Page 4 of Paint Me Love
“Hello everyone, and welcome to Salinger Gallery,” the gallery manager, Cassandra, pipes up as I enter, leading me and the other three waiting at the entrance to a cordoned off area in front of a protruding section of wall. “Congratulations again. It’s a pleasure to meet all four of you.” She smiles and it reaches her hazel eyes, the color just a notch lighter than her lavish curls.
At a wave of her hand, a stern-looking man and a woman with freckles dotted across her cheeks join her, introducing themselves as her two assistants. I let my attention stray away from them though, more interested in the printout of what will be going up on the wall. It depicts four lavishly dressed men and women speaking to an audience from atop a stage.
“Mary, Collin, these are Nicky, Jesse, Steven and Daniel,” Cassandra briefly states when I tune back in. “That will be the East, West, Central and second floor Central, respectively.”
It takes me a moment to figure out what she means, that the directions refer to the walls each one of us is to paint. I crane my neck so I can see more of the mezzanine where I’ll be painting, a stairwell on each side of the central mural space leading up to it. If I stand up on my toes, I can just about spy the cordon poles designating my workspace.
Dismissing her two assistants, Cassandra moves us along to the next mural-bearing wall, across from this one. The sketch there depicts a desert scenery bleeding into a city skyline in the distance. Like the first one, the sign next to it also reads ambition, but the name of the artist is different.
“As specified in the competition, you will have a month to finish your pieces, so that gives you plenty of time, even if you can only allocate an hour or two a day. You will be generously compensated upon completion, and all necessary art supplies will be provided to you. If you wish to use your own, you are free to do that as well, but we will require an itemized receipt of what you used so we can reimburse material costs.”
In other words, it will be less of a hassle to use what they provide instead of my own stuff. I don’t really mind, and I’m sure the supplies will be high quality, so I’m happy to do that. Jesse, the ginger-headed man with tattoos down both his arms, seems to be of the same opinion, though the blond, Steven, and the supermodel-looking girl, Nicky, launch a barrage of questions Cassandra’s way. She answers each one calmly, smiling as they explain why it’s so important that they use a specific brush or brand of paint. I can understand it partially, what with it being part of their own brand, but I’ve never been overly fussy about what supplies I use as long as their quality is good.
After we swing by the first floor central wall—this mural meant to be a take on the global climate issue—we go up the balustraded staircase and stop in front of where my mural will come to life. Just like with the rest, an A3 printout of my sketch hangs from the rope between the two metal poles sectioning off the space. The other artists spare a glance, though they look otherwise unimpressed, each one evidently favoring their own interpretation of the theme ‘Ambition’. I liked them all, but I also think that my own vision is the best, even if, arguably, it’s probably the most controversial take. It was kind of risky going with it, but I am so glad that I did.
As Cassandra wraps up the explanation about the logistics, she leads us around to the back, where a door with an ID scanner designates the start of the Gallery’s offices and conference rooms space.
“Mr. Salinger and Mr. Temari were kind enough to clear up their schedules so they could personally congratulate you as well,” Cassandra preps us, her excited tone twisting my stomach.
I didn’t expect that I’d get to meet the owners of the gallery. I’ve heard of Adam Temari—I think he has a fashion line—and Derek Salinger is often in the news because his tech company is always ahead of the curve in everything. As with most anything celebrity-related, however, I don’t really care enough to know the specifics. Between my two part-time jobs at the shipping center and the supermarket where I check stock and handle inventory, I don’t have much free time to spare on anything other than doing what I truly love. And music goes way better with painting than listening to the news. I tried.
“Oh, shit!” Nicky squeaks, excited. “Adam and Derek are really here?” At the gallery manager’s nod, she clasps her hands. “Do you think they’ll be willing to give us autographs? I’m, like, Adam’s biggest fan ever! I love all his lines!”
Oops, I guess he has more than one fashion line then. Silly me—it makes sense if the guy is so famous.
Cassandra smiles as she stops us in front of a door that has her name on a plaque. “I’m sure they won’t mind, but maybe ask them next time? They are both on a tight schedule today as they are leaving for a business trip.”
“It’s really nice of them to stop by despite that,” I comment, because I can imagine how big of a nightmare it probably is for people in such positions to spare us a bit of their time.
This time, Cassandra’s expression is a little tight, but she still smiles as she hums in agreement. She knocks softly once her eyes have traveled over each one of us, announces herself, and opens the door.
Just like the minimalistic style of the gallery itself, her office comprises an open space with a desk, a sitting area and massive windows that let a lot of light in. Two people are standing by the glass and my eyes choose to settle on the gorgeous man with bold red lipstick, wavy black hair and a dark green suit. He’s holding an electronic cigar, and I can catch the whiff of caramel wafting in the air.
“Derek,” he says a little impatiently, nudging the broad-shouldered man in the dark blue suit who has his back to us.
Derek turns around and I can’t help but stare. He’s tall and fit, filling up his suit as if it has been specifically tailored to him. Which I guess it might have been. His dark blue eyes flick away from the phone he’s holding and study all four of us with little interest. There is just no spark, or even a tiny flicker of emotion, to signify excitement at meeting the artists who have been handpicked to decorate his own gallery.
It’s like a punch to the gut, because I did my best with my mural design, but it feels like he doesn’t even care. Part of me wonders if he even looked at any of them, or if this is maybe some new money-laundering thing that billionaires do.
Whatever. I’m getting paid, and I’ll still be able to do some networking and get my name out there. Even if he doesn’t care, it’s still a huge win for me.
“It’s a pleasure to meet all four of you,” Derek says dryly, maintaining a very disinterested expression.
Adam, who I randomly remember from somewhere is also his partner, follows up with a greeting of his own, congratulating us with a professional smile that his features don’t reflect at all. Again, I quickly move on from examining him though, more drawn to the sharp angles of Derek’s face and the way his stubble follows his jawline and reaches his light brown hair. He would be a good model to draw, especially if you could get him under dramatic light, though as much as he is attractive, his absentmindedness is the one thing I notice the most.
He’s just not really here. He keeps glancing at his phone like he has somewhere better to be. It might actually be the case, but this is his gallery, after all, so doesn’t it make sense to be at least a little present? Then again, what do I know about the lives of billionaires?
The shitty part is that his constant glancing at his phone makes me super conscious about mine and the conversation I was having with Mystery Guy earlier. Now is really not the time to remember that, but my mind has a will of its own. What am I going to do? I’ve never sent a nude to anyone, period.
“I am looking forward to seeing your murals once they are finished,” Derek says, the delivery flat and emotionless, but still successful in distracting me from my dilemma. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to speak to Cassandra or the staff.” With a glance at his expensive-looking watch this time, he lifts his mouth in a barely there polite smile. “Adam and I have to go, but it was nice to meet you.”
He doesn’t wait for an acknowledgment and whooshes past us, Adam on his heel. Sandalwood teases my nostrils, pulling ashiver out of my body that catches me off-guard. I scoff at myself and shake my head—Derek Salinger seems like an asshole boss. But, oh well—a job is a job, and besides, I could really use the extra money.
The evening rolls by excruciatingly slowly. I’m a nervous wreck by the time I get home from my job, and even though I’ve barely eaten anything all day, I don’t really have an appetite. Still, I force myself to have an apple and some granola-yogurt before I go in for a shower.
My hands shake as I wash myself, and my loud heartbeat echoes all around me. It’s like tiny prickles live under my skin, sending shocks all over me. My fingertips tingle and my cheeks feel like they are on fire, but… I kind of like it. This intense feeling is new to me, the way my body is wound up.
Just as I’ve finished with my shower, my phone pings. Swallowing hard, I pick it up from my drawer and sit on my bed while pat-drying myself with my free hand. A text pops up on my screen. It’s from Mystery Guy. Electricity rushes across me, coiling my stomach as heat spreads from it through the rest of me.
