“Isn’t the show after Labor Day? That’s what I thought I was working on.”
Raymond nodded. “Margot sells everything before the show is even up. She picks which paintings go to which collectors. It’s how she creates the advance frenzy. Mrs. Theo wants to see hers before the show goes up. I’ve seen some, but nobody has seen the Susanna. It’s rumored to be his greatest yet.”
Which one had her mother and father been assigned?
“So,” Eve asked, “what if you’re some rich guy from Chicago, and you walk in here and want to buy something?”
“No dice.” Raymond crossed his legs, exposing a sockless ankle. His collar was artfully frayed.
“Wow.” Eve thought about having all the money in the world and still being denied your prize.
“Look through here and see if you know anyone, then let’s talk.” He pushed the Rolodex her way and headed into the back.
Nothing looked familiar under A or B, but under C, she found Dino. Dino Cherubino. Odd, she thought.
Eve glanced toward the wall at the back. She walked over and peeked around it.
There was a conference room containing an oval marble table and bookshelves stacked with books on Diebenkorn, Agnes Martin, Cy Twombly. Ahead was a closed door. To the left was a kitchenette with a gleaming espresso maker. Eve still hadn’t had coffee this morning—Patsy always gave her milky tea, as if she were a small child. Her head was starting to ache. She turned to go when the door opened and Raymond emerged.
“Need something?” he asked.
“How do you know Dino?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“He’s my friend’s roommate.”
“Small world.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but he just looked at her, a wry smile on his lips.
“I wouldn’t make that your first call, Eve. Dino doesn’t buy art.”
* * *
• • • • • • •
Justine woke up slowly. It was barely eight, but sun was already pouring through her unshaded window. She went to the kitchen and was boiling water for tea when the phone rang. Justine jumped. One day, no matter what, she swore she wouldn’t do that every time. Who was calling so early?
“Hello?”
“Hello, dear,” Cressida’s voice wafted through the receiver.
“Oh, hi.” She should have known; her mother only called when the rates were lower.
“How’s the apartment?”
“Awesome. No food though. India doesn’t eat,” Justine said.
“That goes with the type,” Cressida said. “If you’ve never had to worry about your next meal, well . . .”
“Mom, the world isn’t just rich people and people like us.”
Cressida emitted one of her world-weary sighs. “Don’t think I don’t see the nuances in the human race. It was a manner of speaking. How’s Clayton?”
“Fine,” Justine lied. Would he call her today?
Silence ensued.
“I’ll check back in a few days. Maybe your foul humor will have passed.” Cressida hung up.
Justine stood there and stared at the phone. Her mother could always tell when she was in a bad mood, she thought, and usually made it worse. The receiver started beeping.
“Oh, fuck off,” she said, and slammed it down on the cradle.
“Who was that?” India asked, walking into the kitchen.
“My mother.”
An odd expression passed over India’s face.
What would it be like to lose your mother, get kicked out of boarding school, and be left to live on your own? Had India really tried to ride a horse into the city?
“You look great, India,” Justine offered meekly.
India wore a striped shirt and jeans and held an alligator clutch in one hand. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, her cheekbones sleek and sharp.
* * *
—
Justine entered the Margot Moore gallery on West Broadway. Beyond the entrance, freshly painted gray letters read CAROLYN HELLER—NEW WORKS. India drummed her fingers on the counter of the reception desk. Reluctantly, the young man behind it asked whom she and Justine were there to see. Slowly he stood up and led them to a room with red-tiled floors like in a Florentine palazzo.
Eve sat at the far end of a long table, with a Rolodex, a pad, and an ashtray in front of her. She was dressed in a pencil skirt and flats. A cute guy sat next to her on the phone.
“What took you so long?” Eve asked, stuffing things in her purse as soon as she saw them.
“We’re fashionably late,” said India.
“I’m starvacious.”
“Where are you going?” the man asked, hanging up.
“Dunno, that cool place called FOOD maybe. This is Raymond. He knows Dino.”
“What a small world,” said India politely. “How?”
“From around,” said Raymond. “Excuse me,” he said, moving to answer the phone again. Justine watched him fingering the spiral cord. He was suave, but she had a sense he had invented himself from scratch, and recently.
Raymond hung up. “Massimo’s on his way.”
“Oh my God! Can you please introduce me?” Eve implored.
India crossed her arms in protest. “Aren’t you working here all summer?”
“My stomach can wait!”
“He’s just a person,” India said.
“Just a person? He’s the most important painter Margot represents!”
“That’s not why he was on the cover of New York magazine,” India said, smoothing her hair back. “He’s a womanizer and his paintings are vulgar.”
“Who thinks my paintings are vulgar?”
A bear of a man stood hulking in the doorway.
He stepped forward and took India’s hand in his paw, bending down and kissing it with a grandiose flourish. He had a tangled bush of caveman hair. He murmured something in Italian, his voice soft enough to soothe a frightened animal. “Hello, Mimi.”
“That’s not my name,” she said stiffly.
Massimo spread his palms heavenward. “Of course it isn’t. But you know my name for you is Mimi.”
India did not respond.
Massimo looked crestfallen.
“Please excuse us,” India said, stepping toward the door, “we’re late for lunch.” Eve made a weak gesture of farewell and they followed India out onto the street.
* * *
• • • • • • •
God, India thought, wiping her hand on her jeans, nothing had changed. Everything about Massimo lacked subtlety. He, like his crucifixions and martyrdoms, was exaggerated and melodramatic.
“Mimi? Explain!” Eve demanded.
India shrugged. “I’ve met him before.”
“And you never told me?”
India did not respond. She wasn’t about to list all the famous people she had met with Kiki. She wasn’t a name-dropper.
“Where do you guys want to eat?” Justine asked.
“India never wants to eat,” Eve said.
Justine opened her bag and reapplied her fuchsia lipstick. She was such a luminous beauty, India thought. She really didn’t need to cheapen her looks.
“Did you see the way Massimo looked at you? He loved you,” Eve said.
“He’s nothing but a playboy,” India replied with disdain.
“Can you loosen up for one millisecond? That was Massimo fucking Sforza. And you need to eat something!”
“Isn’t he married?” Justine joined in, remembering a magazine article she’d read at the dentist’s office. His wife was a beautiful Italian aristocrat, and she could have sworn he had a few picturesque offspring too.
“Yeah, but he sleeps around,” Eve said. “All those Euro guys have mistresses. India, I say go for it. Don’t look
a gift horse in the mouth.”
India had always hated that expression. It reminded her of Christmas last year at the family house in Bedford. Her father and his girlfriend Courtney had had one of their spectacular fights on the stairs. After the screaming there was a thunk, a couple of sickening whumps, and silence. India sat tensely in the kitchen. A thin cry arose. She went running.
There Courtney was, standing on the stairs, a Ming vase in her hand. India’s father was lying on the landing, blood streaming from his forehead onto his silk ascot and Jermyn Street shirt.
“Is he . . .” India had gasped.
“Breathing.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Courtney snarled. “Call an ambulance.”
* * *
• • • • • • •
Eve glanced at India. That faraway, haunted look broke her heart, but it also enraged her. It was true, India’s mother had died tragically, and her father was debauched and louche, but the girl needed to live her life. Not this half-life, a ghost in the shadows. India had friends. She had money of her own, for God’s sake. And she was stunningly beautiful. Here was her chance!
Gerald, Massimo, Bob Winkler. Eve giggled to herself. An older man for each girl.
When they reached Da Silvano, all the outdoor tables were empty.
“Let’s sit outside!” Justine chirped.
“Nobody sits outside,” Eve replied, walking ahead. Lulu would give them a good table.
But Eve had never seen the woman behind the podium, with her pale face and thick waxy makeup.
“Hi,” Eve said, “three of us.”
“Reservation?”
Eve said, “My parents, Deirdre and Frederick Straus, eat here all the time. They never need one.”
The waxwork consulted her list.
“I’m sorry”—she shook her head, and not a follicle budged—“totally booked.”
Eve spotted Sylvia Miles in the back and blew her a kiss, praying she’d remember who Eve was. Sylvia winked and gave a slight wave.
Wax woman clocked this exchange.
“Right this way,” she said, giving Eve an unpleasant look.
I saw that, Eve thought as she followed the skinny derriere past a large, empty table. She thought of asking to sit there, but didn’t want to give Waxy the satisfaction of saying no.
“Enjoy!” the hostess said, unceremoniously dumping three menus on the table and striding off.
“What a bitch,” Eve said, sitting down and pulling out her Marlboros. “She’ll never last.” She lit a cigarette and noticed there was no ashtray.
“Au contraire,” India mused, “she’ll probably go far in this city.”
“It’s like they get paid to be rude,” said Justine, who was looking around the restaurant in awe.
“So downtown,” India said.
Eve ashed on the floor.
“Isn’t Hell’s Kitchen downtown?” Justine asked.
“No,” India replied, opening her menu.
Eve took another drag and looked around for a waiter.
And then she saw them. Massimo and Margot, kissing Silvano, both cheeks. She had definitely picked the right restaurant.
Massimo was looking in their direction. Margot was still chatting with Silvano.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” India said, looking back at her menu.
“Should we leave?” Justine asked anxiously.
“No, I have as much right to eat here as he does,” India said, running an elegant finger down the list of entrées.
Eve consulted her menu. God, she had never really noticed the prices when she’d been here with her parents.
“Compliments of Mr. Sforza,” the waitress said, bringing a tray with three flutes.
Eve beamed at her friends. This was going to be the best lunch ever.
“Which one of you is Mimi?” the waitress asked.
Eve pointed to India, who was turning pink despite her poise.
The waitress handed her an envelope, which she stuffed in her clutch.
Eve wanted to ask why she didn’t tear it open and read it but India looked furious.
“Cheers!” Eve said, holding up her glass.
The waitress pulled out a pad.
“Veal Milanese, please,” India said.
Justine sipped her champagne. It was a lot better than that plonk at India’s.
“Pappardelle, please,” she ordered.
“What’s the special?” Eve asked.
“It was baby lamb chops, but Mr. Sforza just ordered the last ones.”
“Fine. I’ll have the puttanesca,” she said, and then glanced over at their table and saw Margot reapply her lipstick. Massimo was waving a hand in the air as he tried to explain something.
“Going to the beach this weekend?” India asked.
“Huh?” Eve asked, staring at the artist.
“Hamptons?”
“Oh, yeah, no choice. You?”
“Staying here.”
“India’s apartment is awesome!” Justine said.
Yeah, maybe for you, Eve thought, having never understood why India lived in that shithole. Whenever she went over, she always asked the taxi driver to wait until she was safely inside.
“Seriously, Indi, why do you live in that neighborhood?” Eve asked.
“Nobody can find me there.”
“What does that mean?” Justine asked.
Eve glanced back at Massimo, who was leaning forward, his arms spread wide like Christ in that Caravaggio painting.
“At first it was to be near Mr. Ed’s stable,” India explained, “but then I realized my father can’t find me there.”
“Is he dangerous or something?” Justine asked, untangling her feather earring from a blond curl.
“All fathers are,” Eve said, waving a new cigarette. “It’s like that whole generation didn’t have mothers and we have to suffer, raised by wolves or something.”
“Like me?” India asked.
“You know what I mean. Oh my God!” Eve was staring across the room.
Massimo was heading toward them from the back of the restaurant, wiping his hands on his enormous, expensive-looking shirt.
“Ciao ragazze. Enjoying the champagne?”
“Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Sforza,” Eve gushed. “It’s absolutely delicious. Is it Moët?” She could see other patrons pretending not to stare.
“A pleasure. Mimi, what do you think?” Massimo said, turning his soft eyes on India.
“I don’t care for champagne.”
“And my note?”
India nodded.
“Allora?”
“I need a day or so,” she replied, sitting up very straight.
“Cara Mimi, non c’è problema.” His hand was on her chair. India looked down at the table. Eve glanced over and, with a rush of happiness, saw Margot watching them. I bet she was impressed, Eve thought. First week at work and already the intern was rubbing shoulders with her most valued artist.
“Arrivederci,” Massimo said, walking back toward his table.
“You didn’t even read it!” Eve hissed.
“I know what it says.”
THREE
When Eve returned from Da Silvano, Raymond was on the phone again. India and Justine had gone home directly from the restaurant and Eve was still reeling.
“Oh my God!” she exploded when Raymond hung up. “Massimo was at the restaurant and he sent champagne and then he sent India a note! I feel like I’m . . .”
Raymond held up a hand. “Breathe.”
“I just practically had lunch with Massimo Sforza!”
“Margot will be back any second,” Raymond said. He pointed at the phone. “Calm down and do your job.”
Sitting, Eve tried to regain her composure, and flipped through his Rolodex until she found Keith Wilson. This was a stroke of luck; Keith was her mother’s friend who had married well and started collecting. Eve picked up the phone.
It rang and rang. Didn’t they have that butler? She dialed again. A Brit answered, “Wilson residence.”
“Alisdair! Its Eve Straus, is Keith there?”
“Miss Straus! What a pleasure!”
“You too. Is he around?” She stabbed her Bic repeatedly into her pad.
“Hold the line.” Eve could hear footsteps. The Wilsons had those inlaid stone floors, brought over from some château in France.
“Hello?” Keith picked up.
“Hi, Keith, it’s Eve.”
“Eve, darling! How are you?”
She imagined him wearing a soft velvet smoking jacket, sitting at his mahogany desk. “I’m calling you from work, at Margot Moore’s.”
“Ooh! Does that mean you can sell me something great?”
Eve dropped her voice to a whisper. “Maybe I can snag you something from Massimo’s show before it goes up.”
“God, you’re good. I have a message somewhere from Margot, let’s see.” Eve heard Keith rummaging through papers. “Here it is. It says ‘Urgent; call about M.S.’ But we know how Margot works. She’s probably chosen it for me. Can you snoop and find out which painting it is?”
“Done.” Eve dropped her voice further. “There’s also a beautiful Fischl watercolor that just came in. Raymond was going to try to sell it to that countess in Lugano, but I’m giving you first crack.”
“Send me a transparency and I’ll tell your mother and Margot what a good job you’re doing. It may be a while before I get down there. I haven’t been feeling well.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, summer cold. Nothing to worry about. Ciao, darling.” Keith hung up.
Eve’s thoughts were on Massimo in the restaurant, and how pleased her boss would be about Eve’s successful first day. She smiled to herself, thinking, I can do this art-selling thing, no problem.
“Where’s that Straus girl?” Eve heard Margot’s shrill tones before she saw her stride across the room, looking murderous.
Age of Consent Page 19
