Page 90 of Dirty Shots

Chapter Twenty-eight

Anya

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The evening of the exhibition arrived.

The limousine pulled up outside of the Blanc Art Space, Anya sitting with Eric at her side on the back seat.

Eric’s hand squeezed Anya’s and she looked to him nervously.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Nerves tumbled inside her stomach, and she tried to push away the feeling so she could enjoy the moment. A red carpet had been laid out on the sidewalk, leading up to the entrance. A number of reporters waited outside, already taking photographs of the car when they hadn’t even gotten out yet. She was relieved not to see Jonathan Turner among their number.

“Just smile, keep your head up, and don’t say anything,” Eric instructed her.

“Sure.”

Eric got out first, a volley of camera flashes erupting the moment he did so. He reached in and helped Anya from the car. She placed her heels on the sidewalk and straightened, her other hand smoothing down the skirt of the strapless, floor-length red dress she wore. He squeezed her hand and pulled her closer, his cologne sweeping over her.

“You look beautiful,” he said softly against her ear. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”

She gave the briefest of nods and turned to face the entrance. Eric put out his arm to her and she took it, doing as he’d instructed and staring straight ahead as they walked toward the Blanc Art Space. The collection was called Intimate by Eric Rutherford. Two large posters displaying the name of the collection were in each floor to ceiling window either side of the doorway. The poster itself was one of her photographs—a black and white side shot of her body lying down, which looked like an abstract landscape, with all the dips and curves.

They swept past the reporters and entered the gallery. It was already filled with people, all smartly dressed, most holding flutes of champagne, while staff flitted around refilling glasses and offering canapés.

A number of people recognized Eric, shaking his hand and congratulating him the moment he walked in. He introduced her to each of them, though their names left her head the instant they were mentioned.

Searching for someone she knew, she caught sight of Logan across the room. He noticed her and smiled. She was relieved to have a familiar face there. This whole thing felt incredibly intimidating.

Logan left the people he was talking to and walked over. He kissed her and shook Eric’s hand.

“Anya, you look stunning.”

“Thank you.”

“Actually, I have a surprise for you.”

“You do?”

“Yes, come this way.”

He led her to another part of the exhibition, where a woman stood with her back to them. She was looking up at one of the larger pieces—a black and white close up of Anya’s face, a gag between her lips, mascara smeared beneath her eyes. The woman turned with a smile and Anya’s heart soared.

“Mom!”

Her mother’s face lit up. “Anya, sweetheart.” She pulled Anya into an embrace.

“Mom, I’m so happy to see you. I can’t believe you decided to come.”

“I couldn’t miss the biggest night in my daughter’s life so far, could I?”

“What about Dad?” she asked, looking around.

Saara Bergman’s face fell. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but he won’t be coming. He didn’t even want me to be here. In fact, he said he forbade me to come, but I wasn’t going to listen to that.”

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