Pretend Daddy

by Lulu Pratt

  “It’s like the ones in Italy, only ten times bigger,” she joked.

  We’d had a running gag between the two of us that all the tables in Rome were bafflingly small, certainly not large enough to hold the mountains of pasta we ordered with every meal.

  I leaned across our present, New York-based table and grasped her hands, my fingers sliding over the metal band she wore, set with a petite but proud ruby that perfectly complimented her brown skin. She was Indian, and had once told me that red was a lucky color for her. Had Radolpho known that, or did he just instinctually gravitate to the authentic Alexandra?

  “So?” she pressed, tucking a strand of her brown bob cut behind her ear, her gold earring dangling as she moved. “How’s New York?”

  “I hardly know, I just got back three days ago.”

  “Have you found an apartment?”

  I nodded. “A friend from NYU set me up with this furnished sublet.”

  “Classic Chloe.”

  That was kinda true. I was one of those girls for whom things just... came together. I got invited to concerts by strangers, I inherited designer clothing from old women who I met in the street. I was lucky, and I knew it.

  “And you?” I asked, changing the subject. “How’s the baby? And Radolpho?”

  “The baby’s very new, but good so far. The doctors say all my tests are perfect. And Radolpho is as handsome and wonderful as ever.”

  She always got this small, dreamy smile when she spoke of him, a smile of secrets I would never understand, no matter how close we were. Though she was my friend, and I wished the absolute world for her, there was an uncomfortable, pulsating jealousy that clenched in my throat whenever I saw how seamlessly the two of them worked together.

  “If only you were pregnant too,” Alexandra said, absently rubbing her belly. “We could be mommies together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “We’d brunch and then go to Lamaze classes.”

  “Exactly!”

  In reality, I wasn’t so sure about kids. I loved spending time around them, especially breathing in that baby smell, but when I tried to picture myself with a child, I came up blank. Or, rather, I saw the image, but it didn’t fit in sequence with the rest of the fantasy I’d composed for myself.

  In addition, I was single and quite happy to remain so for the foreseeable future. I’d known from a very young age that I wanted to travel the world, to trod a path through the great unknown, to taste new things and meet new people and live to the hilt. My mom had been the same way, lusting after adventures in far-flung locales. But she was a single mother, without any financial or emotional support, and had never managed to find the time to plant her flag, so to speak. Her life had been full — I hoped — but even still, I knew that before she passed, she regretted not traveling.

  Thus, I’d resolved to wander the earth for the both of us, carrying the indelible fragments of my mother’s spirit within me, using my eyes to see for hers that were now somewhere in the great beyond. And art was the way to do that.

  “Comino Gallery is the perfect stepping stone for me,” I told Alexandra. “Once I get my foot in the door here, I can network with other museums and galleries around the world, going to fill a gap wherever it’s needed.”

  She agreed. “This job will give you access to all the connections you could dream of. Buyers, dealers, authenticators — it’s the place to be, no doubt. But Chloe?”

  “Yes?”

  “Promise me you won’t get so lost in leaving that you don’t think about the joys of staying put, okay?”

  She pursed her red lips and stared at me, her deep brown eyes searching mine, asking for an answer.

  What did she mean by that? I was just embracing the present, existing on a whim. Settling down was for retirement communities. Alexandra and I had so much in common, but on this, perhaps we were born to differ.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, mostly to placate her. “In the meantime, thank you for letting me take over your position here while you’re on maternity leave. It’s going to be great for me, I can feel it. This is where I start to make a name for myself.”

  “I’m sure you will. You’re the only person I’d ever trust to take over for me.”

  “That means a lot, Alexandra, thank you.”

  “And,” she continued, a blush coloring her cheeks, “I might’ve talked you up just a little bit to the director.”

  “Oh no.”

  Alexandra had a penchant for hyperbole. It was endearing when you were listening to her describe with gusto a trip to the Met, but this… well, this was nerve-wracking. What had she told my future interim boss about me? Would I be expected to be the next Gertrude Stein? My palms grew sweaty at the thought of how high the bar had been set without my even knowing it.

  “You’ll be great,” she replied, as if reading my mind. “Don’t panic.”

  She was right, there was no need to worry. Besides, I wasn’t the worrying type. It didn’t go well with my bronzy glow and beachy blonde waves. Whoever this boss was, and whatever expectations Alexandra had set for me, I would rise to the occasion. If that meant working harder and longer than everyone else, so be it. I wasn’t afraid to sweat.

  “I can do it,” I affirmed. “I’m tough.”

  “Tough as hell. You ready to meet the director and start your first post-grad job?”

  I downed the last dregs of my drink. “Lead the way.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Chloe

  I PUT AN arm around Alexandra’s waist as we strolled out of the café and into a hallway filled with natural light. The skylights in the ceiling were cantilevered at such an angle that the marble pillars around us were basked in a dim glow, but none of the Modernist paintings that adorned the walls in the Comino Gallery were in the direct glare. As a preservationist and art restorer, I thought a great deal about how sunlight bleached our most prized treasures. The act of protecting art is just as much a show of love as observing the art.

  “We have a collection that’s just come in,” Alexandra explained as her ivory-colored boots clicked across the floor. “It’s several paintings by Artemisia Gentileschi.”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “Are you serious?”

  Gentileschi was one of my most favorite artists of all time. She painted during the Baroque period, an era which I’d studied extensively in Italy. Not only were her pieces magnificent, she was a trailblazer. She was the first woman ever admitted into the esteemed Accademia di Arte del Disegno, and much of her work was concerned with the realities of women, an aspect of art that her male colleagues never paid much mind. Her use of light and form never failed to bring me to tears. I recalled seeing her painting, St Cecilia Playing a Lute, in the Galleria Spada in Rome and needing to sit down on a bench to collect myself.

  “They’ve been sitting in a private collector’s hold for decades,” Alexandra continued. “I’d doubt they’ve been displayed since, I don’t know, maybe the 1950s.”

  In my book, that was practically a crime against civilization. Private collectors in general got under my skin — they often amassed vast troves of art because it was an easy, untaxed money sink. If you’ve looked in a newspaper recently and thought, Why the hell did that painting just sell for one hundred million dollars? it’s because billionaires have set an artificial inflated price on art. I suppose paintings were more convenient than trying to store an ill-begotten fortune somewhere in the Caymans.

  Anyways, my field has been growing recently as billionaires try to do some much needed press rehab and display their collections to the public. Only problem is, none of them tend to take great care of the art because, say it with me folks, they don’t actually give a fuck about the art! Sorry to get so heated, but these people get under my skin. The amount of knowledge and human achievement kept under lock and key just so some rich people could get richer… it was repulsive.

  But I digress.

  Alexandra, blithely unaware of my steeping fury, said, “There’s one piec
e in particular that will need your attention. There’s staining and fading, as well as some flaking.”

  “That’s normal. Why does it need special attention?”

  “There might be, um, a little, teensy hole in the corner.”

  I sighed. Of course there was a hole, there’s always a hole. It happens more often than you’d think. Rather recently, Steve Wynn — the owner of the Wynn Casino — blindly put his elbow through a Picasso. Billionaires made a mess, and I cleaned up after them.

  Instead of ranting and raving, I merely replied, “Okay, I’ll see what I can do about it. I’m sure we can fix it.”

  “You’d better,” a voice returned. “I’ve heard nothing but endless enthusiasm for your skills, Ms. Bellahooks.”

  I turned around to follow the origin of the voice, and my eyes came to rest upon one of the most frankly unusual looking women I’d ever seen.

  She was around six feet tall and as thin as the frame of a painting. Her skin was almost translucently pale, her neck extended like that of a swan. Her hair was a shock of dyed platinum, cut in nonsensical chops that stuck out at random, her lips dipped in deep purple paint. She wore all black, perhaps a failed attempt to make herself a slightly less visible personage. But I quickly countered that thought in my mind as I spotted her massive jewelry — intertwined ropes of copper that hung from her ears and looped around her neck. She was a blanched peacock of the oddest variety.

  She was also one of the most famous people in the art world.

  “Hello, Mx. Tok,” I replied.

  She remained in place, posed beneath a Legros, arms crossed over her thin rib cage. After a moment, I saw that she wouldn’t approach me, so I crossed the distance between us and stuck out my hand.

  “Pleasure to meet you.”

  She disdained my hand — I’d heard rumors she was a germaphobe — but returned, “Yes, I’m often told it is indeed a pleasure to meet me.”

  I suppose you can’t begrudge famous folks their eccentricities — however many they may have. Mx. Tok was the director of Comino, and renowned for her keen eye, especially her ability to pick out promising young artists and turn them into veritable stars. She used “Mx.,” the gender neutral form of formal address, not because she was non-binary, but because she said ‘Ms.’ and ‘Mrs.’ weren’t powerful enough for her. She was, in a word, both daunting and very, very badass.

  If that meant she had a little bit of an attitude, so be it. I would impress this woman however the hell I could.

  “Alexandra has told me a great deal about you,” Mx. Tok elaborated. “Says you’re going to be one of my new favorites, that you’ll repair the Gentileschi without difficulty.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She raised a bleached eyebrow. “Well, we’ll have to hope your best is rather wonderful. The paintings are coming in just now, would you like to help me supervise the unloading?”

  It was phrased like a question, but most certainly was not one.

  “Of course.”

  Without so much as a ‘thank you,’ Mx. Tok turned around. “Follow me.”

  It looked like my new job had already begun.

  Alexandra shot me a look of resignation, and we fell in step with Mx. Tok. The woman was infamous for her attitude, but I suppose deep down I’d thought some of that to just be art world fluff and filter. The people you hear whispered about the most are often the sanest, while those who fly under the radar have quirks that would set you back on your heels.

  Mx. Tok led us to the unloading dock of the gallery, a spacious concrete space that held dollies, bubble wrap and the like. There were a few workers floating around in coveralls and beanies, probably art school grads taking a year off before doing their masters.

  “You can start the unload.”

  The workers nodded and began complexly signaling a truck, a series of orchestrations that was as fluid as it was industrial. This would make an excellent performance piece, I thought to myself.

  In a few minutes, the workers pulled out the first painting. My heart pounded as three men swarmed around the piece, balancing it with finesse to ensure that it never so much as jostled. What lay beneath that swaddling?

  Mx. Tok was the conductor of the affair, leading it with a general’s rigor. Much as I might disdain her airs, I had to admit she was great at her job. These paintings were in safe hands.

  The workers laid the paintings, one after another, on a series of surfaces. I knew from experience that the pieces wouldn’t get unwrapped until a whole restoration team was on standby to document the condition. Alexandra and I were here, but we’d need at least several other folks on board before we could begin to peek beneath the bubble wrap.

  “The collector has just informed me that he’s dropping in to say hello,” Mx. Tok called out from across the loading dock.

  “Okay,” Alexandra replied before turning to me.

  “Who do you think it is?” I asked in a quiet voice.

  Alexandra shrugged. “Either he’s some dynastic douchebag or a new money tech guy. Mx. Tok said he’s nice enough, but never gave me his name, just said it was a collector. She intimated that he was very private. I’m surprised he’s showing up here.”

  “Well, let’s take whatever she said with a grain of salt.”

  Alexandra’s eyes sparkled with concealed laughter.

  Across the space, I heard Mx. Tok say, “Welcome, sir, what a pleasure to see you.”

  I looked away from Alexandra and to the director, expecting to see some middle-aged dude in a flashy suit, or an old baron wearing pinstripes.

  Instead, I saw Xavier.

  Oh. Fuck.

  What the hell was he doing here?!

  I’d never expected to see or hear from him again, and yet somehow, we were in the same room, surrounded by masterpieces and workers.

  Our eyes locked, and his mouth dropped open. He obviously hadn’t expected to encounter me, either. Xavier hadn’t changed a bit. He was still seriously, wildly hot with his tall, willowy frame, deep set eyes, smooth skin and shag of almost-black hair.

  And he was saying my name.

  CHAPTER 3

  Xavier

  “CHLOE?”

  The word left my mouth like a prayer.

  There was no way she was in front of me, more beautiful than ever. I was hallucinating, right? Had the aspirin I’d popped on my private flight back from Los Angeles actually been a psychotropic drug?

  No, no. It was definitely Chloe. Nobody else in the world held themselves with such a potent mixture of ease and sexuality. Her blonde hair tumbled far down her back, nearly grazing her waist. I remembered wrapping my hands in those locks and pulling hard… She’d gotten tan since last I’d seen her, which served only to accentuate her glorious figure. High, tight breasts, an impossibly small waist and legs for days. She belonged on a runway. Instead, she was here with me.

  “Xavier,” she whispered, her pink lips wrapping around my name.

  The rest of the room had stopped to look at our exchange with curiosity and amusement. Fuck. I had to pull myself together before people saw me weak in the knees. Our tone was more appropriate for a bedroom than a business meeting.

  I swallowed hard, then put on the most casual air I could muster and strode across the room to greet her, brushing past the infamous Mx. Tok. Something I reckon didn’t happen to her very often.

  Chloe met me halfway, and we stared at one another for a moment before I forced a smile onto my face.

  “Give me a hug,” I said, trying to keep it as friendly as possible.

  Her chest heaved once, but she obliged, stepping forward so I could fold her into my arms. I breathed in the familiar smell of her hair, unchanged since I’d last seen her. She was still scented like the ocean — salty and faraway. I pressed her just a little too close to me, but only for a moment, before pulling away.

  “It’s nice to see you, Chloe.”

  She let out a blunt laugh, I’m not sure at what. “Yeah, it’s… been a
while.”

  Why were we talking like this, like strangers? I’ve seen you orgasm more times than I can count! I wanted to cry. But I knew that I needed to participate in the charade. At least play-acting in this elaborate game would keep my mind busy, and thus prevent my quivering dick from rising to its full station. Being in Chloe’s presence had that effect on me.

  “What have you been up to?” I asked, as though I didn’t know.

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve just come back from Italy, doing a master’s program in art restoration. You?”

  “Oh, you know. This and that. Seeing the world. Making trouble.”

  Biting her lip, she was about to reply when Mx. Tok interrupted our unexpected rendezvous.

  “Do you two know each other, Mr. Holt?”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. “Yes, we… went to college together.”

  It was a dramatic understatement, but how was I supposed to explain our history?

  “Well,” she continued, “then I’m glad Ms. Bellahooks is here to supervise the unloading. I’m sure you trust her capable hands.”

  Oh, I knew just how capable those hands were. I remembered the ghosts of them, running over my body with a ferocity and fire that I hadn’t been able to find in another woman since. The way she’d pulled me between her legs, the gasps of pleasure from her throat—

  Shit. I needed to concentrate before my mind got too carried away.

  “Let’s get these pieces down to our restoration room,” Mx. Tok was saying, though I wasn’t particularly paying attention.

  There was a renewed frenzy of activity around Chloe and me as the workers swung back into position, Mx. Tok leading the encore. We were the still eye of a hurricane, never looking away from one another, both frozen with the profundity of our reconnection.

  I waited several long seconds for Mx. Tok to beckon Chloe away. Clearly, Chloe was here as an employee of some sort. But for whatever reason — probably because Tok wanted to keep me and my deep pockets happy — she didn’t interrupt us. Good.