Sinning Forever

by Heidi Lowe

  "No, her rich sugar-mama bought it for her," Raymond said. "You know what Georgia bought me for my birthday this year? A pair of old man slippers and a bottle of champagne. Not the expensive stuff, either. She gets a gallery." He feigned envy, but smiled at me.

  I laughed. I didn't bother pointing out the fact that it had taken me losing my life to get it. They still had the one thing no amount of money could buy: their humanity. They would never understand how priceless that was until they had the misfortune of losing it.

  "Will you come? There'll be lots of champagne and expensive food." If the art wasn't enough of a draw, this sure would be. Who didn't like free food and drink?

  "How could we say no?" Diane said. "We wouldn't miss your re-opening for the world."

  I was already home and changing when Jean got back from the casino. I saw her reflection in the mirror as she came up behind me and wrapped her arms around me.

  "How did it go," she asked, snuggling her face in my neck, her hair tickling me.

  "Great. They're coming tomorrow." I turned round to steal a kiss from her. We had only been apart a couple of hours, but merely two minutes of separation were required for me to miss her.

  "I'm so happy for you, my love," she said. "And your shopping trip? How did that go?"

  I pointed to the bags on the floor, overflowing with new clothes, things I would likely never wear. I fully intended to return at least half of them the evening after the event. Frivolous spending on unnecessary stuff was out of character for me.

  She laughed as she regarded the bags. "Someone got a little carried away. It looks like you enjoyed yourself, though."

  "I won't keep all of it, I'll return most of it in a couple of days. I just didn't like trying anything on in the stores. Have you noticed how they watch you all the time, while clutching their platinum spears behind the counters? They think you don't know that's what they're doing."

  She made a face like she knew only too well what I meant. "That, my darling, is why I tend to shop online. Or get Robyn to go for me. The staring, the whispers, I could do without them." She embraced me again, rubbed her nose against mine. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

  None of that mattered. Being in her arms had the effect of relinquishing all of my troubles, fears, everything. So what if a bunch of sad, pathetic shop assistants started gossiping about me the second I turned my back? People had been gossiping about me my entire life. When your mom suddenly runs off and abandons you, and your dad doesn't know the first thing about raising little girls, your name is soon on everyone's tongues. All this to say, I'd been made to feel uncomfortable for who I was more times than I could count. It only made me stronger.

  "Okay, so I've narrowed it down to these two dresses." I picked them up off the bed; a black sleeveless number that had caught my eye when I saw the mannequin in the store modeling it. The other was a maroon, off-shoulder dress that hugged me in all the right places.

  Jean sat on the bed and watched me hold each dress up against my half-naked body.

  "So, what do you think, black or brown?"

  She pondered, rubbing her chin for effect. Then, after a moment of deliberating, announced, "They're both lovely and will look even lovelier on you."

  I chuckled. "You're no help at all!"

  She threw up her hands. "It's not my fault you look so delicious in everything you wear."

  "I'm not asking you for your advice ever again," I said, still chuckling. I turned back to the mirror and tried to decide for myself. "The black says I mean business, yet the brown says I like to have fun, but I know my stuff. I think I'll go with the brown."

  "Excellent choice. Can I take a closer look?"

  I brought the dress to her, but she used this as her opportunity to grab me and pull me onto her lap. I giggled and giggled at my naivety. I should have seen right through the ruse.

  "Have I told you how much I love you?" she said between kisses.

  "You have, but you can say it again. I don't mind."

  "I love you."

  "I love you, too."

  "Whatever you wear tomorrow night, you'll do great. This is your world. Art is your dream."

  "Thank you. For everything. The gallery, your support, everything. I can't believe this is happening."

  I'd been the owner for almost two weeks already, but only now did it seem real. The unveiling of me as the new owner of The Lotus Room made everything official. I had so much to prove.

  "Aren't you afraid of your investment? What if no one ever buys a painting, and this whole thing was for nothing?"

  "It's not an investment, honey, it's a gift. It doesn't matter what happens to it, or what you do with it. It's yours. And it's just money." She pressed her lips to mine.

  I still wanted the gallery to be a success, no matter what. She believed in me possibly more than I believed in myself. I wanted to show her that I could be just as shrewd a businesswoman as she was.

  SIXTEEN

  My hands were shaking as I scribbled my signature in the receipt book, before tearing off the receipt and handing it to the buyer – a debonair-looking man with a cartoonish mustache and the type of air of someone who still carried a pocket watch! His appearance, and the fact that he didn't use words but grunts in response, meant little to me at that point. He was my second sale of the night, and he'd purchased the most expensive painting in the gallery – a thirty thousand dollar masterpiece that had taken the artist four years to perfect.

  "Thank you," I said, all smiles.

  His response was to nod his head and grunt, while he pocketed the receipt. Then he walked away to help himself to more of the complimentary champagne and delicacies I'd laid on.

  Rosie, my day manager, came over and together we did an excited, though quiet, squeal. She was a few years older than me and had been managing the gallery for the previous owners, straight out of college. Her bubbly personality made her instantly likeable, and her eye for art made her invaluable. This sale was hers as much as it was mine; we'd both bitten the bullet on that piece, and she'd worked hard to convince the artist to let us display it. She'd had to accompany him to dinner and flirt with him the whole evening to get him to agree.

  "Here, you do the honors. You deserve it," I said, handing her the red SOLD sticker to put over the painting's price tag.

  When she came back, she said, surveying the crowded space, "This turnout is incredible! There are more people here tonight than have visited in the six years I've worked here combined."

  It really was a great turnout. From my previous, albeit minor, experience with galleries, they were never places that attracted a lot of people. Free food and champagne probably had a lot to do with the night's success, but people genuinely seemed to be interested in the art. I fully expected a few more sales by the end of the night.

  "I can't imagine my fliers were responsible," I said, my gaze landing on my girlfriend in the crowd conversing with a wealthy-looking couple. She looked radiant in her white pantsuit, her hair pinned up. I could hardly believe that she was mine. And I noticed also that she'd been greeting several of the more prominent patrons since the night began. Everything started to make sense.

  She caught me watching her, excused herself, and came over.

  "There's my working girl," she said, taking me in her arms and kissing me. She didn't care who saw us, she never did. "I have a feeling you're going to make a lot of money tonight."

  I chuckled as she kissed me. "You wouldn't have had anything to do with that, would you?"

  "Me? Why would you ask that?" Her feigned innocence was so over-the-top that it was obvious she'd definitely had something to do with it. "I merely sent an email to some of my acquaintances in the area and informed them that there would be some interesting pieces of art here – pieces they couldn't afford to not have in their collections."

  "I knew it!"

  "Are you mad?" she asked.

  I gave her a drawn out kiss as my answer, then said, "How could I be? Thank you." />
  Gone were the days when I would refuse her help, or get mad at her intervention in my life. I saw how happy it made her to help me, to see me happy, and I never wanted to deny her that. Besides, this was how the world operated. You used your contacts to get ahead. I was privileged enough to have a well-connected girlfriend.

  She left me to go and greet more of her acquaintances, and probably get them to part with huge chunks of their disposable income on art they didn't need. I spotted Diane, Raymond and Camille hovering by the food table, and said my hellos, thanked them for coming. It meant a lot that they'd come, considering what had happened. This likely wasn't their crowd, but they'd come to support me, and that warmed my heart.

  I was still talking to them, telling them about the sale I'd just secured, when Oliver strutted in. Perhaps if he had been alone, he wouldn't have drawn any attention to himself, or gotten my attention at all. But he wasn't. Two gorgeous, leggy blondes were on his arm. Naturally the live art of beautiful women always trumped the still, lifeless stuff on the walls.

  "Great!" I mumbled, and excused myself.

  "You said you weren't coming," I said to him, my smile false and sinister.

  "Why wouldn't I come to your big opening? It's the only opening of yours I could ever come inside..." His lecherous smirk and the raising of his eyebrows made his filthy euphemism all the more disgusting.

  "Ugh!" was all I could say, and rolled my eyes at him. The guy looked for every opportunity to exhibit his perversion; any chance to say something lewd.

  He only chuckled coolly to himself. "I'm actually on the look out for something new to display in the day room. What would you suggest?"

  "This stuff is far too tasteful for you. But there's a grocery store down the road that sells Playboy. That's more your style."

  Again my insults were met with laughter.

  "Two women, Oliver? Was that really necessary?" I continued. They were standing right there with us, looking bored as hell, and so out of place among the rest of the clientele.

  "There would have been three, but one girl pulled out last minute. Said she couldn't stand art." He shrugged, then whispered to me, "Seeing all of these people makes my mouth water. Good job plying them with alcohol."

  "You're not biting anyone!" I warned, keeping my voice down, and looking around nervously. The last thing I wanted was for everyone to get spooked and flee before I could sell more paintings.

  "Relax," he laughed. "I'm full...for now." He left to peruse the gallery, and took his two emotionless mannequins with him. I kept a watchful eye on him the whole time.

  Robyn and Nadine were the last of the familiar faces to arrive, and from the looks on their faces when they walked through the door, and their body language in general, I could see they'd had a fight. It was perfectly normal to see Robyn looking this miserable, but out of the ordinary for Nadine, who always seemed happy. Robyn looked like her pre-Nadine self, someone I was used to.

  "Hey, glad you guys could make it," I said to them.

  "Thanks for inviting us," Nadine said.

  Robyn let out a loud breath and acted like she wanted to be anywhere but here. "Sure, because we didn't have anything better to do," she said, her words dripping with sarcasm.

  Nadine cut her a look. It must have been one hell of a fight. I desperately wanted to know what it was about, but didn't have the balls to ask. My mind tried to conjure up reasons for it, and the possibilities became more and more absurd. It was probably all Robyn's fault, seeing as, in my eyes, Nadine could do no wrong.

  "Jean's over there," I said, pointing in the crowd as she worked the room. "Help yourself to the food and champagne. And enjoy yourselves."

  When I had a spare minute, I slipped away to use the restroom. A brunette with a pixie cut was applying her lipstick in the mirror when I came out to wash my hands. We smiled in greeting, and I noted how elegant she looked in her black cocktail dress and pearl necklace.

  "I love that dress. What is it?" I inquired. Not that I knew the names of any designers.

  "Thank you. It's Givency," she replied, in what I recognized as a French accent. Strong. "This is your gallery?"

  "Yeah."

  "And you're an artist?"

  "Well, in a manner of speaking. This stuff makes mine look like a toddler's drawings!" I chuckled.

  "I bet you're being modest. Do you have any of your work here?"

  No one ever asked me about my art, so speaking about it with this stranger, albeit in a less than ideal setting, was like a dream come true.

  "No, all of my stuff is at home. It's not really for sale. My girlfriend sort of owns everything." I didn't know why I felt the need to mention Jean, but I wanted to make it clear, just in case, that I was off limits. Clandestine bathroom talks with pretty women could always be misconstrued by onlookers.

  She seemed genuinely intrigued by this, and gave me a whimsical smile. I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd seen her somewhere before.

  "Why is that? Does she get first refusal on all your paintings?"

  "Nothing like that. She bought a bunch of them before we got together, when I was broke. Sort of saved my butt." I laughed as I dried my hands.

  "You're very lucky to have a girlfriend like that," she said.

  I wanted to ask her about her accent, about where in France, or Canada, she hailed from, but decided not to. I'd already spent long enough in there, and I had guests to attend to.

  The impromptu conversation would have been entirely forgotten half an hour later, but while I was collecting more champagne from the stock room, Oliver jumped out from behind the wall and nearly scared me out of my skin.

  "You're such an idiot, you know that?" I said, thankful that the scare hadn't made me drop the bottles. "What do you want down here?"

  "Cool space. This could be the new, ultra exclusive No Man's Land. NML 2.0. It has that vibe."

  "It's a stockroom," I said dully. "What do you want?" And why the hell are we still friends? I wanted to add. Arrogant, narcissistic pricks who constantly told filthy, sexist jokes were not the things good friends were made of. Oliver could only be taken in small doses. Minuscule doses. Once a month, possibly less. And now that Jean and I were together and stronger than ever, I didn't want to spend any time with him, only her. It was as if I'd opened Pandora's box by letting him into my life, and that door simply wouldn't close now.

  "Just came to see what you were up to. See what hotties you had tied up down here..."

  "That's more your style, isn't it? I'm happily loved up with the woman of my dreams."

  Well-dressed, in an expensive suit, brown hair perfectly set, his look completely contradicted his personality. That had always been the case. He was a walking contradiction.

  His grin reached the ends of his face, it seemed. In his eyes amusement glistened. "Speaking of your "life partner", I thought you'd want to know that she's taken quite an interest in a sexy foreign lady. I hope you guys have an open relationship, because it looks like you'll have to share her tonight." He cackled heinously, my glare only making him laugh harder.

  "What are you talking about? She's networking. She's helping me make sales. Nothing untoward."

  "Networking? Is that what you gals call it these days? I would just call it regular old trying to get into someone's panties."

  It wasn't that I didn't trust Jean. No, she was the most trustworthy person I knew, at least when it came to fidelity. If ever there was a woman who had every opportunity to cheat, Jean was it. But once we'd agreed to be exclusive, she'd ended her liaisons and hadn't looked back.

  But Oliver's grin made me furious, and he was so damn sure of himself, that I wanted to prove him wrong.

  I stormed up the stairs with the bottles in my hands, and he hurried after me, still cackling. As soon as I stepped back into the room and set the bottles down, I saw exactly what had brought him downstairs. Jean was in conversation with the woman I'd met in the restroom. Conversation that had both women laughing.

  "N
etworking looks pretty fun," Oliver whispered behind me. His voice made my skin crawl. I batted him away angrily, and continued watching them talk.

  I had to tap into every ounce of self-restraint in order to stop myself from charging over there and starting a war. One deep breath to calm me wasn't enough. I took several before I was ready to approach them. Going over there like a bull in a china store was what the old Lissa would have done. And she was dead. My promise to Jean to be a better girlfriend also came to mind.

  There were more elegant ways to achieve my goal.

  When I got close enough to hear them, the worst thing happened: I realized I couldn't understand a word they were saying. They were speaking French!

  "Hey, pretty lady," I said, and Jean spun round. She wore the biggest smile when she looked at me.

  "Hello, my darling," she said. She took my face in her hands and planted a whopper of a kiss on my lips, which stunned me. Whose benefit was that for? Or was she simply happy to see me?

  When the kiss was over, I shot the woman a look as I pulled Jean close. She smiled, but there was something callous behind it. That wasn't in my head.

  "Do you mind if I steal my girlfriend away?" I said, kissing Jean's neck and tightening my grip around her torso. This display was all to show Miss France that this woman was mine and only mine, and it didn't matter how much French they spoke. I may not have spoken French, but I spoke the language of love, and that was all that mattered to Jean.

  "Please," the woman said.

  I took Jean by the hand and led her away to a quiet spot. We kissed like our lives depended on it, though I was far more aggressive.

  "Do you know how proud I am of you?" she said, holding both my hands. "You're glowing. You're in your element. The gallery was the right move. It thrills me to see you so happy."

  But my mind was still focused on the scene I'd broken up. I couldn't let it go. "Who was that before?"

  "The woman? Prospective buyer, I imagine. Why?"

  "You didn't tell me you speak French." It wasn't an accusation, but it sounded a lot like one.