Page 22 of Whiskey Throttle
Eventually, I’ll be in front of the cameras, certainly for the ceremony, and need to look my best. Rarely do I take a bad photograph, thanks in part to my fabulous stylist, my own sense of couture, and a stunning jewelry collection that rivals most museums. The curator meets me just inside the entrance.
“Babs. You look fab.”
“Like a woman funding your entire three-floor gallery opening?” I cut in, just enough ice to remind him where he stands.
Gallery owners can be equally finicky and flighty as the artist they represent. However, Anton has a reputation for being more business-minded than showy. A trait I respect, as I’m hoping for a sizable return on my investment.
He laughs, flustered. “Exactly like that.”
I offer a polite smile, nothing more.
“I’d like a few minutes alone in the main space before the crowd arrives, Anton.”
“Of course.”
He disappears with a string of apologies. I’m left standing in the atrium, the click of my heels echoing against polished stone as I make my way into the gallery proper. The exhibit is quiet and loud. Bright lights and blank faces.
Canvas after canvas lined in soft gold light. Abstract. Modern. Emotional. Everyone will pretend to understand them later. They’ll use words like moving and inspiring while sipping overpoured champagne and gasping at the various works.
I stand in front of one. A burst of color knifed through with angry brushstrokes. The artist’s statement claims it represents a woman split by expectation. I smile at the irony. Relating more to the statement than the work itself.
Modern works are a whimsical project of interest. My home is lined with Picassos, Giacomettis, and the kind of haunting portraits that don’t ask to be understood, just obeyed. This kind of art would never hold its own beside their brilliance or jaw-dropping price tags. Which is why I fund it here, where I’m allowed to play. To indulge in the lighter, more reckless side of taste.
Behind me, I hear the first sound of camera shutters outside. The vultures are circling, ready to splash my guests’ names in the papers. It’s what they count on. What I count on to reap the rewards of my labor.
I glance at the piece again, knowing what they’ll all say. That’s brilliant. It speaks to them. It’s brave. None of them knows what brave looks like. Not really. Brave is walking into a room full of people who expect you to smile like your ex-husband didn’t humiliate you publicly. Brave is showing up anyway. Brave is sipping champagne, smile plastered to my face, pretending I’m bulletproof.
Brave is texting a boy far too young, and knowing part of you meant it. And brave is standing here, in the quiet, waiting to see if he shows up.
Waiting to see if he still looks at you like he did on the court and later in the parking lot. Brave is entertaining the idea of having a younger plaything, as my ex does. The hypocrisy is not lost on me.
“Babs, are you ready?”
Anton appears to my right, his hand hovering in the air between us, wanting to touch and refraining. Before I can answer, he snaps his fingers. A server with a trayful of champagne is beside us in a flash. Anton plucks two with theatrical flair, already handing me one like we’re about to toast the closing bell at Sotheby’s.
“To legacy,” he says, raising his glass to clink the edge of mine. “Yours in name. Mine in curation. And the art that will outlast us both.”
The server shifts beside us, still holding the tray like he doesn’t know whether to stay. Anton waves him off with the flick of a hand.
“That’ll be all, thank you.”
Then he turns back to me, glass still poised, already basking in the glow of his cleverness. My lips brush the rim, but I’m not drinking. A move I mastered years ago to keep a level head at charity events. Never letting the alcohol flow so continuously as to lose my faculties, as many in upper society do.
“Legacy,” I echo, voice smooth as the champagne I don’t bother tasting.
Anton smiles like I’ve validated something important. He always does this, offers statements dressed as compliments, assuming I’ll applaud the cleverness.
I don't.
He glances around the room like he owns the air inside it.
“I thought you might like the placement of your name near the entrance. Visibility without vulgarity.”
“How considerate.”
“I am, aren’t I?” He sips, pleased with himself. “I did warn them you prefer discretion. That’s what makes you so enduring in this city. You know how to leave just enough mystery behind.”
He means it as a compliment. I take it as a caution. His gaze slides to the far end of the gallery.
