She's Out of Control by Kristin Billerbeck Page B

angry.
    â€œThe artwork is nice,” Seth says tentatively.
    What? Come on Seth, there is an entire room of beautiful things here! You have to go for the psycho art?
    â€œThank you. I did it myself.” Sophia stands up and walks around the room. She’s wearing espadrilles, linen slacks, and a flowing silk shirt—all in cream. She looks like she’s never worked a day in her life, like she was created to be an ornament. Sophia points to a painting. “I call this Pressure because it represents the time I came to live with Hans’s family. I never knew such angst could exist until I lived with children fulltime.” She talks with her flattened hand slicing the air for effect.
    Um, maybe stealing their mother’s husband had something to do with that angst. “Did you come over to America expressly to be a nanny?”
    â€œI did. Only to discover that I don’t particularly care for children.” Again, a tinkling laugh. “They’re quite filthy. They always have food on their hands, and they’re just little bags of noise.” She grabs her ears. “Oh, the noise!”
    I can see from Seth’s expression that she’s just lost a little of her mystique with him. “So you don’t want children?” Seth asks. Odd. He’s never asked me that question.
    â€œAbsolutely not. Hans has populated the world enough, and I believe in population control. A very rare, how you say, stance in my Catholic country, but I believe it.” Sophia moves to another painting, her hands flailing in typical Italian fashion.
    Hmm. How would I describe it? The painting is skeletal in nature, covered in red, to give the effect of stringed muscles like you’d see in an anatomy book. It’s surrounded by black, and the eyes bulge out like something in a Halloween haunted house. Sophia continues, “I call this one Death . It represents the end of a relationship and your feelings about that other person. How you are simply raw and laid . . . how you say? Bare. Laid bare.”
    And Brea thinks my poetry is frightening? This gal should be locked away with her paints and a fulltime Freud. “Interesting,” I say. What does one say when you’ve just been assaulted by something unsightly referred to as art. Um, this is called Straightjacket?
    Seth’s eyes are huge, glowing orbs. Sophia is like a fantasy beer commercial, until she slaps you across the face with the harsh reality of her inner life. Judging by his furrowed brow, if I thought Seth was fearful of jewelry stores before, the news that a beautiful woman can harbor this kind of dark emotion obviously has him thinking monastery. He stares at me like I’ve betrayed him. We’re never getting married. He now thinks I’m the Portrait of Dorian Gray , hiding some hideous self in the closet.
    Hans comes in, much to the relief of us all. “Ashley, you look gorgeous!” He embraces me and stands back to gaze at me, lifting his eye-brows. “No patent attorney should look like this. How do you expect me to get any work done?”
    Seth comes forward, and thrusts hand towards my boss. “Seth Greenwood, Ashley’s boyfriend. Nice to meet you.”
    â€œBoyfriend? I thought . . .” Hans looks at me questioningly and continues. “I thought any man smart enough to date our Ashley would rush to the altar. No ring, huh?” Hans picks up my hand and shows its barrenness to Seth.
    â€œWe were just admiring Sophia’s art,” Seth says, avoiding the marriage conversation. As is his custom.
    â€œShe’s incredible, isn’t she? Such talent, and it goes unrecognized in America. In Europe, they understand her art and pay big money for it.” Hans kisses Sophia on the cheek. “So, what can I get you to drink? Wine? Martini? What?”
    â€œI’d just like a diet soda if you have one,” I say, and Sophia looks at me as though I’m from another