by Meg Watson
“We’ll get there in just another few minutes. It’s less than an hour in the Gulfstream.”
“That’s amazing,” I said, breathing across the surface of the coffee, luxuriating in the scent.
“It’s not nearly enough time to get to know you,” Declan said, startling me. What could he mean by that? He turned toward me from the small oval window and smiled.
“I think you need to pick now,” he said.
I looked back and forth between them for clues.
“Pick what?”
Declan waved his hand at himself, then Jackson. “Pick one of us,” he said simply.
“Pick one of you for…” I repeated vaguely.
Wait. Did he just say…
I met Jackson’s gentle, sky-blue stare and then glanced back at Declan. They both watched me expectantly.
“You don’t mean…”
“Of course I do,” Declan said matter-of-factly. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
My heart started to race. It was too much pressure. Besides, who does that sort of thing?
“Well, I can’t just--” I looked to Jackson for guidance. He seemed like a sweeter person compared to Declan’s brash assertiveness. But Jackson just looked at me plainly and I realized he wasn’t at all surprised by this turn of events.
“Look,” Declan said with an exaggerated sigh, “if you can’t pick, then we will pick for you.”
Jackson gave me a small nod. Did that mean he wanted me to pick him, or was he just confirming that they would choose for me?
The jet leaned downward, and I realized we were beginning our descent toward LA. Part of me wished we had more time together on the flight, but a stronger part of me was grateful I was almost out of minutes in which to embarrass myself.
“You guys are hilarious,” I drawled, I said, leaning back and trying to affect a nonchalant posture. “How could I possibly choose between two excellent suitors?”
“OK then,” Declan nodded. He looked at Jackson and shrugged. “Sounds good.”
I chuckled and downed the rest of my coffee. When I set the cup back on the table, Jackson was smiling at me too.
“Wait, what did I just agree to?” I laughed, hoping they would let me in on the joke.
“Two excellent suitors, by the sound of it,” Declan replied.
“Oh, right. Well, color me Cinderella,” I said lightly, trying to figure out what was really going on.
“As you wish,” Jackson cut in immediately, quoting The Princess Bride.
“Once Upon a Dream,” Declan nodded sagely, tossing in the theme from Sleeping Beauty.
“I see we’re all versed in princess plots,” I observed.
“I was always partial to Briar Rose,” Jackson added wryly.
“Oh, yeah,” Declan agreed. “She’s got the dwarves, right?”
“No that’s Arwen,” I shot back, pleased with my nerdy knowledge of The Hobbit.
“She’s right,” Jackson declared with a friendly grin, raising his eyebrows at Declan. Apparently I had won some kind of clever game of wordplay, or at least won their respect by the looks of it.
“Eh, you’re just trying to win her over,” Declan sneered. I glanced at Jackson shyly, my cheeks sore from grinning so hard. Who knew hanging out with the rich and mysterious could be so much fun?
Declan checked out the LA skyline as it tipped into view, still all draped in its morning blanket of ochre smog.
“Can we drop you somewhere?”
“No, I’d rather land first,” I chuckled.
“Wow, you really are quick,” Jackson muttered admiringly.
“I’m a legend in my own mind,” I nodded.
“Well how about a ride to the gallery?” Declan offered.
“Actually I have a ride waiting for me,” I said with an apologetic chuckle. “Rain check.”
“Sure,” Jackson responded. It was tough getting used to their tag-team technique of each answering the questions as though they were each equally likely to have been asked. Turning my head back and forth between them was its own kind of exercise.
***
After we landed, I beat a hasty retreat and dodged into the nearest ladies room to relieve myself of the gallon of coffee I had just consumed. As I sat, I texted Bridget with caffeinated, quaking fingers.
Come get me.
Fuck you, came her instant, charming response.
No srsly, please come get me.
Wat?? Take a cab!
Can’t.
OMG I hate u.
I know. Thank you.
I seemed to pee forever, but I was happy to have a good reason for hiding out in the ladies room besides waiting for the Burkes to find their limo or matching Lamborghinis or whatever and go do their thing.
Eventually I emerged, joining the flow of foot traffic out the front door into the bright glare of the LA morning. At least a half-dozen women and men dressed like women hung out on the curb in brightly colored last-night’s-party dresses, and I felt blessedly inconspicuous.
Bridget came roaring up in her seventh-hand BMW with the windows down and the stereo blasting Missy Elliott. She screeched to a halt in front of me and I yanked the door open and leapt in, knowing from experience that if I hesitated, she would start rolling again whether I had safely gotten my arms and legs inside or not.
“Thanks,” I singsonged happily, then checked out her jawline for signs that she was gearing up to yell at me. Though her hands gripped the wheel like she was trying to choke it to death, that knot of muscle in her temple stayed unclenched so I knew I was safe. She was probably distracted from the show.
“Why am I driving you?” she finally snarled.
“I don’t have any money,” I answered immediately.
“Why don’t you have any money?”
“Because the show doesn’t open until tonight.”
I saw her nostrils flare at my answer. Not good.
“Why don’t you have any money?” she asked again, jamming on the brakes for a red light.
“Ehhhhhhhh,” I groaned. “Because I spent it on a plane ticket, Ma!”
“You spent it on a plane ticket to--”
“Because I spent it on a plane ticket to San Francisco to hook up with Kevin!”
“Right,” she nodded. “And did you hook up with Kevin?”
I sighed.
“What?” she persisted, weaving dangerously between electric cars that didn’t pick up fast enough when the light turned green.
“No I did not hook up with Kevin. Come on, Bridge. You already know this.”
“Well, I know this,” she shot back irritably. “But you don’t seem to let it sink in.”
“Yeah well…”
“Well what?” she asked, narrowly missing a woman on a bicycle with a multi-colored baby trailer behind it.
“Jesus, Bridge, slow down.”
“I can’t slow down, because now we’re late. I had to go pick up one of my artists from the airport because she blew her last penny on some balding real estate agent who dumped her months ago.”
“Fuck,” I responded.
“Exactly.”
“You look like a hooker,” she sneered, cutting her eyes toward me and blowing off the next yellow light by flooring it.
“How can you tell?” I retorted, checking out her leopard-print miniskirt and wide leather belt. Her breasts swayed heavily in her burgundy bra, clearly visible beneath the black sheer top she had cinched inside the belt.
“Whatever, fuck you,” she snarled.
“Your snappy comebacks are leaving something to be desired,” I observed. “I really don’t feel like you’re giving me your best this morning.”
“Yeah,” she said, squinting against the glare as we turned another corner. “Well like I said, I have a lot of important things going on today. You may remember the opening? Tonight? At the gallery where you get those checks you squander on washed-up loser Romeos?”
“Oh that’s tonight?” I said innocently. T
hen I looked around, realizing we were not getting any closer to my house. “Hey, where are you taking me?”
“You’re hanging this show,” she said.
“No! Bridget, come on! Look at me… I can’t be out looking like this!”
“Yeah, well, maybe you shoulda thought of that.”
“No, seriously!” I bawled, somehow near to tears. Was there anything good that was going to happen today? “Look, my shoe is broken… I’m going to break an arm or something. Think of the insurance premiums!”
She bit her carmine-stained lips into a thin line and jerked the wheel, cutting across traffic and into a parking garage. From the way she was working her jaw, I could tell I was on very thin ice.
“So the Burkes seem nice,” I said timidly, hoping the thought of ready buyers would take some of the heat off me.
“Did you not-fuck them too?”
I rolled my eyes and pushed my matted hair off my cheek. “All right, ha ha, you’re mad. I get it.”
“Yeah, I’m mad!” she bellowed, angling into a parking space and then jamming on the brakes so hard I almost cracked my head against the dash.
Turning toward me, Bridget gave me the full force of her attention. I flinched like she was going to hit me. She pointed a long, burgundy nail at the center of my chest. “You must have some kinda death wish, missy, because I can’t fucking imagine what kind of crazy shit goes through your head.”
I put my hands up in surrender. “OK, OK, fine,” I agreed hurriedly. “I’ll hang the show.”
“It’s not just the show!” she roared. “You have everything it takes to be huge, Mar. Huge! But when you’re not dicking around and missing deadlines, you’re giving me the same tired, antiquated shit that was out of fashion like 140 years ago.”
“It’s not tired. It’s traditional.”
“So you keep telling me.”
I scowled at her, mentally trying to convince myself to just let her have her say so I could get the hell out of that car.
“It’s like you want to fail. Like you want to lose your house.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You want to see what it’s like to touch the bottom? To see how far down it really goes?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, looking stubbornly out the front window.
“It was one night in San Francisco, Bridget. Don’t make a federal case out of this.”
“It was a lot of nights in San Francisco, Mar,” she corrected me pointedly. “And not a lot of reciprocal nights in LA either, I might add. Jesus! What is so special about that guy that you’re willing to spend your last penny just for a chance to fuck him?”
I sighed through my nose. “I love him, Bridge.”
“Really?” she snorted. Then I felt her hand on my chin, turning my head to look at her.
“Really?” she said again, arching her dark black eyebrows at me.
It took me a long time to think about that. I wanted to say Yes, definitely really, but the truth was… Well, the truth wasn’t strong enough to say yes.
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Ugh,” she groaned, letting my chin go with a disgusted flick of her wrist.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “He’s better than facing the alternative, I guess.”
“Oh yeah? What’s this supposed alternative?” she sneered as she grabbed her Guess bag and heaved herself upright on those extreme platform heels. Out of all the actual transvestites I knew, Bridget was the one woman who out-trannied them all.
“That I don’t feel anything about anything,” I muttered, gathering my purse and leaving the car. She hadn’t heard me and apparently didn’t care, and so I silently hobbled as fast as I could behind her, trying to keep up.
CHAPTER 3
I GOT SHOWERED and changed in record time, whirling through my closet like an insane prom date, tossing outfits back over my head by the fistful.
What most says: Please buy my paintings? I wondered as I went through outfit after outfit. I was going to be seen alongside goth chicks and maybe a couple Ren Fair castaways, not to mention the few socialite dabblers who would arrive in blonde and spray-tan, posing next to their producer husbands at discreet intervals around the room, prepped for paparazzi. Their work would be priced at three times mine, naturally, and then sell like it was going out of style.
I love LA, I reminded myself sternly. I just fucking love it.
It would be 80 and sunny all day, and then 80 and dark all night, so I really could wear whatever I wanted. I held up the sky-blue a-line dress and the white gauze halter side by side and stared at them both in the mirror.
That blue looks like their eyes, I sighed inwardly, then snapped that hanger back on the rod and took the white one into the shower.
When I walked in the front door, Bridget spotted me right away and waved over her head for me to come over. She wore a midnight blue, skin-tight satin gown with a deliriously plunging neckline. Her dark red curls were piled high on top of her head with some curling strands framing her cheekbones like ribbons of candy.
“You look like a mermaid,” I cooed as I walked up.
“A ha ha ha!” she laughed hugely for the benefit of the collectors nearby, then snatched at my upper arm and pulled me close so she could whisper in my ear.
“I need you to talk to that couple hovering over by Annie’s work,” she hissed rapidly in my ear.
“Oh please don’t make me sell!” I whisper-whined, opening my eyes as wide as I could.
“I have no interns! Go! Now!”
“Well…” I looked around, hoping an intern or gallery assistant would magically appear. While we were hanging the show, Bridget hollered mercilessly at Steve and Cliff, and I cringed every time she threatened to fire them or they threatened to quit.
“I have no interns!” she said again through her clenched teeth, a macabre not-smile stretched across her highly polished, blood red lips.
“Well maybe you should be nicer to people!”
“Margot,” she started menacingly, leaning toward me as far as her skirt would allow.
“You really shouldn’t lean like that. You’re gonna fall,” I warned her seriously.
“Get. Over. There.”
“Because those heels are, what… Eight inches? You’ll go over like a redwood in drag. Ow! Fine!” I snapped as she twisted the skin on the back of my arm.
Rubbing my sore arm, I strode across the huge, white gallery to the breezeway that led into the back warehouse. This show had used every square inch of floor space, from the front windows to the loading dock.
Fine time to alienate your staff, Bridget, I scolded her silently. At the same time I felt responsible. She really was pretty pissed at me.
As I walked into the breezeway, carefully not glancing at the installation of my own work that flanked the entrance, I saw the couple that were milling in front of Annie’s half-dozen 6-foot-high paintings of airborne women in bridal gowns. They each looked like they were falling from a height, their silken shifts clinging to them in sodden tatters, arms out in a gesture of finality.
I watched the couple for a few moments, trying to gauge their interest. The man held one arm across his middle while his other hand traced circles in the air in a gesture that said, “Holy cow, do I ever know a lot about deep meanings. Please listen.”
His date stood next to him, dowdy and bespectacled and at least 30 years younger than him. She laced her fingers in front of her dustbunny-colored long skirt in a gesture that said, “Golly he’s a deep one. What a stud.”
“Hiiiii,” I breathed as I came up behind them, singing that gallery assistant Song Of Just Wow that everyone seemed to love so much.
“Hiiii,” they both joined in, smiling openly.
Gotcha, I thought.
I stood between them and asked them what they thought about the piece, smiling and nodding avidly as the man gave a speech about Women’s Agency, whatever that’s supposed to mean, and the girl cooed and sighed like a dove
. When he was done I added what few facts I knew about her, filling out the story of the piece for them. Collectors like to have a story to go with their art, something to tell other people. They like to feel connected, not like they just bought a context-free piece of ludicrously overpriced wallpaper.
He nodded through my sparse but complimentary smattering of facts, then turned back to the the pink-robed bride, and then back to me. He squinted at me keenly.
“But do you like it?” he asked.
“Me? Yes I like it very much,” I said pleasantly, feeling every one of my own paintings staring daggers into my back and also feeling guilty for being jealous and petty.
“Really!” he said as though this was a challenge I could win or lose. I glanced at his date. She looked at me expectantly.
“So would you buy it then?” he persisted.
I nodded earnestly. I actually did have a couple of Annie’s early pieces and I liked her work.
“I would,” I asserted with absolute confidence.
He nodded slowly as though weighing my statements for deeper meanings. I wished I’d said something more profound.
“So you’re saying that looking all around,” he gestured with his long fingers, “at all this wonderful work, you would buy this? Why is that?”
“Well, she’s very technically proficient, and I respect that work. She’s been honing her craft for decades…” I looked at each of them to see how my mini-speech had been received. So far, so good.
“It’s like a jazz musician,” I continued, encouraged by their incessant nodding. “They study for years, know their instruments inside and out and every note and technique. So when they play, you just hear their intention, the real thing they wanted to express. All that technique is so perfected that it just melts away. It becomes effortless.”
“Ahhhh,” the young woman sighed, and I grinned happily under her approval. I could see why her date found her so charming.
He leaned toward us conspiratorially, his eyes dancing with mirth. “So if this is jazz, then some of that modern stuff in the other room is just, ha ha, noise? Am I right?”
I waved my hand in the air like Oh You Are Too Much.
“And this other stuff, haha,” he continued, gesturing at my pieces behind me, “is like, uh, nursery rhymes haha?”
