The Sweater Curse Ch 9 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Eight: The message ended with directions to a cafe in Kitsilano, The Starving Artist

photo by ldyck

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Nine

My friend Cleo and I sat at a table in our restaurant, the chic Pablo’s Bistro. She wore a printed linen spring dress with matching wrap, her dark brunette hair swept up and away from her ageless face. Cleo had climbed the ladder of success upon the back of one husband after another. I’d met her in my teens when she and her husband had moved into our neighborhood; she was one of the younger wives. Her husband was a fragile, old millionaire.

As we chatted in the bistro, handsome, attentive, white-apron-clad servers circled around us.

Cleo took a sip of her cocktail and… “When will I meet Romeo?”

“This Saturday at seven. I’m throwing a dinner party for fifteen of my closest and dearest friends.”

    Her iPhone sat on the table inches away from her glass. A quick scroll and… “Well, la-de-da. Of course, I’ll be there, darling. Tell me more about him. All I know is his name. Jay, Jay, Jay, I say on those special nights—when I'm feeling amorous.” When I laughed, she said, "Of course, he’s gorgeous, or why bother? More details.” 

    “He lives and works in Kitsilano.”

    “Um.” She sniffed. “Kits is nice. What does he do—beside you? Lawyer, banker, corporate executive? What, darling, what?”

    I knew better than to tell her the complete truth. “He manages a café.”

    “Oh, baby, no. Manages? Doesn’t own? I’ve heard Matthew is still interested. I could arrange a—.”

    “No, thank you.” My conversation with Cleo should have clued me in to the disaster to follow, but no. Foolishly, I followed through with my plan.

    Precisely at seven, my guests began arriving at my stylish apartment in West Vancouver. They grouped together and immediately began to whisper.

    “Look at how he’s dressed.”

    “Who cuts his hair?”

    “It really isn’t like her to date white trash.”

“Is he the writer who read at Ronald’s party? No, he can’t be.”

My caterer served the entrée as my friends spoke of lavish vacations. Jay didn’t utter a word.

    Between mouthfuls of New York cheesecake, my friend Alester inquired. “What type of car do you drive? Lexus, Audi, BMW, Ferrari, Porsche?” He owned a luxury car dealership.

“I don’t own a car,” Jay told him. My friends looked at him blankly. “I use public transit.”

They nearly gagged.

“Well, I guess you’ll be able to use Gwen’s Audi now,” Alester said.

It was a loaded comment, but Jay simply replied, “Yeah, I guess so.”

Over cocktails, one of my friends commented, “So, Gwen tells us you manage a café.”

“Oh, yes, I do, The Starving Artist. It’s a collectively owned and operated café in Kitsilano.”

“Collective?”

“For emerging and established artists and artisans,” he innocently informed them.

“You’re an artist?” The room fell deathly quiet.

“Yes, I’m an author.”

“With which publishing house?” Victoria inquired. She had recently divorced the executive editor at Fitzgerald and Fraser.

“Oh, no, self-published.”

I heard gasps and saw shocked faces. The minute he left for the bathroom, they started yapping at me like a pack of Pomeranians.

“You’re letting him use your car?” and “He’s a gold digger. When he finds out you have no money, he’ll dump you.” and “He’s not good enough for you.” and “He’s not rich enough.” and “He’s just a dreamer.” and “You can do so much better.”

I meet this attack face-on. “I’m in love. You’re my friends. I thought you would be happy.” My voice was measured, controlled.

“Are you planning to tell Finn about Jay? Or juggle them both?” Alester sneered. Finn owned the apartment I lived in rent-free. He lived half of the year in Ireland and the other half in Vancouver with me.

“Friends? Honestly, Gwen, how did you pick us?” I should have known Cleo would defend me. “This is none of our business. There’s no ring on her finger. She’s free to do what, and whoever, she wants.”

“And besides, I’m planning to move out,” I said bluntly, hoping to silence them.

    “Really? You’re jobless, penniless. Where are you going to go?”

    Before I could answer Alester’s question, Jay walked back into the room.

Sunday, December 21, at approximately 4:40 PM PT

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Ten

  In a one-bedroom apartment in Kitsilano, Jay led an austere lifestyle.

Write now...

The Sweater Curse Ch 8 by Leanne Dyck

 WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Seven: Artists were invited to our parties

photo by ldyck

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Eight

For our first date, we had planned to go to a movie at a theatre not far from my apartment. These plans changed with a text message. In brief it read, "I’ve been called in to work. Please meet me there." The message ended with directions to a café in Kitsilano, The Starving Artist.

I hopped into my car and drove. My car tires splashing puddles as I drove on that dull, grey day. I parked in front of a large colourful abstract mural that decorated the exterior of the café. I pushed it open and was immersed in a vibrant environment full of inspiration, full of colour. Artistically arranged paintings, sculptures, and pottery decorated the interior. The walls and booths were in muted tones meant to accent, not detract from the art. On stage, a harpist played, adding a touch of elegance .

I found a table and studied the menu. Soup, sandwiches, seafood, burgers, pasta—it was the usual fare. I flipped the menu over and found a black and white photo of the café as seen from the street, and under that was a brief write-up.

“The Kitsilano Artist Collective, established in 1967—” 1967 brought to mind a bunch of long-haired, marijuana-smoking hippies. “—offers established and emerging artists an opportunity to display their work at The Starving Artist. The collectively owned café employs artists both in the kitchen and on the floor. Our future plan is to expand to include a craft boutique/art gallery. We extend an invitation to local artists and artisans to join us.” The current president, Jaron Cardew, signed the write-up. Jaron? Cardew? My Jaron Cardew? Hmm. Wow. Okay. I set the menu on the table and looked around for something else to amuse me. A short, muscular, hairy man strolled slowly, deliberately over to my booth. His bright blue eyes washed over my body. He sat at my booth and slid toward me on the bench, close, tight. He penned me against the wall, and I felt his heart racing.

“Your body.” He kissed his fingertips. “I paint you nude.”

“I’m waiting for Jaron Cardew. Do you know him?”

“Jay?” He acted like I'd just slapped him.

“Yes. We’re—.”

In his haste to vacate, he knocked his knees hard against the table.

A door at the back of the cafe opened. Jay walked out and over to us.

“My friend.” He wrapped Jay in a bear hug.

“Hello, Nilos. I see you’ve met Gwen.”

“Oh, yes, your lovely lady. I must, I must go.” Nilos left quickly.

Jay reached across the table, and I leaned toward him, offering him my hand. “He wants to paint me—nude.”

“I’m not surprised. He has fine taste in women. Would you like to see some of his work?”

I snuggled up close to Jay as he led me from painting to painting. Each captured a young, pretty woman lying on a bearskin rug or draped over a chaise lounge. He wrapped them in rich backgrounds of scarlet red, pastel pinks, and crisp, clear white. After viewing his work, I realized Nilos preferred dark chocolate goddesses. With me, he seemed willing to make an exception.

The Starving Artist held an open mic night each Friday night. For our second-month anniversary, Jay entertained the café with a poem written to honour me.

“My dear, my darling Gwen,

You found me as I found you.

Now our hearts beat as one.

Each second without you is a waste.

I long to touch you.

Hold you,

Kiss you,

I’m yours.”

I was a tad embarrassed but mainly delighted.

Lulu Bell descended upon us as we sipped our espressos. Jay stood to greet her. The flamboyant Amazon wrapped him in a warm embrace.

“How’ve you been, sugar?” She marked his cheek with two bright pink lips. Then she noticed me and held me with her serene eyes. She coiled a handful of lengthy bright pink fingernails and made a clawing motion as she hissed. “Who’s this cupcake?”

“Play nice, Lulu Bell. This is my girlfriend, Gwen.”

I looked closer and noticed Lulu Bell’s Adam’s apple.

“You better treat Jai-nie baby right, or you'll be messing with me, cupcake."

Lulu Bell’s dramatic, vivid geometric paintings graced the café walls. Each sported a hefty price, which admirers were overjoyed to pay, and there were many admirers.

Jay’s friends knew he would always be there for them, night or day. The phone broke the silence of the night, waking him, waking me.

“No, don’t worry. I’ll be right there. Everything will be okay.” He hung up. “Gwen, honey, I have to leave, but I’ll be home soon.” He kissed me before he left.

Where was he going? I speculated. Had Nilos been arrested for stalking? Lulu Bell for indecent exposure? My assumptions were never confirmed or denied.

Though I asked, his only reply was, “Out helping a friend.”

“This is my girlfriend, Gwen. She’s a very talented artist.” Jay told his friends.

Was it a joke? I didn’t deserve the title. Knitting wasn’t an art. I wasn’t an artist. I didn’t belong in their world. They feigned interest. Their questions bit holes in my façade.

“What are you currently working on?”

“From where do you draw your inspiration?”

“Where may I view your collection?”

“May I read your artist’s statement?” All of their questions were carefully chosen to magnify the bizarre notion that I was an artist. I didn’t belong, and they all knew it. They tolerated me—because I was Jay’s girlfriend. How long would our relationship last?

The Sweater Curse

Chapter nine

My conversation with Cleo should have clued me in to the disaster to follow, but no. Foolishly, I followed through with my plan.

photo by ldyck

I was out on a walk with my dog—on Spinnark Drive, Mayne Island—when this striking work of art made me pause. I had to capture it. I had to share it with you.

Sharing my author journey...

Are you inspired by the fading of the year?