Page 23 of Sweeter

I stand on my tiptoes and spy a gorgeous black woman stroking my wishbone necklace. She looks like she’s smiling could be a trick of the light. Or she could be smiling because she’s about to call her friend at The New York Times and report Marley Ellis’ ‘Silk and Bones’ exhibition is an unabashed shitshow. I used to dream about showcasing my art in front of audiences like this—beautiful men in tuxedos, androgynous women in long glittering dresses. I wanted to be known by people who love art, whoexpect thingsof art. I wanted them to come and see my work exclusively. Or I used to. Right now, I’d rather be back at the Portland Antiques and Collectables show with all the corndogs and annoyed moms. None of them had the power to end my career with an Instagram story.

I run my hands down my silk dress, willing the buttery material to soothe me. It doesn’t work. I watch another cluster of well-dressed people arrive and someone, somewhere starts playing the piano. Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies of all the pretentious clichés. I told the organizers I’d be way more comfortable with a DJ or a Spotify playlist coming through a portable speaker, but no one listened to me, after all I’m just the fucking artist.

“Nervous?” someone asks.

I turn and see my friend and personal assistant, Anna Debono looking sexable as ever in a red Jessica Rabbit dress. I try to smile. “I am so close to wetting myself it is not funny.”

Anna doesn’t smile. Instead, she holds up her iPhone, opened on the notes app. “You have no fuckin’ need to worry. Over the course of planning this exhibition, I established two hundred and twenty-seven lines of enquiry and sixty-three tasks that had to be completed. Every single one has been completed with time to spare.”

I gape at her. “That…can’t be true.”

Anna turns the phone toward herself and flicks the screen. “Enquiry number one was ensuring you got the contract, which was delivered to you via email on July 27thof this year. Enquiry number two was guaranteeing the contract was financially and ethically sound, which I did by hiring three separate entertainment and art lawyers to look over it. Enquiry number three was ensuring—”

I hold up a palm. “Okay, I get it, I’m sorry for questioning your professionalism and insane list making ability.”

“Good,” Anna says, tucking her phone between her boobs. “I mean it. Don’t bother worrying, you’re gonna knock this thing out of the park.”

“Mmm.” I turn and peek through the curtain again. “Do these people all look aloof and slightly miserable to you?”

Anna shrugs. “Don’t all fancy-pants art people look like that?”

“Kinda. But my work is supposed to be fun and interesting and no one seems to be on that vibe.”

“Could be the music,” Anna says wrinkling her nose. “Is that like…depressing chopsticks, or what?”

“It sounds like it.” I close my eyes and rub my dress like I want to start a fire on my thighs. “Stupid piano. Stupid art. Stupid ambition.”

Anna’s warm hand falls on my arm. “Breathe easy, bella. We’ve done all we can do. You give them another forty minutes to look around and then you’ll emerge with Will on your arm.”

For the first time all night I feel my chest loosen slightly. Will. Yes. Him being here will make this less terrible. Him being with me always makes things less terrible. “Have you heard from him? Is he nearby?”

Anna extracts her phone from her tits and checks it. “Nothing, but he can’t be far. He won’t miss this. Not if he’s interested in still having a face.”

I chew my lower lip. Will, my boyfriend of the past two years, was supposed to be here an hour ago, holding my hand and telling me I’m amazing and my first big ticket exhibition won’t be a disaster from start to finish. He called Anna while I was getting my make-up done to say he had an urgent last-minute errand. His car repair business has hit a few bumps lately, so I didn’t think twice about it, but now people are arriving I wish he was here.

“Can you call him?” I ask Anna.

“You know you could call him yourself if you let yourself have a phone right now.”

I shake my head. I refuse to have my phone on me at exhibitions. I’m twitchy and paranoid enough without vanity searching my event and seeing a bunch of mean comments or pictures of myself that are so unflattering I begin to question the nature of existence. Besides, I should be focusing on the experience, not whatever’s going on in cyberspace. Chris Rock says there’s no sex in the champagne room. I say there’s no phones at the exhibition.

Anna sighs and puts her phone to her ear. I watch nervously but the call clearly rings out. I bunch my hands into fists. In ten minutes, I need to go out and start mingling with my patrons and guests and the thought of doing it without handsome, easy-smiling Will is terrifying. He knows this rich and indulgent world so much better than I do. Not from birth—he grew up in Belton, Missouri—but a few years ago he helped invent the worst app in the world and internet wealth and fame came calling.

Usually this would inspire me to lick someone’s cutlery before they started eating, but I fell for William Faulkner from the moment I heard his ridiculous, non-literary inspired name. I love him from the tip of his golden head to the soles of his overpriced sneakers. He’s my daddy. He’s also my greatest supporter. I was simultaneously starving and freezing before we fell in love. He pulled me over the poverty line and gave me a fighting chance as an artist, not because he loves my pussy (though he surely does) but because he thinks my work is exceptional.

That was the deal. It’s not a handout if we both believe in me. So, where is he? And after two years of straight-talking support, why is he making me feel all these shitty insecurities all over again?

I put my face in my hands, they’re clammy and still smell like the Koran fried chicken I ate for lunch. “I think I’m freaking out, Anna. I’m not saying I can’t do this. I am saying I’m going to need to throw up before I head out and meet the art-dictators.”

Anna puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be fine. I know Will’s not here, and he didn’t say where he’s going, and he might never come back—”

“What?!”

“But that doesn’t matter,” she continues determinedly. “I’m here, and Tia is waiting for us at our hotel room and after this exhibition we’re gonna go up and tuck her intro bed.”

Tia is Anna’s daughter and the sweetest thing in the universe. I nod and my head feels like it’s stuffed full of ball bearings. “Okay, I’ll go to the bathroom to rewash the sticky wings off my fingers and then I’ll come back and we’ll head out together.”

Anna smiles, replacing her phone between her boobs. “Good girl, make sure—”

---