A Madness Most Discreet Read online

  I screenshotted the picture and sent it with the article link to Bitzy with a (somewhat desperate) plea. Can you find out who this is? I owe him a shirt.

  Her report came back a few hours later, and it was detailed. First and last name, age, birthdate, social media handles, a profile done by his agency—he was, in fact, a professional model—links to more of his catalog work, and old headshots that showed a slightly younger and less composed version of him.

  Arden Evans.

  Were his parents lovers of Shakespeare? Was it a family name? A professional one? Did he dabble in porn? With looks like that, maybe so. Gay for pay?

  I lost several hours to the illicit pleasures of stalking Arden Evans online. Facebook was a shell, Twitter only a little less so, but his Instagram was a treasure trove. I caught up with where he’d traveled over the past few years, the parties he’d attended, the clothes he’d modeled, and the company he’d kept. Bronzed, near-naked bodies were draped over his shoulders like flesh-colored scarves—a virtual Mount Rushmore of chiseled abs—but my eye was inevitably drawn to his eyes. A close second was that boyish grin, one that promised adventure.

  Homosexual overtones dominated his feed, but there were no references to a partner or boyfriend. There wasn’t much meat to his captions either. Mostly the naming of places and events. Rather dry, I thought, feeling put out that I couldn’t glean more of his internal life from his photographs.

  My eye caught on one advertisement in particular, where a tousled Arden was just waking in a brightly lit room of simplistic Swedish furniture. He wore a tank top—revealing for an Ikea ad—so that his toned arms caught the light streaming in from the window, fine blonde hairs shimmering in the sunlight. I glanced over at my own neatly made bed and imagined it.

  Arden Evans.

  Would it be thirsty of me to message him? I still had his outrageously expensive shirt. He’d want to know that it had been dry cleaned and was ready to be returned to him. That’d be the considerate thing to do. I was nothing if not considerate.

  I snapped a picture of his shirt and sent it to him with the briefest of messages that I’m embarrassed to admit, took me an inordinate amount of time to compose:

  I’d like to return this to you.

  His response came hours later, while I was still embroiled in my online investigation. I was supposed to be outlining my next novel.

  You found me! How?

  I wrestled with an explanation that didn’t give off creepy stalker vibes. In the end, I sent him the screenshotted picture of his angular, masculine features in a contrastingly feminine sweater.

  I was looking to set my pits free.

  His response was a laughing emoji and even worse, the terrifying, immobilizing question: How do you want to do this?

  Christ. How did I want to do this? We could meet on a street corner, but that seemed crude and didn’t offer me the chance to get to know him better. I could drop it off at his place, thus cementing myself as a stalker. I could ask him to meet for coffee but wasn’t that the gay equivalent of foreplay? Dinner was… too high stakes.

  May I take you to lunch?

  I debated whether to use May I or Can I. I didn’t want to sound pretentious (guilty), but I was a writer. I’d been raised by two literary agents who never dumbed down their vocabularies for my benefit. Bitzy once told me I spoke like an eighteenth-century poet, which was kind of her. Another descriptor was snobby as fuck. That, according to one of my exes.

  Arden’s response was delayed enough that I had several minutes to second guess my approach and generally work myself into a state.

  You may.

  He was teasing me, wasn’t he? After some logistical back-and-forth, we settled on an organic farm-to-table restaurant near my father’s agency in NoHo. I’d drop in on Bitzy while I was in the neighborhood.

  And I got his number.

  “I find it interesting our need to rate things,” he said.

  I’d later learn that Arden excelled at throwing out what was the equivalent of red meat to insufferable types like myself, those of us in love with the sounds of our own voices and easily tempted into inconsequential arguments. Then Arden would bow out and simply watch the chaos unfold like a playful imp. He was truly a master of the Socratic method.

  “But how else would you know when something’s good or not?” I said, innocent to his ways.

  “What is ‘good?’” he posited.

  I glanced down at my plate. “This hake is really good.”

  “What makes it so?”

  “It’s a good filet. Flaky. The fennel gives it a nice zest and the capers just a touch of brine.”

  “If that was a simple meal of beans and rice, something that had been stirred in the pot all day long with love from a recipe that’s been passed down from generations, would that also be excellent?”

  “Depends on how it tastes.”

  “Do you think you’d be able to taste the effort that went into making it?”

  “I’d like to think so, but probably not.”

  “It’s a shame, don’t you think? To see only the end result of any given thing and not the effort that goes into producing it?”

  I reflected on that and, not surprisingly, made it about my own work. My readers didn’t witness the time I spent agonizing over the perfect description of a man’s sneer or the deleted scenes that ended up on the cutting room floor. So many beautiful lines, lost. The late nights, groggy mornings, and existential grief that inevitably came with being a writer. I was a professional liar. My livelihood depended on my ability to convince people to believe my lies. What fiction writer didn’t worry about being exposed as a fraud? Maybe I didn’t want people to see the sausage-making after all.

  “Do you cook?” I asked.

  “I used to cook more. Nowadays it’s mostly salads and smoothies. A stir-fry if I’m feeling reckless.”

  Arden was reckless in many ways, but his diet wasn’t one of them. Our waiter came by then and asked if we’d like another cocktail. I didn’t make a habit of day drinking, but I didn’t want our lunch to end so soon.

  “Yes, please,” I said. I’d already made it clear that I was paying as a thank you to him for letting me borrow his shirt. “And you too?” I inclined my head in Arden’s direction. His eyes narrowed as if it were a test.

  “Why not?” he said lightly.

  Why not? Carefree and yet precise in its inculpability. So many of Arden’s responses were some variation of that phrase. To whatever I might suggest, the response was always, why not? I’d thought it was only part of his carefree demeanor. I learned later that its roots went much deeper.

  “So, if we were talking about your line of work,” I said, “with the photograph being the end result, we’d have to consider the makeup artist who freshened your face, the creative vision of the art director, the photographer’s skill... For that matter, even your personal trainer who keeps you fit.”

  “What makes you think I have a personal trainer?” he asked with a coy look.

  “Your impossibly sculpted abs?”

  His smile widened, a dimple punctuating his mischievous grin. He never answered that particular question. “You’re right. I get all the credit. It’s not fair.”

  I could never tell if Arden was teasing or answering honestly. It was part of his allure.

  “We do, as a culture, worship beauty to an unhealthy degree,” I said and nearly added, even more so in the gay community. I refrained, though. I didn’t want to make any more assumptions.

  “Absolutely.” Arden nodded vigorously. “And our concept of beauty is so narrow. People can be so harsh, whether it’s a meal or a book or a face. New Yorkers are experts at critique. I wish impossibly sculpted abs would go out of style. I’d order a whole loaf of bread.”

  I laughed. “People need to be told what to like, even better if it’s unattainable.”

  “There are too many choices out there. Some part of our psyche must be begging for our taste to be cultivated wi
thout putting in any time or effort. And yes, there is the whole keeping-up-with-the-Joneses.”

  Our drinks were delivered to us then. Arden’s was a peach Melba—virgin—which he said tasted like summertime.

  “Is alcohol also not part of your diet?” I asked, figuring it was fair game since he’d brought it up.

  “It is not,” he said somewhat evasively. “But not because of my workout regimen.”

  I absolutely wanted to delve deeper into that subject, but again, I held back. “Where did you go to school?”

  He leveled me with a stare. I didn’t know him well enough to know what that particular look meant, though I could probably guess now.

  “Brown,” he said, and then provided, without me asking, “on scholarship.”

  “Impressive,” I said, and it was. Their admission rate was in the single digits.

  “I wrote an essay,” he said simply.

  “Are you a writer?” I dreaded his answer. I definitely didn’t need another writer in my life.

  “No, I’m eye candy.”

  I doubted that, but it did remind me of his minimalist social media, deliberately void of any personal information.

  “Your Instagram captions were pretty brief,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t call me out for being a stalker.

  “Models shouldn’t have opinions, and if they do, they shouldn’t express them.”

  Arden also said things he didn’t mean—to bait people or to simply be contrarian—but I was unaware of that quirk at the time, so I asked sincerely, “Do you really believe that?”

  “I’m paid to be a fantasy. An empty canvas. People look at my photographs and project whatever it is they want onto my image. The viewer tells me who I am, what I want, who I love… and I tell them what shoes to buy, what brand of cologne to wear, what spring sweater will set their pits free.”

  I laughed at our inside joke while he continued, “Nothing ruins the fantasy faster than the realization that I’m actually just a regular human being with my own petty problems and prejudices. No one wants to know about my body odor or ingrown hairs or that my rent is past due. No one wants that messy reality.”

  I do, I thought, unbidden.

  “You’re cultivating a mystique,” I said.

  “I have to. It’s my only currency.”

  We spoke of other things after that. I secured a second lunch date under the pretense of needing to visit a friend in Brooklyn, but over the next few days, Arden’s remark stuck with me. How many attractive people believed their beauty was their only currency, and what happened when it faded? How much of their lives were governed by that fear alone?

  Our next lunch date was at an NYC franchise known for its fresh fruit and market vegetables. By then, I understood enough about Arden’s diet to know that carbs and red meat were a rarity for him. Dessert was out of the question. His relationship with bread was complicated to say the least.

  The location he picked was in Greenpoint, near his flat and Bitzy’s place as well. His apartment was something I desperately wanted to see—more clues into Arden’s backstory.

  I couldn’t help but think of people as characters sometimes, especially when I was just getting to know them. What motivated them and what made them tick? Though I didn’t much care for humanity as a whole, I found certain individuals endlessly fascinating.

  “I’m sorry if this seems rude,” I said after we’d ordered, “but you don’t seem like a model to me.”

  “Oooooh, this sounds controversial already.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “So much to unpack in that statement. What’s the type you had in mind?”

  “I’m going to sound completely judgmental, but I have known a few models.” I’d even dated a couple. “They tend to be pretty self-absorbed.”

  “I’m extremely self-absorbed,” he said soberly.

  “Really?”

  “You should see the amount of time I spend on exercise and grooming. It’s criminal.”

  “Well, that is part of your job.”

  “I probably spend as much time in front of a mirror as you do in front of your computer.”

  I’d later learn it was absolutely true.

  “Again, hazards of the job.”

  “Then how about this?” he challenged. “I’m writing a memoir. How many people in their twenties do you know who are writing a memoir?”

  “You said you weren’t a writer.” I reminded him of our last conversation when he’d denied it.

  “I’m not getting paid to do it.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Of course, it matters. Do you know how many people think they’re photographers just because they can snap a picture on their smart phone? Doesn’t it aggravate you when you tell someone you’re an author, and they say they’re going to write the story of their life, and it’s going to be a bestseller? Like there’s no craft or skill to it at all.”

  It was a little bit aggravating. On several occasions I’d been tempted to make up some other profession for that exact reason. Even worse was when they asked me to write their story for them, as though they’d be doing me a favor.

  “In my opinion, if you’re dedicated to the craft of writing, that makes you a writer,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t dare elevate myself to your level,” he said with a straight face. I was 99 percent sure he was fucking with me.

  “Do you intend to publish your memoir?” I asked.

  “Definitely not. I’m a shit writer. It’s just something my therapist suggested. But isn’t that completely self-absorbed? To spend all day having people fuss over you and take your picture only to come home and write about yourself? Even now, I’ve turned the conversation back to me. That’s how self-absorbed I am.”

  I smirked at his cleverness. “I don’t mind. I find you fascinating.”

  Arden gave me a disbelieving look, then changed topics entirely. “What are you working on now, Michael?”

  I sighed deeply and Arden picked up on my angst.

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “That must be an industry no-no. Ours is, ‘have you gained weight?’”

  I gave a wry grin. “I’m embarrassed to admit what I have.”

  “Is it crabs?”

  I laughed. “Worse. Writer’s block.”

  He nodded, serious for a moment before his expression lightened. “I’ve read your books.”

  Now it was my turn to be put on the spot. I hated discussing my books post-publication. For those who said they liked them, I never knew if they truly meant it or if they were only being polite. And if they hated them, I really didn’t want to be confronted with it face-to-face. Or to have to argue my narrative choices. (As if there were anything I could do about it at that point, anyway!) That’s what book clubs and online forums were for. Though perhaps the worse reaction of all was for readers to be bored. My most devastating review was only three letters long—meh. It sent me into a doubt spiral that lasted for weeks.

  “What did you think?” I asked as if pulling the pin on a grenade.

  “I loved them,” he said with warm sincerity. “I picked up Murder at Cold Lake Lodge in the Miami airport, then binge read the second. I couldn’t believe I had to wait for the third one to be published. Needless to say, I pre-ordered that and the fourth one as well. I’m open to any hints you want to give me about the fifth.”

  “No spoilers,” I said with a huge grin. “This must me why you agreed to have lunch with me.”

  “Naturally. Your looks had nothing to do with it.”

  I may have blushed a little then and focused on my plate. Did that mean he found me attractive? I hoped so.

  “I wish I’d had them on the boat,” Arden mused.

  He’d said the boat, but I heard it as a boat.

  “Is that like being trapped on a deserted island?”

  He laughed. “It’s a category of books I can read over and over again and find something new each time. Nathan Shields was a fascinating character. So many layers. And of course, Daphne m
ade for a very compelling love interest.”

  “Now you’re just flattering me.”

  “Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

  I wanted to tell him something, something I’d told very few people. Because it made me ashamed. Somehow, I thought Arden might understand, or at least not judge me too harshly. “You know, in my first draft of Murder at Cold Lake Lodge, Daphne’s character was a man.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded. “Nathan Shields was a gay man having an affair with the murder vic. It’s why the police suspected him initially. Not only was he the owner of the lodge where the murder took place, but he was involved in a homosexual relationship. Small town prejudice and all that. I’d wanted to build a character arc where his interactions with the local police were combative from the start and give Nathan the opportunity throughout the series to challenge their homophobia.”

  Arden studied me for a moment. “Why did you change it?”

  I wasn’t proud to admit that I’d essentially sold out, but there was really no other way of putting it.

  “My father convinced me that it wasn’t commercially viable, not enough to sell to one of the Big Five anyway, and that if I wanted the backing of his agency, I’d need to revise it. Being an unknown writer with no platform of my own, I didn’t see much of an alternative, so I did it.”

  “Do you regret it?” he asked in a somber tone.

  “Sometimes. But I also wonder if I’d kept it as it was, if it would have gotten such a wide readership. Or if I’d have even gotten a contract in the first place.”

  “It’s unfortunate all the parts of yourself you have to hide in order to be acceptable to others,” he said.

  “It really is,” I agreed, a little wistfully. “And that’s when I learned, that at the end of the day, mainstream publishing is a business, and a big house won’t take you on unless they think they can make a profit. And an agency won’t represent you if they think they can’t sell your work. It has more to do with that than the quality of your writing or the story you’re trying to tell. All hard life lessons that I had to learn.”