Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
“Oh, what does any woman do when she’s unmarried and childless? You can’t imagine the amount of attention someone in my position dedicates to her wardrobe—shopping, fittings, alterations, all of it.”
I don’t look impressed with her teasing. It seems she’s insistent on making this a joke.
“What else, Lainey?”
“I have tea on most days, and often I’m out and about in Boston, attending some lecture or soirée.”
“And at night? Do you see friends?”
“How perfectly annoying of you to assume I have friends.”
“You’re too interesting not to be an infatuation for someone.”
“Now there’s a compliment I’ll cherish forever. Thank you.”
“Lainey,” I say, sounding insistent, like I’m a headmaster and she’s an errant student.
She leans in, her eyes alight with mischief. “I don’t see why I’m in the hot seat. Let’s turn the tables. What do you like to do with your time now that you no longer get to torment the entire female population of St. John’s?”
“I work.”
She rolls her eyes. “And outside of that?”
“I see friends.”
“People from St. John’s? I guess that’s how you knew my work schedule…”
I don’t verify that for her. There’s no point. If she’s not going to be truthful with her answers, why should I?
She huffs and steps back, extending her arm and inviting me further into the gallery.
“Well since you’re here…why don’t we look at some art? I’ll show you my favorites and tell you which to buy. You’ll be a good boy and do as I say.”
I have the sudden urge to kiss her smart mouth, to tip the scales and remind her of all her past infatuations with me. This is the girl who kept my picture under her pillow, the fragile girl who grew up.
She waves me on. “There’s a David Hockney in this side room that we had to fight to secure from the consigner. He was a longtime client of Larry Gagosian, but we won him over in the end. You’d be surprised how much sway these big branded galleries have.”
“Hockney is fine. Do you have any works by Jean-Michel Basquiat?”
She stops walking and turns back to me. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“His name. Everyone butchers the pronunciation, but it rolls right off your French tongue.”
“Jean-Michel Basquiat,” I say again, leaning into my buried accent.
Her eyes roll back as if she’s about to come, then she mimes a chef’s kiss and continues leading me through the space.
“We don’t have any Basquiats. They rarely change hands these days.”
“You’ll let me know if you hear of any coming up for sale?”
“Of course. Now, come look.”
She walks me through to the side room, which has a set of recessed double doors that require her to scan a small key fob before they sweep open. The room is expansive but bare. There are four white walls and four paintings, each one spaced out on its own so there can be no confusion about each of their respective importance.
Lainey’s an expert in her field. There’s not a fact about the four pieces that she doesn’t know off the top of her head: price, provenance, comparable works, and details about the artist’s creative process. I didn’t come here today to purchase art or even to learn about it, but I can’t seem to interrupt her. I’m too interested in what she has to say.
We finally come to stand in front of the Hockney she wanted me to see. It’s a landscape made of vibrant, saturated colors entitled Garrowby Hill. Its composition is reminiscent of Van Gogh and Matisse, and she tells me a different version of the same painting is owned by the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
“Though I prefer this one.”
She’s eagerly watching me take it in, leaning slightly forward on the balls of her feet to be nearer to me. It’s clear she wants me to like it as much as she does, and I find I do enjoy the painting, but I’m mostly just enjoying her.
“I like it,” I say with a simple nod.
She deflates. “But you don’t love it.”
I almost apologize for how sad she looks, and she must see some bit of remorse on my otherwise hard features because she waves her hand.
“No, no, it’s fine. I’d rather you were perfectly honest with me. That way I can cultivate a taste for what you like. You had me fooled the other night at the exhibition, I think. You acted as if you didn’t care what piece your designers chose so long as it was expensive. Quite a macho move, buying art like that. I think all the women were fanning themselves.”
“It was a little overdone. I’m a bit embarrassed about that, actually. I got carried away trying to get a pretty girl’s attention.”
She laughs. “You’re kidding.” Then she leans in, hoping for some salacious piece of gossip. “Who? Was it one of the designers? Because I did think that redhead was gorgeous.”