Page 102 of Monarch
“What’s going on?” I ask, and Roos says something to him in Dutch, which I think is of a similar vein.
“I’m not permitted to say, but you will find out soon enough. I just want to let you know that you are going to be alone in there – ”
“What?” I interrupt. “That’s not what we wanted.”
“I know, which is why you can leave at any time. I will be just outside, right here, the whole time, so if you need me, you only have to say my name.”
Roos says something else in Dutch that I don’t understand, and Joel simply smiles at her and replies in English, “All will be revealed.”
He moves to the side and gestures for us to step inside. I look at Roos before I move. It feels like my ribcage is compressing with anticipation, making it difficult to breathe normally. I think Roos is experiencing something like this, too, when I see her throat working as she swallows and gives me a nod that can only be described as brave.
We walk into the ballroom together.
It looks nothing like it normally does. All the tables and chairs have been removed, and the floor of the auditorium is completely clear but for six wooden easels on each side, each one carrying a painting, and each one illuminated from a spotlight above. The stage is completely in the dark, the curtains pulled closed ominously. In between the paintings, wall-mounted candelabras provide more light, each one boasting six lit red candles, but contrasting with the spotlights, it’s a warm and subtle and sensuous glow. The ballroom has been transformed into a spacious but cosy art gallery. Even the bar is closed, and there isn’t a single other person in the room.
I recognise the art on display immediately. On one side of the room, the six paintings on display are of me. On the other side, they are Roos. All painted in the same style as the painting I saw that night Lex couldn’t sleep and xe painted me.
Lex. These are Lex’s paintings.
I look at Roos, and I know she knows it, too.
I’m not surprised when she drops my hand and drifts over to look at the paintings of herself. I’m relieved because I wanted to go and study the ones I am depicted in.
The painting nearest to me is the one I’ve seen before, a profile view of me smiling, although more colour has been added since I last saw it. The blue of my eyes is virtually the only true-to-reality colour on the canvas, and it makes them shine all the brighter. All my life, I’ve wondered if Lex knows just how stunning and inviting xir eyes are. It strikes me now, looking at this painting, that maybe Lex was wondering something similar about me and my eyes.
The next painting is one of me much younger, around seventeen years old. My hair is longer, and I’m wearing these thick, plastic-framed glasses that I thought made me look older, more intelligent, more interesting, and Lex would tease me for having non-prescription glasses on. Again, the colours don’t match reality apart from my eyes, and the lines that make my face and body blur with the background which is an explosion of different shades and shapes. And it’s not just my face in the painting, it’s my whole body, curled around a sketchpad, that has my whole attention. I’m breathless when I recognise my surroundings: Lex’s childhood bedroom. I recognise the floral pattern of the duvet cover, although true to the other paintings, the colours are completely different from the creams and pinks it was actually made of.
Maybe it wasn’t just me watching them make art. Maybe it wasn’t just me imagining all the places Lex’s art would take xem.
I walk to the next painting with a new tightness in my chest, but it’s not uncomfortable, and I’m taking as deep breaths as I ever could. It’s more than I’m acutely aware of air getting pulled in and out of my lungs, and I’m aware of the miracle each breath is.
I’m also not smiling in this painting. In fact, the bottom half of my face is covered with a mask, like it is when I give tattoos. My bright blue eyes are filled with focus, and my hand is painted close to my face, wearing a black glove and gripping a tattoo gun. I look lost in concentration but not losttoit. If anything, I recognise myselfcompletely in this painting. It’s who I love to be. An artist, just like Lex.
The next one is of my hand and the X-tattoo. On my fingers are rings I recognise – vintage pieces I bought in my teens – but have long since lost or given away. I’m breathless as I realise Lex has depicted them perfectly. Just before I look away, I notice the outline of another hand touching the fingertips of mine. Just like Lex and I did that night we both submitted to Roos.
I have my hand resting on my chest as I move to the next painting, and I keep it there as I look at a painting of my face fixed in fierce concentration. Above me is a raised hand gripping a paddle, the kind I like to use most on Roos. My eyes are fixed determinedly on something in front of me and I wonder if Lex painted this imagining it was xem or Roos bent over in front of me. Maybe xe imagined them both and just the idea of it makes something flip in my stomach.
The final painting, the one closest to the stage, is not just of me. Lex is there too, facing me. There is a hand around xir neck and one around mine. I cannot see where the arms lead to, but I know what xe is telling me. We have been strangling each other for so long, and yet we’re not suffocating. Not in the painting – indeed, Lex has painted sly smiles on both our faces – and not in life. I have tried to delete xem from my life, and xe has too. But it didn’t work.
I stare at this painting the longest, trying to imagine what Lex was thinking when xe worked on it. I try to decipher what message xe is trying to give me, but I come up clueless. Or rather, there are too many messages, too many possibilities, and I am done trying to guess what is going on in xir head. I want to hear it loud and clear, with words, or not at all.
Not that I don’t think these paintings mean something. I know they do. They tell our story. They are an invitation. To stay. To see what the next chapter in our story brings.
But this is not just mine and Lex’s story.
Roos is here too.
I’m just as curious about what Lex has painted for Roos, so I cross the room diagonally and start with the first painting on display on the other side. At the same time, Roos walks to take in my paintings.
The first one is similar to my first. It’s Roos, side-on and smiling. Smiling so widely and warmly, I can’t stop my own grin as I stare at her. Again, the colours are abstract, confusing at first – purple lips, blue and green hair, a scarlet red for her skin – and then sort of comforting. But Roos’ eyes are accurate. They’re that ethereal silver-grey that I have never seen in anybody else’s eyes before, and I doubt I ever will.
I’m still smiling when I move to the next painting. I don’t stop when I see it’s of Roos curled up around a book. I’ve seen her do this a hundred times or more since I’ve met her, and this painting captures perfectly the peace of Roos’ face when she’s lost in a romance novel. The flat line of her mouth that twitches into smiles when she reads something cute or romantic. Her cheeks that blush when it gets to a spicy bit. Her hair is gathered over one shoulder, ready for her to twiddle and play with as she gets more and more invested in the characters.
The next painting is of Roos putting on her make-up, the perspective being of the back of Roos’ head and her reflection in a mirror. She’s wearing a different wig, one I don’t recognise, and I suspect this is a memory of Lex’s that pre-dates me. I wonder for a moment if I should feel some sort of jealousy about this. But I don’t. Not for the first time, I feel warmth in my heart that Lex wasn’t just heartbreak for Roos. That there were moments like this, where Lex clearly adored Roos.
The fourth painting is of Roos’ full body. She stands, legs wide, shoulders straight, and she’s dressed in a jumpsuit that grips everyone of her curves. With one hand on her hip and another yielding a riding crop, I know exactly what version of Roos this is, and it makes me shiver.
I drift to the penultimate painting in the row and am not surprised when it’s a painting of Roos asleep. This time, I recognise the sheets as a design Roos has, and I recognise the silk wrap tied around her head. I recognise her slightly parted lips and the way she grips the duvet right under her chin. I could have painted this, I think. I would have painted it almost exactly the same.
