as King Midas and has a golden touch to boot, I decide to look at pictures of him. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. There are images of him kissing more than a few of my favorite actresses on the mouth. He was married and divorced to a famous author, and was once engaged to a socialite with ties to European nobility. Apparently, at the age of thirty-eight, he has been married and divorced three times, plus countless numbers of flings. He has no kids. The word on the street is that he suffered a really bad breakup when he was young, from which he never fully recovered.
Hmm.
As I sit there, staring numbly at his picture on my screen, I can’t believe my luck. Have I really met the goose that laid golden eggs?
The image of Walker’s blue eyes and the poison reflected in them as he told me I was trash waltzes through my mind, but it already hurts less than it did a couple of hours ago. It already seems like a distant memory from my past.
I’ve always known who I am. No point pretending I’m a good girl with great values because that would be a complete lie. I like money too much. I like the safety it offers. The power. And all the things I can buy with it. But as I turn around, walking out of his kitchen and leaving Walker behind, I realize I’ve done it again. I’ve made myself vulnerable, breaking my promise, a promise that I would never let someone hurt me.
And that’s exactly what Walker has done.
I may not have physical scars. And in many ways my life has been easy compared to others who grew up on the streets or have faced cruelty at the hands of people who’re supposed to protect them. But there’s nothing like a bitter dosage of neglect and lack of attention from your parents while growing up to fuck with your head and sense of self-worth.
Trust me. I know.
As I get in the elevator with its cherry wood covered walls, smelling the fake clean cotton aroma embedded in the rug, feeling my heels sink in it, I wonder how I got here. I don’t love Walker, but it still hurts. It hurts because someone else just proved how unworthy of love I am. So as I wait to make it back to the lobby, watching the numbers of floors decreasing, I recite that old and familiar chat.
Love is selfish.
Love is unkind.
Love hurts.
It wasn’t his fault though … he didn’t make me do anything. It was all me, and maybe that’s why it’s so painful. I have no one to blame but me.
I look down and try to slow down my breathing. I’m not a crier, so I can’t say that I want to cry, but I am hurt. And my pain is clearing a path for anger to follow with regret one step behind.
When I step outside the building, the doormen avoid me as if they already know I’m an outcast and not welcomed anymore. I glance down at my body dressed in the same outfit from last night; I look like a hooker and feel like one. As humiliation and heartache fill every crevice of my body, I decide I need to move. I’m attracting too much attention standing on the corner while I wait for a cab. Maybe my feet will take me away. Maybe my feet will take away the pain that comes with the knowledge of who I am.
After a couple of minutes pass, I’m calmer and standing in front of an entrance to a subway station. Laughing, I have to be honest with myself. What did I expect? How can I be angry with Walker for using me when I was pretty much doing the same? It was his money, his name, and his handsome face that attracted me to him at first, so if I’m hurting at the moment, it’s my fault because I let my guard down.
As I walk down the stairs, submerging myself in the subterranean darkness, the acrid smells of pee and sewage fill my nose. I scrunch up my nose at the subway perfume while I avoid stepping over a homeless man sitting on the bottom step. And because it looks like he could use a cup of coffee more than me, I take a twenty out of my clutch and hand it to him.
“Oh, thank you, miss! Thank you!” he says, smiling a toothless grin.
“No problem,” I say as the kindness in his eyes makes my heart contract.
I’m about to close my clutch when I see my ticket out of this mess. My heart starts to beat faster as I grab the card and hold it in between my fingers. Maybe that upgrade came sooner than I’d expected.
That night…
I STAND IN FRONT OF MY MIRROR once more and take in my appearance, applying lipstick over my bruised lips until they are a dark red. I observe how, layer-by-layer, I create my phony façade until I’m Blaire again. Until I hide all of my flaws.
But I’m a fraud.
As I continue to stare at my reflection, I remember a memory I had forgotten about. And it paralyzes me.
“Mommy! Mommy! Don’t leave!” I cry desperately. My arms are wrapped tightly around her middle. My mom tries to push me away, but the harder she pushes, the harder I grip her. I can’t let her go. “No, Mommy, please stay! Don’t leave me. Please, please, pl-lease.”
Tears stream down my face. The pain goes on and on, but I continue to beg her and hold her. I hope that she will hear me this time. I hope that she sees how much I need her.
“Blaire, let go,” she says, struggling to break free from my hold. “I can’t stand being in this house with your drunk of a father for one minute longer. It’s driving me insane.”
I hear wild laughter behind us. I turn to look at my daddy as he walks into their bedroom, making his way toward the edge of the bed where my mom’s suitcase is lying open. His eyes are bloodshot, his untucked dress shirt has a greasy stain in the middle that spreads like spilled ink, and he’s slightly swaying with every step that he takes. My heart contracts when the smell of alcohol surrounding him hits my nose. Grief laced with fear flows like a muddy river through me.
“Don’t beg, Blaire. Only weak people beg. Let her go. She’ll come back, like she always does,” my dad says.
My mom turns to look at my dad, scorn in her eyes. “Don’t fool yourself, Oscar. I’m not coming back.”
“But what about me?” I cry.
My mom’s gaze lands on me, softening a little, but then she turns to look at my dad and hardens instantly. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore.” She closes her suitcase and walks out the door.
“No, no, no, no!” I cry desperately, running after her, but she doesn’t stop walking. She doesn’t stop until she’s out the door, leaving me behind …
Sick to my stomach, I want to run toward the bathroom and throw up, but I fight the feeling like I fight everything else. I won’t let Walker or memories of my parents win. Like the strong conquer the weak, I will conquer my emotions. And really, it’s not like Walker’s desertion is the first one in my life.
So I’m going to do what I do best. I’m going to erase Walker from my life. I’m going to pretend that he never happened or existed, burying any kind of feeling and emotion so deep within me that my heart and head will forget they exist in no time. And like the vicious cycle that my life has become, I’ll find someone else.
I always do.
I have one goal in mind. To find out who Mr. Rothschild was.
I sit on my bed, open the computer, and Google his name. I skim the articles written about him in magazines and newspapers such as Time, The New Yorker, NYT, and Forbes. To say that he is rich would, honestly, be such an understatement. It becomes very obvious that he could, in fact, easily afford that necklace we saw and many more. He comes from old money from the Gold Coast of Long Island, and he is now the sole survivor and ruler of a media empire worth billions of dollars.
Once the truth settles in my mind that he is indeed as rich as King Midas and has a golden touch to boot, I decide to look at pictures of him. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. There are images of him kissing more than a few of my favorite actresses on the mouth. He was married and divorced to a famous author, and was once engaged to a socialite with ties to European nobility. Apparently, at the age of thirty-eight, he has been married and divorced three times, plus countless numbers of flings. He has no kids. The word on the street is that he suffered a really bad breakup when he was young, from which he never fully recovered.
Hmm.
As I sit there, staring numbly at his picture on my screen, I can’t believe my luck. Have I really met the goose that laid golden eggs?
The image of Walker’s blue eyes and the poison reflected in them as he told me I was trash waltzes through my mind, but it already hurts less than it did a couple of hours ago. It already seems like a distant memory from my past.
