by Daphne Dawn
She called the other day and when I told her he was out of town, she made some cryptic comment about him staying away longer. I didn’t respond so she took it as a sign to launch into one of her infamous diatribes.
“Look, girl. I’ve held my tongue for two years. But you’ve gone past my threshold of watching what is surely going to be a future train wreck. He’s not the one. He’s a player. He thinks the world is in love with him. And he’s never going to ask you to marry him.”
Robin was never one to mince words. But I couldn’t agree on this.
“Dale is the guy I want to spend my life with,” I said, sounding just a tad too whiney. “I want to be married to him. I want children, the seven-thousand-square-foot loft in SoHo. I want the whole thing.”
Robin just sighed. Loudly.
Yes, I know Dale could be arrogant. But his attributes outweighed his arrogance. As the owner of the hottest gallery in New York, a little haughtiness is sometimes necessary. It's gotten us on everyone’s opening night guest list and the best tables at all the must-be-seen-in restaurants.
Okay, so the sex isn’t completely mind-blowing. But after two years, you’re likely to hit a bit of a dry spell. Like my writing.
But tonight’s going to be different. It’s a surprise. Dinner and a show.
Oh, and I’m the show.
His plane lands at seven and he’ll be home by eight. Just enough time for me to get to his apartment, cook his favorite steak dinner, open a bottle of red, get the candles going and slip into that barely-there slip I got at La Perla. A little red-laced thingy that will reignite the spark. And hopefully spur my creative juices. A girl can hope, can’t she?
Checking to make sure I have everything, including those three-inch red numbers I couldn't say no to at Manolo Blanik’s last month–yet another ding in my book advance money–I hail a taxi and within 20 minutes I'm at Dale's on Christopher Street. I'm humming in all the right places as I waltz into the loft.
Except for the bedroom, the place has no other doors. The floor-to-ceiling windows along the north wall offer a spectacular view of the Hudson. Putting the groceries on the kitchen island, I make my way to the windows to take in the last rays of a most remarkable sunset.
I've always thought the one disadvantage to this ridiculously beautiful space is the constant drone of city traffic below. Only tonight, I’m not hearing traffic. I’m hearing…wait, could that be…
“Well shit.” I say loud enough to be heard over the moaning.
Stomping over, I fling open the bedroom door.
What’s behind it? Dale’s naked butt.
It’s not as if I haven’t seen his bare ass before. It’s just that I’ve never seen it from this angle, banging back and forth like a hammer on a stubborn nail.
“What the fuck!” I yell.
Dale looks over his shoulder and I can see he’s searching for something to say.
I can’t believe it. His first reaction isn’t to immediately stop what he’s doing with a woman whose every body part has been enhanced.
From the dyed platinum hair (top and bottom), to the implanted ginormous breasts. And I will bet large sums of money that flat stomach is the result of a surgeon’s scalpel.
“We are sooo done!” I say, in my most outraged voice. In fact, I can’t get out of there fast enough. I’m stunned.
Stunned because he’s with another woman. Stunned because Robin was right, he had no plans to marry me. Stunned because he hurt me.
Really hurt me.
“Hey, baby. Don’t go,” Dale calls out.
I’m moving as fast as I can, gathering up my stuff as I go. There is no way I’m leaving behind a fifty-dollar bottle of wine and a hundred dollars’ worth of steaks for this asshole.
As I pack up, Dale is hopping up and down on one foot, trying to get his other leg into his trousers, while attempting to explain that this little romp means nothing.
“We met on the plane, baby,” hop, hop, hop. “ It's just sex.”
I, of course, ignore all his pleas and force myself to hold back the tears. With my arms full, I head for the front door.
“Come on, baby, you’re my world.”
“Well then, from now on your world will be empty!”
Throwing his keys at him, I walk out.
Blake
“Of course, ladies, I’d be happy to show you my private collection,” I say with a smile I’ve plastered on for the occasion.
“If it’s half as good as what’s hanging on these walls, you’ve got a buyer.” The brunette responds in what has to be the breathiest voice I’ve ever heard. I think she said her name is Monica.
Her friend, the redhead, hasn’t let go of my hand since I gave her my card when she walked through the gallery doors.
“Blake, what a sexy name.” Monica is practically purring as she looks me up and down. “It goes with the whole package.”
I’m feigning interest, because a sale, after all, is a sale. It’s clear these women don’t have a clue what it takes to be an artist. What do they think? I just throw paint on a canvas? Even Pollock had a plan.
I hate being here, up close and personal with prospective buyers. Apart from an opening night, I’m not one to hang around galleries. I’m getting restless and would rather be out on the street with the crowds.
My agent, Beth, brushes by and whispers in my ear, “Keep smiling.”
“I’m working on it,” I say through a clenched toothed grin.
But I’d rather be outside. The Fall air is crisp, the sky crystalline, and the streets full of people. It’s the one week every year when hundreds of New Yorkers go elbow-to-elbow with tourists as they tromp, wide-eyed, up and down the cobblestone streets of the West Village, in search of their next art acquisition.
“You’ve chosen one of my favorites,” I hear Beth say.
By the intonation of her voice, I know we’ve made a sale, and I turn and smile in earnest. After all, money is money.
I feel I deserve a reward, and decide on a triple espresso.
“I’m out for a coffee,” I call over to the Beth and her assistant. “Want anything?”
They both decline, so I’m free to take my time.
The cobblestone streets and old brick buildings take me back to when I walked this neighborhood, going door to door with my rolled-up canvases, trying to get any gallery owner to show some interest. In some ways, those were the best of times, when ideas flowed freely and I was more fun. Not now.
I shake off the melancholy.
Pulling up the collar of my blazer, I tuck my hands inside the front pocket of my jeans. There’s a slight breeze, but I can think of nothing better than sitting outdoors with my coffee, watching women go by. Maybe I’ll find my muse.
I grab a small table outside Maxwell’s Coffee Bar when the inside of my jacket begins to vibrate. A text.
“Damn.” I thought I could have a moment.
Looking at the screen, I see there are several messages and I begin thumbing through.
Hey baby so much fun in that elevator, wanna try my escalator.
“Nope,” I mutter under my breath and swipe left.
Blakey where have you been xxoo I’m hot and ready.
“Blakey has left the building,” I say and swipe left.
Now this is interesting. Somehow the woman who just bought my painting is inviting me to her place.
“Oh, hell no.” Hard swipe left.
What are you doing, Blake? In frustration, I put my phone away. This is my time. My coffee. The world is going to have to be put on hold. I’m recharging.
Two triple espressos later, I’m slightly wired and ready to walk off the caffeine. That’s when I see her.
“Damn.” This time I say it out loud. I know this because the woman with the two-year-old next to me gives me a raised eyebrow. She thinks I’m crass, or crazy. Either way, I don’t care.
The dark-haired woman with the blue eyes, alabaster skin, and sexiest pixie cut I’ve ever seen is
getting away, and I need to find out who she is.
I throw ten dollars on the table.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” I say as I squeeze my way around the baby stroller and diaper bag. When I’m finally out on the street, my legs begin moving faster than they do when I’m on the treadmill at the gym. This woman has definitely caught my attention.
I come up short as I round the avenue, because she and a friend have stopped at a gallery window and they’re chatting. Now’s my chance.
“Interesting color palette,” I say as a conversation starter, but all I get are quizzical looks from both of them. “I mean, the choice isn’t what you’d expect. It’s a bit angry, don’t you think?”
Miss Pixie isn’t talking, it’s her friend who speaks up. “Yeah, there’s a definite disconnect in the color structure,” she says.
If I’m not mistaken, she’s batting her eyelashes at me. Could that be right? In my most nonchalant, non-committal tone I look at her and say, “You think?”
I don’t really care what she thinks, I just want to keep the conversation going in the hopes that ‘pixie dust girl’ will say something, and I can get her number. Instead, her friend whose- eyes are now busy taking a grand tour of my body keeps talking. But I -want her to shut up. I re-pose my question to pixie girl, “And what do you think?”
She looks at the painting, reflective as she purses her valentine-shaped, deep red, lips. Kissable lips.
“Hmmm…I’m not sure,” she says, “this one doesn’t speak to me at all.”
I’m instantly enamored. She’s right. This is a pile of shit masquerading as a painting. I look her in the eyes and try to engage her.
“I suppose art is personal,” I say.
She gives me that quizzical look again.
It’s clear I haven’t got her completely into my orbit, so I continue, “I mean, what we see, and what the artist intended for us to see, can be two different things.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Pixie says.
“For example, you,” I say smiling by best I-have-to-have-you smile. “You are someone who should be painted.”
She blushes, and then she steps back. It’s clear she’s offended, and that’s a first for me. I always have women eating out of my hand, and other parts too. This one's not buying it, and for the first time, I’m on 'virgin' territory.
When she turns to walk into the photo gallery next door, all I can do is follow.
Katherine
I've never taken a photography class in my life, and I'm not well-versed in the art of it all—if you don't count taking pictures with my cell phone—but I do know what I like. And this photo exhibit is…interesting.
It's a photographer's portrait collection called Red Hot.
The theme that binds each and every one of these pictures is that the models in these photos are all redheads.
"I've always thought gingers were sexy," Robin says, secretly giving me a wink as we walk through the gallery. "If this doesn't inspire you with your writing, I don't know what will."
In one photo, a man is flexing, and seemingly deep in thought with his gaze somewhere in the distance. The background is blue, matching his eyes.
In another portrait, a man stares down the lens of the camera, his red beard and chiseled chest acting as focal points.
"Like what you see?" The guy following us asks, walking up behind me and nudging me playfully. “The name’s Blake, by the way.”
"Katherine,” I say as I try to think of a reply. “You could say that," I smile.
Two can play this game.
"Just so you know," he says, pointing and looking straight at my neck, "that freckle is more beautiful than anything I'm seeing on these gingers."
"Nice try, but I don't have freckles."
"You do," he says, stepping closer and brushing his fingers just below my ear. "It's right there."
The second he touches me, a thrill runs down my body. I find myself blushing against my will.
How did he notice that freckle? I completely forgot about it. It's such a small detail…but I have to admit, he's right. I do have a small freckle on my neck. It's there all right, and always has been.
I look him up and down for a moment. If I'm being honest, there's something hot about Blake.
Sure, he's a great looking guy—built and charming, with piercing eyes, the intensity of a blowtorch. But there's also a poetic confidence about him that is unusual. He seems to view the world through the lens of art—looking through color, symmetry, and shape—and he isn't apologetic about it. I can respect that.
But…and this is a serious but—he has some major personality flaws.
He's arrogant, and probably goes through women faster than he changes outfits.
And I'm not about to get played by another man again—not after Dale. And something tells me that getting involved with Blake is like holding a match to a gas tank.
Total chaos and drama.
Robin walks ahead us, scrutinizing the walls of photos, and Blake takes the opportunity to walk beside me.
"I have a question and need a woman's advice," he says, changing the subject.
"Sure," I say, shrugging my shoulders.
"Let's say—hypothetically speaking—I see an attractive woman," he says. "Do I approach her, or is that too direct?"
"Why are you asking me?" I say. "I'm the last person you should ask."
"Humor me, will you?"
"Fine," I say. "I think you should approach her. Honesty is the best policy."
With that, Blake's lips turn up into a smile.
"I'm glad you said that. Because in that case," he says, stopping and turning to me. "I'm Blake. It's nice to meet you."
He reaches his hand out to mine and shakes it.
I laugh. "Does that work on women?"
He ignores my question and gives me one of his own.
"Have you ever considered modeling?" he says.
"Me? You're joking, right?"
"Serious as a heart attack."
"No," I say, shaking my head. "That's not what I do."
"I think you should model for me."
I can't help but laugh out loud.
"You have the wrong girl," I say. "I'm not the type to give you a private show in your apartment, romping around naked for your sole pleasure."
"Not so fast," he says, resting a hand on my arm. "That's not what I mean. I'm a painter, and I'm looking for a new model to paint. Fresh inspiration, if you will."
I shake my head. "Of course you are," I say, laughing. "And I'm a secret princess. Nice try, but I call bullshit. I'm not buying it."
"You seriously don't believe me, do you?"
I shake my head and then watch as he pulls out his phone.
"Here," he says. "I'll prove it to you."
He scrolls through his phone, bringing up various websites that have done interviews with him—the Huffington Post art column, Juxtapose magazine, and more. The list is impressive. Then he brings up his Instagram profile.
"And this is some of my work," he says, scrolling through pictures of his art."
"I had no idea," I say, feeling slightly embarrassed. It's bad enough I'd never heard of him before, and according to his Instagram account, he has close to 750k followers, but I just called him a liar.
"So what do you say? Want to model for me?"
"Even though you're an artist and Instagram-famous, I'm still not interested in posing for you," I say.
"Come on," he says, smiling. "I don't bite."
Instead of answering, I just shake my head.
"I have an idea," he says. "How about you come to my apartment and look at my work."
Just then, Robin walks over to us. She's apparently been eavesdropping because she says, "You should totally go Katherine! This could inspire your writing."
"I don't know, I–"
But before I can finish, Robin cuts me off. "Oh wow, look at the time," she says, pulling her cell phone from her purse. "I've gotta go. I uh �
�� I have some plans this evening," she says, in a tone that's not totally convincing.
I watch as she gives me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and leaves the gallery. I watch her until I can't see her anymore.
Now that she's gone, it hits me. I realize that I'm standing here, alone with Instagram-famous-superstar-artist Blake.
And he's wearing a grin wider than Texas.
Katherine
Agreeing to come to the gallery is one thing, but actually making my way there is proving a point. I’m not going to become another Blake statistic.
That’s right, after I met him I did a little digging on him…Blake has a serious reputation (fast cars and women), and he isn’t just Instagram-famous. He’s a heavyweight in the world of art – and he has the bank account and lifestyle to prove it.
But I’m still getting over having my heart broken by that two or three timing prick Dale, and I’m not about to stumble right into the next disastrous relationship. No, thank you.
When Blake asked me to show up at his exhibition, I was getting ready to say ‘no’ when I remembered Robin’s words – this might be the inspiration I need. If it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have come at all.
But I promise – I’m not going to fall for any of the usual one-liners from men like Blake, particularly the ‘please model for me, you inspire me.’
As if.
It might work on the blonde, big busted, cleavage-revealing models Blake seems to be typically photographed with, but not on me. Besides, I have to focus on getting my creative juices flowing and to write my next bestseller.
The unfortunate reminder of my unfinished work unleashes thousands of butterflies in my stomach and little beads of sweat form in the palm of my hands.
“Someone got dressed up,” a familiar voice from behind interrupts my thoughts.
I pivot and smile at my friend, hoping I haven’t turned red like a tomato.
“Just because I’m not interested doesn’t mean I can’t look my best.”’ I defend myself, pleased to push thoughts of current failings aside.
To feel good you should look good, I’ve read somewhere.
“What are you not interested in?”
Blake has materialized next to me. He’s so close to me that I can’t help but be acutely aware of his maleness. Broad shoulders, rugged features, a partly open shirt to reveal a body honed to the point of perfection, and well-fitting pants. Despite my best endeavors, my eyes take in the full package and betray me.
