Portrait of a Mirror

Joukovsky A. Natasha Joukovsky

Description

A stunning reinvention of the myth of Narcissus as a modern novel of manners, about two young, well-heeled couples whose parallel lives converge and intertwine over the course of a summer, by a sharp new voice in fiction Wes and Diana are the kind of privileged, well-educated, self-involved New Yorkers you may not want to like but can't help wanting to like you. With his boyish good looks, blue-blood pedigree, and the recent tidy valuation of his tech startup, Wes would have made any woman weak in the knees-any woman, that is, except perhaps his wife. Brilliant to the point of cunning, Diana possesses her own arsenal of charms, handily deployed against Wes in their constant wars of will and rhetorical sparring. Vivien and Dale live in Philadelphia, but with ties to the same prep schools and management consulting firms as Wes and Diana, they're of the same ilk. With a wedding date on the horizon and carefully curated life of coupledom, Vivien and Dale make a picture-perfect pair on Instagram. But when Vivien becomes a visiting curator at The Metropolitan Museum of Art just as Diana is starting a new consulting project in Philadelphia, the two couples' lives cross and tangle. It's the summer of 2015 and they're all enraptured by one another and too engulfed in desire to know what they want-despite knowing just how to act. In this wickedly fun debut, A. Natasha Joukovsky crafts an absorbing portrait of modern romance, rousing real sympathy for these flawed characters even as she skewers them. Shrewdly observed, whip-smart, and shot through with wit and good humor, The Portrait of a Mirror is a piercing exploration of narcissism, desire, self-delusion, and the great mythology of love.

Informations

• Publié par: ABRAMS BOOKS
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781647001957
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

This edition first published in hardcover in 2021 by The Overlook Press, an imprint of ABRAMS
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Copyright 2021 A. Natasha Joukovsky
Cover 2021 Abrams
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2020944997
ISBN: 978-1-4197-5216-2
eISBN: 978-1-64700-195-7
ABRAMS The Art of Books 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007 abramsbooks.com
For Evan S. Thomas
1979-2018
O Nature, and O soul of man! how far beyond all utterance are your linked analogies! not the smallest atom stirs or lives in matter, but has its cunning duplicate in mind.
-H ERMAN M ELVILLE , M OBY -D ICK
PART ONE
CHAPTER I.
There is no greater compliment in this world than being the uncooperative catalyst of another person s misery, if not all-out self-destruction. The critical word here is uncooperative . It is easy, lazy, and dishonorable to deliberately distress another human being. But to do so unintentionally, or better yet, unwillingly-for one s mere presence to cause another pain, not by any act of violence, but by the force of the bottomless pool that is unrequited love, that pool that both draws and prevents the other from moving closer-to be loved and not to love back: this is the definition of power.
It s a state of affairs that most privileged, well-educated, self-involved people take great pains to shape in their favor. In the truest mark of artistic mastery, C. Wesley Range IV made it seem effortless.
So highly attractive to women was Wes that, at first glance, for the many (many) girls he had disappointed, it might have been tempting to paint a twenty-first-century Rick Von Sloneker- tall, rich, good-looking, stupid, dishonest, conceited, a bully, a liar, a drunk and a thief, an egomaniac, and probably psychotic . In reality, he was only about half of these things, and if Wes was a bit of a devil, he was the kind with whom you d sympathize. At nearly thirty, Wes was still boyishly handsome, with an Ivy League aesthetic perforating his hipster urbanism, and (85 percent of) a Henley-winning physique. He was kind to children, respectful of the elderly, and attentive to dogs. He rarely drank alcohol, precisely because he knew he had the tendency to overdo it. The lies he told were generally engineered to spare hard feelings, and the main recipient of such lies was himself. With the recent tidy valuation of his tech startup, Ecco, one might have predicted an uptick in ego, but his oldest friends would insist there d been no change. New acquaintances would scoff that he came from money anyway, until they learned the sorry state of his trust, at which point even Zuccotti Park-populist skeptics had been known to forgive him the suffix and develop a crush. Upon closer inspection, they found Wes could almost pass for self-made-if anything, he spent too much time at work. Factoring in his polite yet straightforward general manner, discretion in sexual encouragement and discouragement, discernment in those choices, and, most especially, his unwavering commitment to (albeit serial) monogamy, it was impossible to brand Wes a womanizer, let alone a rake.
It was a formidable talent, making women feel valued and respected. It shouldn t have been, but it was. Rarely making the first move, even less often a promise, Wes s quiet self-assurance and Sadie Hawkins approach tended to attract the kind of women to whom Wes was most attracted: independently minded and forward thinking enough to proposition a man, confident enough in their own desirability for that man to be him. His real specialty, though, was breakups. Wes s ready willingness to have an uncomfortable thirty-, maybe sixty-minute conversation and be cleanly, respectably done with things starkly broke ranks with long-established practice in male-to-female relationship termination theory. If the great lengths and dramatic unpleasantness his friends accepted to avoid such encounters boggled Wes s mind, his own compassion and transparency shocked the hell out of them. But to Wes, empathetic, definitive communication was a kind of secular Pascal s wager, one of those rare pragmatisms with the added benefit of humanistic appearance. In the absence of ugly breakup mechanics, most women ostensibly bore their post-Wes devastation in ironic nostalgia, if not pride of conquest. Those who did resort to the darker comforts of fiction were hardly believed anyway. Such was the sterling reputation of Charles Wesley Range IV: indelible to the point of immunity, even, on occasion, from the truth.
As the founder and CEO of a company that pinpointed needling errors in vast haystacks of code, Wes would have been the first to admit that with any sufficiently large data set, there are outliers. And as is often the case with outliers, the two women who defied the customary pattern of Rangeian relationship dynamics had a disproportionately large effect. You had to go pretty far back to find the first black swan, a taciturn brunette from-where else-prep school, an upper former two years his senior. It had been an admiration from afar: the obsessive, worshippy sort of lust-love that can only flourish from a distance, but, from a distance, self-perpetuates. Why had he been unable to approach her? Based on the way she d looked at him a few times, he thought maybe she would approach him. But she never did, and there were always other girls more forwardly demanding of his attentions. Before he knew it, she d graduated and was gone. Their missed connection was the rare kind of adolescent regret that, with time and maturity, became more rather than less painful. She was now, in his mind, far more than a person. She had come to represent every decision he hadn t made, every opportunity forgone. She was regret personified. One can get over bad decisions, lovers lost. But it is impossible to get over someone you never really had.
The second outlier was just downstairs, the damn incendiary making all that racket: the catalyst of his misery, the love of his life, Diana Whalen. Wes s wife.
Diana took a sip of coffee and set it on the credenza. The mug hit the marble top with an edgy clink followed by the hollow little thud of full contact. Wes knew she knew he was awake. She was doing that thing where she was pretending to be trying to be quiet, so that if he dared mention her inconsideration, she d have just enough room to get wide-eyed with hurt, theatrically offended by the affront.
Much like Diana, the loft was built for special occasions and editorial photoshoots, not everyday life-and certainly not sleeping in. Understated luxury in the heart of the Flatiron District, the listing had said. Fully renovated prewar building with some of the best views in the city. Whimsical architectural details in a supremely versatile space, dripping with charm and character. And only $2.3 million; Wes distinctly remembered the broker calling it a total steal, and repeating, for the fiftieth time, in his affected, reality-TV accent, this is New York . Later that night, Wes and Diana had found countless, sidesplitting mock applications for this catchphrase, reveling in the reflection of each other s cleverness and the competitive rush of one-upmanship. It remained, to this day, one of their most flexible and reliably funny inside jokes.
The broker had the last laugh. It was a purchase that reflected not who Wes was, but who he wanted to be, who he wanted his friends to think he was. Wes had bought a loft for the formal-living-room version of himself, and was suffering the consequence of having to live in an apartment that was all formal living room. Whimsical details meant the bed was exposed and raised practically to the ceiling, photogenic in the abstract, but nearly impossible to make, never made. Supremely versatile space stood for one big room with wowing dinner party potential but radically insufficient closet space. On most mornings, including this one, the picked-over remnants of the previous week s wash-n-fold spilled out of gnarled cling wrap on the coffee table, migrating precariously close to a mountain of empty take-out containers. The absolute wo