A Palette for Love

by Charlotte Greene

  Her face, when the driver opened the door for me, put all these plans to rest. She was drawn and pale—paler even than she usually was, which is saying something. Her sunglasses were on despite the darkness of the car’s interior, and her whole body seemed to be drawn in on itself, closed off. She’d chosen the seat in the limo that faces the front of the cab and had drawn into the farthest corner from any other seat in the car, legs folded around themselves twice, pretzel-fashion. She looked up at me quickly in recognition of my presence and then returned to looking at her tablet, effectively silencing me for the entire trip.

  We were doing our first reconnaissance missions today before the big dinner tonight. We’d scheduled meetings with two up-and-coming artists Amelia was interested in meeting, one of whom I’d actually studied in graduate school. We would be evaluating them together and deciding whether to distribute either one or both. While more and more artists have agents, Amelia believed agents weren’t always best at getting distributors for an artist’s work, in addition to the fact that artists made more money if they dealt directly with the seller. Further, if an artist we talked to this week insisted on going through his or her agent, we could simply contact the agent if we were interested in selling their work.

  Tomorrow, on Saturday afternoon, we were attending a Sotheby’s auction that promised to be one of the art world’s highlights of the year. In fact, our trip here was primarily designed and planned so Amelia could attend this auction.

  Two evening functions were planned as well for tonight and tomorrow. Tonight’s was a charity dinner, a little like the one we’d attended in New Orleans, and tomorrow’s was an artist’s opening reception. Amelia had made a dinner reservation for Saturday near the warehouse in Brooklyn where the reception was taking place and had been very hush-hush about it, looking mysterious every time I asked her for details. I’d been excited to have dinner alone with her, knowing that most of our other evenings were booked with other people and events, but now, after the scene last night, the idea of being alone with her terrified me.

  The first gallery we visited was a typical Manhattan affair, with stark-white walls and floor and minimal décor beyond the paintings. The saleswomen were those narrow, pinched women you expect in a place like that, dressed in solid black with high, tight hairdos, both of them probably models or actresses when they weren’t here. Their looks mirrored their attitude, which was cold and aloof. They gave us the cold shoulder and only briefly greeted us as we walked around. Only when the artist, Pierre Gasteau, appeared, all smiles and handshakes, did they seem to understand that we were worth noticing. After that it was all ass-kisses. Pierre treated us to lunch at the 21 Club, a first visit for me and a genuine pleasure except for the company. His arrogance and machismo disgusted me, and neither of us was able to say much of anything as he gushed about himself and his work at effusive length.

  The next gallery was more to my taste, with students working the floor and an eclectic, bohemian style of décor. The room had the quality of a workshop, with the artist and the some of the students actually working on pieces in the back of the room. The artist, Audrey Pieuon, was also French, and I was more familiar with her artwork than Pierre’s, having studied her work in school. Audrey taught at the School of Visual Arts in the fine arts department and obviously employed her students at her gallery. While her work was now widely recognized and occasionally on view at various modern art museums around the world, she had yet to achieve the kind of acclaim that gave her celebrity status, and it showed in her behavior with us. She was far friendlier with us than Pierre had been, whose kindness had been phony and grasping. Audrey was also familiar with the Winters Corporation and asked both of us questions about the other artists we distributed and the restoration work we did.

  “Is this your new piece?” I managed to ask when we were standing near it in the workshop. I hadn’t expected to be starstruck but found myself almost tongue-tied the moment she appeared. Amelia had thrown me a couple of strange looks at my silence, so I was making an effort to get over it.

  “Yes, and it’s giving me migraines,” she said, frowning at the piece. Audrey was primarily famous for her glass and mosaic work, and some critics had gone so far as to call her the next Louis Comfort Tiffany. Compared to most of her work, which was usually quite small—often small enough to hold in your hands—the scale of the new piece was impressive, stretching nearly twelve feet square. She had begun only one corner of the piece, the colors of the glass shards she used in her work sparkling with the light. A ladder stood next to it, and she climbed up, pointing at various areas and explaining what it would look like when it was done.

  “I have lived away from France for almost a decade now, yet I always go back there in my artwork. They say an artist puts her identity in her work, so I guess France is mine.”

  She excused herself to help some of her student employees, which gave Amelia and me a chance to take a closer look at the work throughout the gallery. Amelia walked away from me, ostensibly to be alone with her thoughts, but it was clear that she simply didn’t want to be around me. Sighing, I turned toward the centerpiece of the gallery, a large vase composed of various colors of glass punctuated by metal fragments throughout. Coming closer, I could see that the metal was actually French franc coins, which had been out of circulation since the currency reform in Europe. The piece was titled Lost Singularity.

  We left after having a cup of lovely French coffee prepared by our hostess, and by then we were running a little late. The charity dinner started at seven, and now we were locked in rush-hour traffic. I’d been expecting to talk about what we’d seen today after both galleries, but Amelia was still not talking to me. She kept her eyes firmly rooted to her tablet. I had nothing with me to work on, so I sat there in quiet frustration as we slowly squeezed our way through from the Village to midtown Manhattan. Staring out the darkened windows, I watched as the teeming masses rushed home on the sidewalks, thousands expelled from the office buildings around us. The silence in the car was made more poignant by the contrast to the busyness outside, and I felt the crushing weight of my situation all the more clearly for having nothing else to think about. When we finally pulled up to the Peninsula, our hotel, my nerves were completely shattered. Overtired and anxious, the thought of making nice at a dinner party all evening was almost more than I could bear.

  Amelia had reserved a suite connected to a second room for me. The suite and my room were the very definition of elegance and luxury, with lush bedding, enormous bathrooms, and elegant décor. Our rooms were connected by a door, and I was very happy to close it behind me as I excused myself to get ready. I was so relieved to be alone I almost started crying. There were flowers on the desk in my room and a small bottle of wine, which I quickly opened, pouring most of it into a tall glass. I had exactly thirty-five minutes to make myself presentable and human again, and I figured the wine would help.

  My luggage had been set up in the walk-in closet, the gowns I’d brought hung up. I found a small note on one of the gowns.

  I think this one would be most suitable for tonight, don’t you agree?

  —Amelia

  Her audacity was galling, and the note, coupled with her ridiculous childishness all day, turned my day-long depression to near-blinding rage. Spitefully, I grabbed the other gown and took it with me into the bathroom. For the next twenty minutes I slammed around as I got ready. My anger energized me, and I spent the entire time attempting to make myself look completely and utterly unattainable. Rather than be hurt by her childishness, I decided to fight her ice with my own fire.

  When I came into her suite, Amelia was standing with her back to the room, staring out the window. Even from behind she was breathtaking, and once again my plans for how to behave toward her took a nosedive. Hearing me, she turned, and for the first time today I saw beneath the coldness to the deep hurt underneath, but only for a second. Her eyes hardened quickly, making me doubt what I’d seen.

  “I see you c
hose the other dress,” she said.

  “Yes,” I answered simply, trying to mimic her cold tone. “It’s more comfortable.”

  She didn’t reply, and I followed her out of our rooms and downstairs to our waiting car. Despite having hurried, we were still running late, and I could feel her mounting tension as the car eased itself through evening traffic. The event was held at the Edison Ballroom, and as we pulled up to get in line behind the cars in front of us, I could see a red carpet in front and the flash of cameras.

  Two cars away from the head of the line, Amelia suddenly turned toward me. “Listen. Can we put this…misunderstanding behind us for the evening? We have a lot of work to do tonight, and it will go more smoothly if we can look like we like each other.”

  “I do like you, Amelia—”

  “I know. I know you do, and I’m sorry for how I’ve behaved today. I’ve been very foolish.”

  “You haven’t been foolish at all. I’m the one who acted like an idiot yesterday. I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “So am I.” Her face was still drawn and wary, and she seemed reluctant to say the wrong thing. “Let’s put it behind us.”

  I had just enough time to nod my reply when the door was opened for us, the flash of cameras blinding me as we climbed out. Amelia looked cool and collected, and I heard a press liaison tell one of the scribbling journalists who she was. No one knew my name yet, so Amelia provided it, making me realize that I would no longer be her anonymous “blonde” after tonight. Placing her hand on the small of my back, she led me through the flashing entryway and into the luxurious interior of one of the most exclusive ballrooms in the city. Attendants took our coats, issuing us a small coin for retrieval, and we got in line to wait for our table assignment.

  As we waited, Amelia linked her arm with mine and drew closer. “You look wonderful this evening,” she whispered. “I meant to say so earlier.”

  “Even in the wrong dress?” I whispered back, trying to sound coy.

  She responded with a wide grin, and I was relieved to see that some of her earlier coldness was beginning to thaw. She seemed genuinely excited to be here, and I decided to join in her fun. Twice today I’d been overjoyed to experience a part of New York life with which I was completely unfamiliar, and the opportunity simply to be in this building was a treat. I had to stop myself from gaping once we finally entered the ballroom proper. This was old, moneyed New York at its finest.

  A smaller contingent of press had been invited inside, and they discreetly took photos of the two of us. Word had already made it inside who I was, and I was surprised to hear my name carefully spelled out between journalists as we walked by. A small dance floor had been set up near the stage, on which a big-band orchestra was already playing softly. Our table was once again near the mayor’s, and I wasn’t surprised to see a contingent of his bodyguards nearby.

  Just as we were about to sit down, someone called out from across the room. “Amelia! Amelia darling!”

  We turned to find an older woman approaching us, followed by an entourage of much-younger men. She and Amelia kissed cheeks, and the older woman grabbed her by the shoulders, looking her up and down.

  “My heavens, Amelia, where on earth do you get such wonderful clothes? I’m going to have to fire my designer, I really am.” Suddenly spotting me, she arched an eyebrow and said, her voice teasing, “And who, my dear, is this?”

  “May I introduce Dr. Clothilde Deveraux,” Amelia said, pulling me closer. She left her hand around my waist, sending shivers up my back. “Doctor, this is a very old friend of the family, Daphne Waters.”

  “I’m charmed,” Daphne said, touching my fingers lightly with hers. Looking at Amelia, she said, “Where on earth do you find them, my girl?”

  Amelia blushed at this and we shared a quick, embarrassed glance, but she recovered quickly, turning the conversation to other topics. She and Daphne walked together over to the bar, leaving me to make small talk with the young men Daphne had left behind. They were all clearly younger than I was, and it was tough going until I found a shared interest in Europe with the very striking-looking David. He told me his mother was British and his father Italian and that he visited both countries as often as possible. With his dark, wavy hair and slight five-o’clock shadow, he was the very picture of manly beauty in his beautiful silk suit. He warmed up to me quickly when we started talking about Florence, where his father grew up, and I let him fill the awkward pause as we waited for our hosts to return with our drinks, nodding in agreement with everything he said.

  Soon, Amelia handed me a glass of champagne, and Daphne returned with a waiter and a tray of drinks for her followers, all of them effusive in their thanks.

  “I won’t keep you two lovebirds apart any longer,” Daphne said after a few more minutes of chatting. “I know how tiresome it can be to talk to someone when you only have eyes for one another.” This time I couldn’t help but blush, and Daphne chortled at my response. Drawing close to me, she whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, “You keep your eye on Amelia, dear heart. She’s a real lady-killer.” Laughing again, she winked at me and led her men back across the room to their table. They trailed after her like baby quail.

  Amelia breathed a sigh of relief and turned toward me, her eyes merry with amusement. “I am sorry.” She was trying not to laugh. “She’s an old letch, and like all letches, she thinks everyone else is one too. My father would be appalled to see her here with her posse like this in public. She replaces them all every few months, by the way. God knows where she finds them. I’m sure they adore the money she dumps on them. Probably almost worth whatever they have to do to get it. My father will get a real laugh when I tell him about her next weekend.” She paused, glancing at me furtively. “That reminds me: my parents are having their anniversary party next Saturday. I was wondering…well, you see, I hate going to parties at their house alone. All of my siblings are married or attached, which means I end up sitting by myself most of the time, or with some old aunt no one cares about. It would be nice to have a friend there.”

  “I’d be delighted,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She looked genuinely pleased, and I was happy to note that the feeling was mutual. Whatever had happened last night was starting to seem like it was behind us.

  The food was, for once, excellent, and our tablemates were surprisingly easy to talk to. One of the young women opposite me had recently been involved in a film that was starting to get Oscar buzz, though if I remembered correctly from the preview, she had only a minor role in it. She had her own posse of admirers in the form of two dumb-looking, hulking men on either side of her, both of whom were completely quiet the whole dinner. Amelia worked on her while I once again directed my efforts to an older couple sitting next to me, both of whom looked incredibly uncomfortable here. Only when I’d been talking with the woman for five minutes did I realize that she was an author I very much admired. This explained why she seemed out of place here, as she’d likely been encouraged by her agent to make an appearance in light of her new book. She was rumored to be something of a recluse, refusing readings and paid appearances, but her work was well-respected in literary circles.

  Forcing myself to avoid gushing, I praised her work long enough to flatter her before switching topics to literature in general, at which point her husband, a famous English professor at NYU, joined in. By the time dessert was served, I had an appointment to meet with them in their apartment later this week to discuss one of their favorite artists, whose work was notoriously hard to get. They eventually excused themselves to go dance, and I watched them for several long minutes, always envious of couples that grew old together. I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder and looked up to see David standing next to my chair.

  “I wonder if I might have this dance, Doctor,” he said, bowing slightly.

  Too surprised to protest, I took his proffered hand and let him lead me to the floor. He led me into an easy, slow foxtrot after showing me a couple of begi
nner’s steps. Once or twice I glanced over at Amelia, still seated at our table, but she seemed not to have noticed our departure or she was pointedly ignoring it. Daphne, however, was watching us closely, her eyes narrow slits of rage. I enjoyed her anger almost as much as I enjoyed dancing with David, who was a perfect gentleman throughout the dance. In fact, he was so entirely hands-off—as much as that was possible when dancing—that I began to suspect he was doing all of this on purpose to drive Daphne crazy. He could dance with me and make her angry, but his body language seemed to say that was as far as he was willing to go. It was a relief, actually, as it meant I could simply enjoy being with him without wondering about his motives. We danced through “In the Mood” and “Cry Me a River” before I claimed fatigue, and he kissed my hand before rejoining his mistress.

  Amelia’s eyes flickered my way as I sat back down, but her expression was unreadable. I waited as she arranged to meet with the starlet at her hotel in a couple of days to discuss artwork more fully. Once they’d exchanged numbers, Amelia excused herself, standing up and extending a hand to me.

  “Would you come with me, Doctor?” she asked. Her eyes looked cold, angry. I mutely followed her, and she led us back toward the bathrooms.

  In the ladies, we found a small sitting room that was blissfully empty at the moment, and, after the door closed behind us, she turned toward me, eyes blazing.

  “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”