Page 47 of Sawyer
Then he was alone in the kitchen. He picked up another couple of croissants and headed upstairs. His muse was calling…
Dinner came and went. He painted, only stopping to talk to Phoebe on the phone before she finally begged off, needing to sleep. Night turned to morning, and he finally couldn’t keep his eyes open. He lay down on his tarp, not having the energy to clean himself up so he could get into his bed.
When he awoke, someone was banging on his studio door. Pulling himself off the floor with a groan, he opened the door and was delighted to find a full basket of croissants along with a container of orange juice. He sidled up to his painting after he’d snarfed them down and then got to work again.
Offenbach’sOrpheus in the Underworldyanked him out of his reverie. He looked over at his phone ringing on the side table where he’d stashed it easier. The only reason it was on was because of his walk with Phoebe today. She’d said she’d text so she wouldn’t interrupt his work. So who was calling? He approached warily. His mother again? She hadn’t responded to his last text, which meant he’d bought himself some more time until her next one. Ah, the game they played. Then he reached his phone and felt his eyes pop open wide.
Beverly Merriweather’s name shone on his phone.
“Holy shit!”
He set aside his paintbrush and palette and rubbed his hands briskly on his smock. God, his agent! Hisagentwas calling.
“Hello,” he tried to say normally when he picked up.
“Sawyer,” she rolled out in her heavy New York City accent. “I was in London last night for a show and decided to swing by Paris and meet you in person before heading back. I want to meet this ingenue Axel swears by. See your paintings. Talk a little business. I have some good news I couldn’t wait to share. When can we meet today?”
He looked down at himself. Paint smears covered his hands and probably his face and hair, but he couldn’t make her wait, could he? “Ah…anytime. I’ve been painting. I just need to clean up.”
A distinctive hum sounded on the line. “You’re at youratelierright now?”
She was going to meet him here. He just knew it. Glancing around, he winced. The light from the skylights lit his current work in progress as well as the other canvases drying on their easels. White tarps dotted with random paint drizzles or dollops lined the floor. The garbage overflowed with take-out containers—he’d forbidden the housekeeper from entering his space. “Yes, but it’s a bit of a mess. Maybe we should?—”
“It’s a studio.” Her tone was no-nonsense. “Besides, little fazes me after representing painters for thirty years. I’ve seen the remnants of orgies. I’ve had a client’s pet raven fly at me. And those are the PG stories. Text me your address. I’ll come at two. Does that work?”
That was in an hour! “Sure. Of course. I’ll…see you then.”
“I look forward to it.”
Then she was gone, and he was breathing heavily. His agent—Beverly Merriweather—was coming to his studio in an hour. She’d flown from London to meet him and see his work.
See his work!
He was going to be sick.
Sinking to the floor, he put his head between his knees and told the tiny spots to go away. He slashed through the proverbial air with his invisible sword as a litany of soul-crushing thoughts surfaced about him being good enough. Fuck that. This was his time to shine. Passing out and missing the meeting with his agent would be cruel. Even for the wheel of time.
When he could finally raise his head without it going sideways, he managed to push off the floor. He headed for the garbage first. God, he needed to clean this place up. Then he would clean himself up. Put on something…
Shit. What did one wear to meet one of the greatest art agents in the world? The suit he’d worn for his first date with Phoebe? Yes! He’d looked respectable and yet fashionable. It was a dusty rose. Only a painter—or an older French man—would wear that color.
He sprang into action.
When Beverly finally arrived at the house, his wild mass of curls was still wet at the ends, but he was dressed to impress. He’d even put on the cologne Nanine had bought him long ago for good luck.
When he opened to front door to greet her, he couldn’t help but be a little shocked at her stature. She was a petite woman in all black with low heels, who barely came up to his shoulder, yet she was a titan in the art world. Brooke would say you could smell Manhattan on her. Now fifty-six, she had dyed her short one-length hair a dark brown and had thick black-rimmed glasses. And she was wearing three rings—with rocks so large you could find them blindfolded—and an emerald tennis bracelet that probably cost more than his first car.
“My God!” she cried, shedding her coat like a second skinand handing it to him. “I’ve been in many homes in Paris, but I have to confess, this one is absolutely gorgeous!”
Was he supposed to say thank you?
She strode into the foyer like a queen and glanced around, her hair spray as potent as her perfume. Something he imagined Elizabeth Taylor might have worn back in the day, like White Diamonds.
“Axel decorated this place, didn’t he?”
His nerves were jumping, and he wasn’t used to people exclaiming about things like décor. Talking to strangers had always been hard for him. Getting up in front of his first class to teach, an agony. But this was his agent. He forced himself to smile like he’d seen Kyle do with businesspeople. “Yes, with my dear friend and business partner, Brooke Adams. She has a long history in fashion.”
“Of course, I know Brooke’s work fromTRENDS!Terrible about that attack from Giulia Mariani that led to her being fired—completely unjust from what I’ve heard—but then again, every industry has its feuds. You have to watch your back. People envy talent, which you’re about to discover on a level you’ve never known. Good thing you have me, Sawyer.”
