by Lila Monroe
I try not to think about how unfair it is. The art world is like this everywhere, all about who you know and which circles you run in and how rich your family is. I don’t have a celebrity neighbor or a trust fund so girls like this will never take me seriously, but hopefully that won’t matter in my final interview. I know I aced those test materials. That “rod thingy” was a 17th century German scepter, not a salon accessory, I have to force myself from saying out loud.
Lydia’s assistant with the clipboard appears as the Armani asshole from earlier exits her office. “Grace Bennett?”
I stand up and enter the room. My hands are sweaty, my throat tight. I sit down in one of the chairs across from Lydia’s glass-topped desk. Unlike the rest of the building, this room is all high-tech and glossy-looking, with only a pair of antique Chinese cloisonné vases as decor.
“Ms. Bennett,” Lydia says, leaning back in her white leather chair. Her perfectly coiffed hair doesn’t move as she looks me up and down. “It says here on your resume that you studied at… Montclair Community College.” She drawls the last two words with clear amusement. “I was unaware that one could receive a fine arts degree from a community college.”
“Not all of them offer the program,” I say, my heart sinking at this immediate obstacle. “I was lucky to find Montclair Community College after I had to drop out of Tufts.”
“You got into Tufts?” She looks surprised.
“I attended for a year on a full scholarship before…a family emergency called me back home.”
Lydia waits for an explanation, but I don’t tell her anything more. Mom getting sick, her death, it still hurts too much to talk about, and soon enough Lydia slides her reading glasses to the tip of her pointed nose and looks at the next paper in her folder. “You did very well on the assessment.”
I let out a breath I’d been holding since entering the auction house. “Oh, that’s so great to hear.” I knew it! “I just love art so much—the Baroque era is my favorite, the movement in the paintings, the energy and life in such dramatic, vivid detail—but any true masterpiece hits me, right here, you know?” I touch my heart. “It’s like a real physical response, and I just want to be around the beauty, the craft, the history of the art you have here.”
Lydia removes her glasses, almost smiles at me. Maybe this isn’t such a long shot after all. “Many of the other applicants also did well,” she says. “Tell me why you deserve this.”
I take another breath. Where do I even begin? “I would work so hard if you give me this opportunity, Ms. Forbes, harder than anyone else. I understand what an opportunity this is, and I don’t take that for granted.” Not like the trust-fund kids outside, I silently add. “Day or night, whatever Carringer’s needs. I want this job, and…honestly, it’s everything I ever wanted. I know I would be really good at it, and if you just let me—”
“Thank you, Miss Bennett,” she says, cutting me off. She stands abruptly, so I stand, too, my skirt sticking to the back of my legs. “That will be all.” She gestures to the door, where I see her assistant has been standing still as a statue during the entire interview. My cheeks burn.
A little flustered, I thank her as I walk across the room. “We’ll be in touch,” Lydia says as I exit and am flung back into the sea of rich kids and their designer duds and college connections, feeling like the biggest fish out of water ever. What just happened?
Chelsea and Angelica still sit in the same place, chatting and laughing. They’re not nervous at all, and I wonder what it must be like to not have to try so hard. To have daddy pull strings for an interview, and have your life served to you on a silver platter. As I walk past, Lydia’s assistant calls a ridiculous name that sounds like “Grandelwile Brandyblerg” and Angelica says, “Oh, he’s supposed to be really good. And his mother is on the Board of Directors here.”
“I’m not worried,” Chelsea says breezily. “You know my dad is one of their biggest clients. My name is already on the paperwork.”
Angelica rolls her eyes. “Why did I even bother?”
Chelsea sees me watching them and smirks. “None of you should have bothered. This whole thing is for appearances.” She looks me up and down and clears her throat loudly. “Speaking of appearances…” Next to her, Angelica giggles.
My heart sinks. Tears begin to burn behind my eyes and I walk away fast, quickening my pace even though my feet are blistered and sore. I have to hope that that spoiled, shiny-haired, smug girl is wrong. That this whole day wasn’t just a formality like she thinks, that I have a chance. Mom, I did my best. I cross my fingers as I head back out into the city streets.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Does Grace land the job of her dreams? And who’s the sexy stranger she spilled her coffee all over? Grace and St Clair’s story continues in THE ART OF STEALING HEARTS.
AVAILABLE SEPTEMBER 30, 2015
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He doesn't even know I exist, but why would he? He jets off to Paris with supermodels, I spend Friday nights with Netflix and a chunk of Pepperidge Farm frozen cake—waiting for his call. Because every time he crashes his yacht, or blows $500k on a single roulette spin in Monte Carlo, I’m the PR girl who has to clean up his mess.
But this time, it’s going to take more than just a fat charity donation. This time, the whole company is on the line. He needs to show investors that he’s settling down, and Step #1 is pretending to date a nice, stable girl until people forget about what happened with the Playboy Bunnies backstage at the Oscars.
My plan is perfect, except for one thing:
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Sexy playboy billionaire Asher Young goes through girlfriends like he goes through bottles of Moët. I would know — he brings them all to get fitted for my luxury lingerie designs. I guess that's one way to avoid awkward conversations when they find another girl’s panties in his Maserati.
Now he has a proposition for me: he’ll invest in my design business, and I’ll finally open the boutique of my dreams. There’s just one problem: I can’t stop kissing him. And he looks REALLY good naked.
Make that two problems….
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Thanks to knowledgeable (and sometimes flirtatious) bartenders in Los Angeles who talked to me for hours about whiskey.
Thanks to Uber for all the rides home.
Thanks so much to all the readers and bloggers who have encouraged me this past year. Writing is isolating work, and your feedback and friendship keep me going.
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