by Annie Jocoby
But, it was just as well, as I had to be at my bartending job that evening anyhow. It wouldn’t be good to lose my only steady source of income, which might have happened if I didn’t show up for my shift. Something told me that missing a shift because I wanted to follow a pretty girl into a bar probably wouldn’t go over so well with my own bosses.
And, of course, the Uptown meeting went nowhere, as the meetings with these rich bastards often do. They loved my work. They would be in touch. Yeah, right. In touch. Whatever.
I sketched the girl’s face with my pencil lightly, and then brought out my colored pencils and rapidly filled the rest of it in. In a half-hour, I had a good likeness of her face. I sat back and smiled, and felt the melting of the rest of the stress that I had felt when I came home and saw that my apartment was robbed.
It was really a masterpiece, I thought, so I decided to add it to my portfolio. I had yet another meeting the next day with yet another rich bastard, and maybe this sketch would help me get the job.
Chapter Four
I woke up with a start and glanced at my clock. I had fallen asleep on the couch the previous night, still dressed in my jeans and t-shirt. I had just a few too many hits, to be perfectly honest, which would be why I had forgotten to set my alarm.
Oh, fuck. I had forgotten to set my alarm! I frantically looked at the clock, and saw that it read 7 AM. 7 AM. My meeting with Nottingham Industries was set for 8. One hour. One hour to somehow make it from my Brooklyn apartment to the headquarters for Nottingham Industries in lower Manhattan.
I rushed off the couch, and looked in the mirror. My hair was pretty much askew and I had a definite 5 o’clock shadow. But it couldn’t be helped. I had no time to shower or change or anything else. I had to get the bus, and then get the subway, and then somehow, someway, make it to the Nottingham headquarters. All in under an hour.
So, I picked up my portfolio, dashed out the door, and then literally ran after the bus, as it was pulling off the stop right when I got on the street. I frantically ran it down, and it pulled over for me, thank god. That was unusual. Bus drivers don’t usually do that. But this one did, so I would forever think of this bus driver, one James Mancini, according to his name tag, as being my savior. Forget Jesus. When had Jesus ever stopped a bus for me between stops?
My heart racing, I swiped my card. “Thanks so much,” I said.
“Not a problem,” said the bus driver, although I knew differently. It really was a problem for the bus to come to a stop right in the middle of the street.
I took my seat and put on my ear buds. I tried not to silently curse my own stupidity and lack of organization, but my mind kept returning to these very themes. Sometimes I amazed even myself with my endless capacity for self-destruction. I really needed to take this opportunity more seriously, along with any other opportunities that might crop up. After all, it could mean that I could eat something other than Kraft Macaroni and Cheese that month.
I guessed that I really didn’t take it seriously because it probably would go nowhere. It was exceedingly difficult to get commissioned work. Almost as difficult as it was to get a decent showing. I was starting to realize one thing – and that was that the image of the starving artist wasn’t as romantic and glamorous as it is portrayed to be. It really sucked donkey balls to be absolutely honest.
I finally got to the subway station, and hurriedly bought my pass and got on. I arrived at the Nottingham Headquarters with very little time to spare, but at least I wasn’t late. I looked like crap, and I hadn’t showered or shaved, but I was there. I suppose that was all that mattered.
I took the elevator to the 75th Floor of the gleaming building. I arrived at the suite and announced my name to the bored-looking receptionist. She nodded her head and got on her phone and indicated that I should take a seat. Which I did.
I inhaled deeply, and took in the unmistakable smell of jasmine. I supposed that this was meant to be relaxing. If so, it wasn’t working, because I was just as anxious as ever.
Of course, they kept me waiting. Cooling my jets on their white leather couch. Rich bastards were all the same, really. They were just sooo important, too important to ever try to actually be on time. But god forbid you were even a few minutes late. God forbid. They held all the power, and they knew it.
Finally, after I kicked myself repeatedly for busting my ass to be there right on time, and thinking that I should have taken a few minutes to comb my hair and shower after all, the receptionist addressed me.
“Mr. Roberts,” she said. “Mr. Nottingham will see you now.”
I glanced at my watch. 8:45. Bastard was 45 minutes late. Well, okay, just as well. Let’s get this over with.
The receptionist lady, who was wearing a too-tight pencil skirt and red cardigan sweater, combined with fuck-me pumps, led the way to the enormous conference room. At the end of the table was the rich bastard in question. Black slicked hair, cold blue eyes, impeccably dressed. I supposed that he was one of those guys who had his shoes shined to a glass-like sheen every morning. He had a personal tailor, no doubt, and he probably never, ever left the house without making sure that every hair was in place.
I self-consciously touched my own hair, wanting it to lay down a little bit. I reached my hand over to the guy in an effort to shake his hand, but he literally waved me away.
Well, this meeting is starting off swimmingly. I sat down, and he gestured to me to give him my portfolio. I passed it to him, and he opened it up without a word.
I silently watched him flipping through the portfolio, his expression inscrutable. I could only assume that he was feeling somewhat less-than-impressed. To say the very least. I tapped my fingers on the table and stared out the window. Cursed what seemed to be yet another trip into the city for nothing. I could have just stayed home and strummed my guitar and finished the song that I was writing. Or got caught up on some badly-needed sleep. Or gotten baked, although I was really trying to cut back on that aspect of my life at least a little bit, as I didn’t want to become a wake and baker like some of my buddies.
He rapidly went through most of my paintings and sketches, boredom evident in his eyes. But, then, he stopped. And stared. I cocked my head, trying to see what masterpiece had caught his eye, but I couldn’t see what it was. All that I knew was that he suddenly had stopped flipping rapidly through the pages and had settled upon something. His expression had changed from one of insouciance and ennui to one of actually being interested.
Finally, he shut the book and looked at me. “Mr. Roberts,” he said, “I would like to commission a project for me.”
I looked at him, startled. I wondered if I had heard him correctly. I tried to hide my inner excitement at this sudden change of fate. “Tell me about the project that you’re interested in.”
He pointed to the page that he was apparently staring at earlier, and motioned me to look at the painting to which he was referring. “This girl,” he said. “You captured her beautifully. Her very essence. Her sensuality. Her vulnerability. Her radiance. I want you to paint her nude. I’ll pay you $10,000 to do so.”
Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. $10,000? Was I hearing him correctly? And just because I happened to sketch the beautiful red-head on the bus? I pretended to be cool about it, though, even though my insides were doing cartwheels. So, I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s a little bit below my going rate.” That was bullshit, of course. My going rate was pretty much whatever they would be willing to pay me. This guy could tell me that he would pay me $50 to paint her, and I would have taken that job. I was kinda a whore that way.
He shut the book. “Okay, then, Mr. Roberts, I’ll find somebody else to complete this project.”
Oops. I overplayed my hand in my utter excitement, which was caused by my finally getting a bite. “Well, I’ll make the exception for you, of course.”
He raised an eyebrow and stared at me. Just….stared. He put one of his fingers up to his cheek and continued to stare at me. I had to admit that I was
feeling pretty intimidated right about then, but I managed to stare at him right back. No way did I want him to see what was really going on underneath the surface. Please, oh please, let me do this project. I was a dumb-ass for trying to shake you down for more, but, come on, you seemed so anxious to get this project up off the ground, so I just thought that you would pay any amount. God knows you can afford it.
I realized that I was holding my breath, and that he was still wordlessly staring at me. Finally, he pushed the book over to me. “Okay. My secretary will send over a contract. You can start tomorrow.”
I felt like pumping my fist in the air. Oh my god. I’m going to make more money off of this one project than I made all last year on my art. I might even be able to quit the bar, although that was unlikely. One project does not a career make. I had to remind myself of this.
“Cool,” I said. “Are you going to contact the subject, or should I?”
“I will,” he said. “I’ll send her over to your art studio in the morning. You do have an art studio?”
I nodded my head. Of course I did. Such as it was. It really was an abandoned warehouse where I believe that I had obtained squatting rights. I really never used it, though, as I couldn’t ever afford to actually hire models to paint. Until now, that is. Really, I should have taken some of that $10,000 and invested in a better studio to paint this woman, but there wasn’t time to do all that before the project would have begun. And, it didn’t seem that any of that money would be provided to me in advance. I didn’t ask, but I would imagine that to be the case. So, she was just going to have to meet me in the abandoned warehouse. Thank god I was able to actually supply a generator so that there was some kind of electricity flowing through.
He was staring at me again. Really, he was a fucking weirdo, the way that he was staring all the time. But I soon realized that he wanted information, and that staring was his way of conveying this. Lucky me, I caught on quickly.
“Oh, you want the address to my studio, don’t you?” I asked him.
“Yes. Please supply this.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling foolishly underprepared. “Could you get your secretary in here to write it down? I forgot to bring a pen and paper.”
He sighed, and pushed his finger on the button of the phone. “Amelia, could you please come in here. And bring a pen and paper.”
He hung up and stared at me some more. This time, I didn’t try to stare back. I was sick and tired of him intimidating me in such a way.
Amelia appeared at the door, pen and paper in hand. Blake said nothing to her, but, rather, communicated with a silent gesture in my direction. She understood, for she approached me and gave me the materials that she had brought in. “Here, Mr. Roberts,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, and then scribbled the address on there. She gave him the piece of paper, and he nodded.
“I will send Ms. Gallagher this address with instructions to meet you tomorrow morning at 8,” he said.
“Cool,” I said.
“Do not be late,” he warned me. “She’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” I said, rising from my chair. “Well, peace out. I guess I’ll be seeing Ms. Gallagher tomorrow. By the way, what is her first name?”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Dalilah. I have to confess that I’m surprised that you don’t know this.”
“Well, I mean, I don’t know her. I just happened to be behind her on the bus yesterday. She stuck out in my mind.”
He blinked his eyes and said nothing.
“Okay, well, then, I guess that I’ll be going,” I said. “Uh, thanks for this opportunity.”
He nodded and said nothing. And then he put his head down and started writing something. Something that I would imagine was completely unrelated to what we had just spoken about. I shrugged my shoulders and went out the door.
I couldn’t stop smiling, though, as I got the elevator and rode it down to the ground floor. I couldn’t believe my good fortune in getting this commission. It was crazy how much I couldn’t believe that I had lucked into this job.
I couldn’t wait to get started.
Chapter Five
Dalilah
The bartender came around, wiping the bar area in front of me. He noticed that I was dry. “You need another one, Dalilah?”
I looked at my now empty glass, and brought it to my lips. I crunched on the ice, and pushed the glass to him. “Sure, bring it on,” I said. I looked at my watch, thinking that I was going to have to blow off Seth again. Why he put up with my crap, I really didn’t know. It was so obvious to myself that I really didn’t care about him, any more than I did in high school, when he was all about getting me to go out with him just once. Sometimes I wondered why I had even started dating him, if you could call it that. It was just something that I had fallen into when I just happened to run into him when I was at the Met one day.
Looking back, I realized that it was a particularly lonely time for me. I had just moved out of Nick and Scotty’s home, which they allowed me to do when I turned 18, and Alaina was not yet in the city. She hadn’t started school at that time. So, I kinda knew nobody, and running into Seth was somewhat comforting. He and I ended up having lunch, and then ended up in bed about two hours later, and it was all very…nice. That was really all that I could say about that. It was nice. After all, he really was a handsome guy, with his full lips, hazel eyes, long dark eyelashes, thick sandy hair and rock-hard body. He was the kind who made every girl swoon, always. Every girl but myself.
Of course, it meant much more to him than it did to me. He told me as much as I laid around in his bed that day, not really wanting to return back to my empty apartment. “I knew that you would come around, Dalilah,” he had said. “I thought it would have happened a lot sooner than this, though.”
I said nothing, not really wanting to tell him that I hadn’t, in fact, come around. I didn’t want to burst his bubble. Which was probably much of the reason why I continued to see him. That, and the fact that he sometimes supplied me with groceries when I got low. I never could hide my ennui, though, with him, and I felt a little bit badly because of this.
I went outside the bar, nodding to Tom, the bartender, “watch my drink for me, okay?” I said. “I have to make a phone call.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “Hurry back.”
I got outside the building, and dialed Seth’s number. He picked up on the second ring. “Dalilah,” he said.
“Hi,” I said. “Hey, I need a rain check for tonight.”
He was silent on the other end. “Okay. Whatever.” He was obviously annoyed, for he didn’t bother to ask me why I needed said rain check.
“Yes,” I said. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Okay,” I said, simply. Then I hung up the phone. I couldn’t be bothered to care about poor Seth. All I knew was that there was a glass of whiskey that was waiting for me at the bar.
∞
I got home that night and was greeted by a most unpleasant surprise, considering my inebriated state. My father was sitting in my living room, waiting for me to come home.
Oh, crap. He was the last person that I wanted to see right at that moment. He had his arms crossed. He obviously wasn’t pleased with me.
“Dad,” I said. He was blurry, not in focus. My stomach started rumbling, and I, once again, had to stop myself from vomiting.
“Dalilah,” he said, his voice stern. “You need to have a seat.”
It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps there was something wrong. Maybe something had happened to my mom. But, no, it wasn’t that, because my mom soon appeared in the living room as well. She, too, looked like she wanted to kick my ass.
“Mom,” I said, my heart sinking. This wasn’t looking good. “How are you?”
“Dalilah Rose Gallagher,” she said, and I knew I was in serious trouble. Whenever mom used all three of my names, it meant that shit was about
to go down. “You-“
My dad made a motion to her to be quiet. Then he turned to look at me. “Dalilah,” he said. “We’ve been hearing disturbing reports about your lifestyle out here.”
“Reports?” I said, feeling a bit panicked. “From who?”
“Nick,” he said.
“Nick. How the hell does he know anything about my lifestyle? I haven’t been living with him for two years now.”
He was quiet. Then it occurred to me that Nick probably had some kind of plant in the bar that I frequented. It would be just like my dad and Nick to be sneaky like that. God knew that they both were involved in any number of sneaky things over the years. Not to mention the fact that my father was a serious drug addict when he was my age. As far as I was concerned, he, especially, had zero moral authority to tell me anything. Nick, too. Before he met Scotty, he slept around way more than I could have ever dreamed of doing.
Finally, he spoke. “Listen. Your mom and I agreed to let you come out here because we both wanted you to be immersed in the art culture. Art is your passion, and it always has been. That was the main reason why we agreed not to push you to go to college. Well, that and the fact that nobody has ever been able to push you into anything that you don’t want to do. Which is besides the point. But Nick has gotten a report that you have been spotted getting drunk at a bar here in town several times, and that you have left with a stranger each of those times.”
“Oh my god. And what are you going to do? I’m a legal adult. You can’t very well force me to come home with you while I straighten out and learn to fly right.”
“No,” he agreed. “I can’t. But Dalilah, I want you to know that your mom and I have decided that we need to be closer to you. So, I just purchased a house in the Montauk. That will be our new home base.”