The Heat of Betrayal Read Free Page B

our illusions and self-deceptions.
    Love, however, always muddies clarity of vision. And a life without love is a bit like the balance sheets I gaze over every working day: far too concrete, too reasoned. My love for Paul was as bound up in his recklessness as in his talent, his intelligence, his ardour for me.
    I got home just after six p.m. to the nineteenth-century Gothic place we’d bought together. His car was parked out front. When I entered the house I was startled to find that order had descended upon chaos. In recent weeks Paul had started treating our home as a happy dumping ground. However, in the days I had been out of contact, not only had he divested the house of his mess, but all the windows glistened, all the wood surfaces were free of dust and had been polished. There were fresh flowers in several vases and I could smell something pasta-esque in the oven.
    As the door slammed behind me, Paul emerged from the kitchen, looking just a little sheepish. He couldn’t make direct eye contact with me. But when he did once look up in my direction I could see his sadness and fear.
    â€˜Smells good,’ I said.
    â€˜I made it for you, for us.’ Again he avoided my gaze. ‘Welcome home.’
    â€˜Yes, I came back. But—’
    He held up his hand.
    â€˜I sold all the wine.’
    â€˜I see.’
    â€˜I found a guy here in town. Big-deal collector. Offered me six thousand dollars for my cellar.’
    â€˜You have a cellar?’
    He nodded, looking like a little boy who had just been caught out in a very big lie.
    â€˜Where?’ I asked.
    â€˜You know that shed behind the garage? The one we never use?’
    The shed was something akin to a bomb shelter, with two folding steel doors that lay flat to the ground. When we were negotiating to buy the house we naturally had it opened for us, and found a damp semi-lined cave. As the house already had a renovated basement we simply put a lock on the two doors after we bought the place and left it empty.
    At least, that’s what I thought.
    â€˜How long have you been building up this wine collection?’ I tried to sound reasonable.
    â€˜A while.’
    He came over and took me in his arms.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ he said.
    â€˜I don’t want apologies. I just don’t want another repetition of all this financial mess.’
    â€˜And I don’t want to lose you.’
    â€˜Then don’t. Because I do want you,
us
.’
    To Paul’s credit he became industrious again after the wine incident, spending all free non-teaching hours on a new series of lithographs. It was the first time that he had settled down to serious creative work since our marriage. Though his gallery owner in New York was enthusiastic, the general downturn in the market and Paul’s lack of visibility in recent times meant that the sort of prices he could demand had shrunk decisively. Still, he did manage to find a buyer. Though Paul was disappointed with the negotiated price, part of him was clearly thrilled with the fact that he still ‘had the chops’, as he put it, when it came to his art. After paying off most of his credit-card debts he then took me out to dinner at a most upscale (for Buffalo) French restaurant where he ordered a far too expensive bottle of wine and told me the gallery owner had another client interested in a new series.
    â€˜The buyer is willing to plonk down fifty per cent up front – so that should be another ten grand to me in a couple of weeks. What’s a bottle of Paulliac compared to that?’
    I’m not that into wine. Still . . . why not celebrate? Especially as Paul was making good on paying off his debts. When we got home that night, he lit candles in our bedroom, put on a CD of Miles Davis playing ‘Someday My Prince Will Come’, and made love to me with the ferocity and sensuality that only he could.
    My first husband, Donald, had always had issues about intimacy. He