Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Why couldn’t he be professional? I was trying to be professional. My hair was done up in a neat chignon, and I wore a classy, knee-length Pucci dress with Fendi pumps. Simon was in paint-stained jeans and a baggy black viscose button-up. For weeks he’d been telling me how important this was, and now he wasn’t taking it seriously because he was either drunk, or high, or both. Probably both.
Of course Rachel was there, in her raccoon makeup and a sloppy dress carefully designed to look like she didn’t care, but oh, she did care. She followed Simon around, fawning over him and basking in his attention, while I dealt with Boris White, the gallery owner, and Josh Jacobs, Simon’s agent. I was also the one who directed the caterers and decided where to set up the bar. I did it because this felt like Simon’s last chance, and a little bit like our last chance. But under my busy focus, under my frenetic efforts to make this work, two words whispered, over and over.
Love lies.
Whatever. I knew that love lied. If I had a dollar for every time my clients claimed they “loved” their wife while they snuck off to me for twice-weekly sessions, I’d be a gazillionaire.
Sometimes it seemed to me that love was a complete and total lie, but then I’d remember times with Simon that I knew I was in love. Love was definitely out there sometimes, in fleeting moments. Maybe it was more accurate to say that Love flies.
Screw W and his platitudes and poetry. He was as precious as Simon in a lot of ways, with his elevated self-worth. At the height of the party, when people were packed into the gallery like lemmings, I stood off to the side and thought about what I was worth. I couldn’t make art. I didn’t have a real career. I didn’t have money for a room at the Four Seasons. I barely had money for the basics, thanks to Simon and his money-draining addiction.
Speaking of which, was anybody going to buy his new work?
Some things were selling, some paintings flagged with discreet red dots. There was a lot of talk, a lot of nodding heads and scrutinizing and pointing. Simon’s art blared from the walls, irritating me because I didn’t understand it. I was tired of not understanding anything about my life. While people chattered and postured with champagne glasses dangling from their fingers, I shrank into a corner and struggled to discern the essence of myself, the purpose of my life and why I was here, and what had brought me here. Chere: vibrant, flexible, caring, pretty.
The one thing I didn’t feel was worthwhile.
Someone handed me a flute of champagne. I took it because my emotions were a blur, and because I’d paid for the fucking alcohol, and then the crowd in the background receded. I realized that W stood in front of me, blond and tall in his designer suit.
It astounded me that I’d taken a drink right out of his hands without seeing him. He was so big in my mind, so large. How hadn’t I known the second he walked in the gallery door?
I stared at him, helpless to speak. It was so loud all of a sudden, and I didn’t understand his expression. I didn’t understand why he was here.
“How are you?” he asked when I couldn’t muster up a greeting. “How’s the show going?”
“Okay, I guess.” I gestured around the room, trying to act casual. “I think he’s sold a few paintings.”
A burst of laughter interrupted our conversation. W turned his head, then moved so he was beside me rather than in front of me. Simon held court across the gallery, surrounded by art groupies and hangers-on. A prominent New York art critic bandied for space in front of him, her wild hair and manicured fingers waggling in unison. She was either chewing him out or enthusing about his work.
“It makes me proud,” I said, glancing sideways at W. “I’m proud for Simon, that his work excites people. We didn’t expect this kind of turnout.”
“Everyone likes a train wreck. It’s fun to gawk.”
“No one’s gawking.” I looked around. Were people gawking? “There are a lot of big names here, critics and collectors. They wouldn’t be here if Simon’s work didn’t mean something.”
W took a sip of champagne. “Yes,” he agreed. “His work means something, and it will mean something years from now. Everyone here knows that, just like they know he’s a fuck-up. If I didn’t hate the motherfucker, I might buy some of his work myself.”
I didn’t ask why W hated Simon so much. I knew why. Instead I asked, “How can you look around at all he’s done and say he’s a fuck-up?”
W gazed at me with the same cool, derisive look he employed in our ritzy hotel room sessions. I turned away.