Her eyes sparkled with eagerness, and I knew she wasn’t faking it. She was sincerely looking forward to this. And so was I.
“You’ll probably be one of the few who isn’t there for the cheap sparkling wine and free canapés,” I said, in a quietly amused tone.
She laughed, a pleasant husky alto.
“You’ve obviously been to a few gallery openings before.”
I grinned back. “Yes, you could say that. Do you paint, Laura?”
“Sadly, no. My talents don’t run in that direction. I’m very jealous of anyone who is creative.”
“I know what you mean.”
I glanced at her now empty glass. More alcohol would help her relax.
“Would you like to have another drink here, or should we go on to the gallery?”
She checked her watch.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go.” She looked up. “I hope you aren’t going to be bored this evening.”
“Not even possible, Laura.”
And although it sounded like a line, it was true. Her description of the gallery had piqued my interest. Besides, she was attractive in an understated way, and had obviously looked after herself. She hadn’t had any work done on her face either, and no Botox that I could detect. Smile lines radiated out from her eyes, and her eyebrows were expressive as she talked.
A lot of my clients were like her—women in their forties who were divorced and not yet ready for anything serious. Some just wanted male companionship without navigating the LA dating scene.
Laura seemed to be pleasant company and I liked the way her eyes glowed as she talked about the artwork we’d be seeing—it made a nice change. I’d been to dozens of art exhibits with clients and most were there for the socializing. I just hoped that I didn’t get lost in the art and forget where I was. I was paid to be attentive, not to enjoy myself. I could have strangled Eloise for making it harder than it needed to be.
Stifling my irritation, I stood up and offered Laura my hand. She took it a little shyly and let it go as soon as she was standing.
“Would you like me to drive, if you don’t mind a convertible, or we could take your car?”
“Would you mind driving? I need to re-familiarize myself with the roads around here first.”
“Of course.”
I handed my ticket to the parking valet, and while we waited I asked some general questions.
“You’ve been to LA before?”
“I grew up in Hermosa Beach, but I haven’t lived here since I was 18. Not full time, anyway. I’ve missed the ocean. What about you, Hallen?”
“Yes, I love living near the ocean.”
“I meant, where are you from? Are you a California native?”
Avoid personal questions.
“I think most people in this town are blow-ins.”
She wasn’t going to get to hear my life story.
“Are you an actor?”
Only in one way.
“No, that’s not something that appealed. I heard you have to be able to act.”
She laughed. “I’m not sure that’s always true.”
My car arrived and I opened the passenger door for her, enjoying the way her skirt slid up her thighs as she scooted down into the low seat. What I liked the most was that she seemed embarrassed and immediately tugged at the hem.
I passed the valet a couple of bills, pulled my Ray Bans from behind the sun visor, then we headed out.
“What sort of car is this, Hallen? I’ve never seen one like it before. It looks like it belongs on a movie set—a European art house movie!”
I threw her a quick grin.
“It’s an MG Roadster. British made. This model is 1966 and ... sorry. Too much information.”
She smiled. “I don’t know much about cars and have no opinion of style where they’re concerned—or so I’m told—but this one has character.”
“Laura, you are clearly a woman of taste and discernment.”
She laughed and raised her eyebrows. “Very smooth, Hallen.”
“I mean it. Not everyone appreciates a cranky ole beast like this: manual choke, no power steering, no ABS. But she’s a lot of fun to drive.” I glanced over at her again. “Would you like to listen to some music?”
“No, I’m fine. Oh, but if you prefer…?”
“I’m fine, too.”
There was a brief pause when I thought she might say something else, but didn’t. I got the impression that she wasn’t used to expressing a preference or to have that preference listened to.
To keep her talking, I asked her more about the kind of art she liked, and we were soon having a discussion about whether Romanticism or Impressionism was more influential in the development of abstract art in the nineteenth century. I’d never met anyone outside of my college classes who’d been able to talk about that with me—or wanted to.
I found myself nodding in agreement and smiling at her as our debate swept away some of the awkwardness she seemed to feel in my company.
I liked how relaxed I felt around her, almost like being with a friend rather than a client. I didn’t need to put on as much of an act—it was more natural.
Her responses were informed and witty and she made me laugh. I hadn’t enjoyed a date this much in a while. A very long while. Tonight was going to be an easy two grand. I just had to remember that it was a job. The reminder was a thin blanket over my good mood, and I saw Laura throw me a look as my smile stuttered. Tonight was not the time to blur the boundaries: this was work.
Fucking work.
The gallery was already busy when we arrived.
Expensive foreign makes mixed with old beaters, as the wealthy and well dressed mixed with students and art lovers who could never afford the price of an original oil.
There was no valet parking, so I found a spot half a block down and parked.
Laura patted her windswept hair and quickly pulled a comb from her purse.
“Sorry, Laura, no vanity mirror with this car. Told you it was cranky.”
She gave a small, uneasy laugh, then rooted through her purse for a compact, awkwardly combing her hair in the tiny mirror.
“I look a mess,” she said softly, and I heard real distress in her voice.
“No, you don’t—windswept and sun-kissed, but you look lovely.”
“Please don’t say things like that.”
“You don’t like compliments?”
“Not when they’re false ones.”
“Laura, I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You look lovely.”
Her cheeks flooded with a light pink and she looked at her fingers. “Can we go in now?”
“Of course.”
I jumped out of the car and walked around to the passenger door to help her out. She was so low down, I had to give her a small tug, and she stumbled into my arms, one palm slapping against my chest. Her cheeks deepened in color and she stammered an apology.
I had to bite back a comment about her throwing herself at me, but she was already embarrassed almost beyond words.
“Ah, you’ve found the downside to my car,” I said, lightly. “It’s as awkward as all heck to climb out of.”
She smiled gratefully, but couldn’t quite meet my eyes.
People of all ages spilled onto the wide patio beyond the gallery’s plate glass window, corralled by a silk rope—the kind you saw at movie premieres to keep the great and the good from having to experience the cheap seats.
I slid my hand to the small of her back as I escorted Laura toward the gallery, a discreet move that was neither too familiar nor too reserved. She didn’t try to close the small distance between us, so I respected her boundaries.
I liked the way she walked, graceful, serene, hiding her anxiety with a smile that wanted to be confident. Whoever her ex-husband had been, he’d done a number on her self-esteem. I saw that a lot in my line of work; I didn’t like seeing that look on Laura’s face.
<
br /> We were met at the door by a woman with dyed black hair who smiled warmly and passed us each a miniature catalogue with details of the exhibitions. “It’s a free bar,” she assured us. “Enjoy!”
The gallery was so packed it was hard to move.
“Do you want to try and find your friend?”
Laura looked around helplessly.
“Maybe later when there are fewer people,” she said, seeming uncomfortable with the press of the crowd.
“Would you like a drink? Another white wine?”
She nodded quickly.
“Okay. Will you wait here? Otherwise I’ll lose you in this madhouse.” She looked up at me nervously.
“I won’t be long,” I reassured her. “Or you could come with me?”
She nodded quickly, and without asking permission, I took her hand, feeling her cling to me as I pushed my way through the crowd.
At the bar, I collected two glasses of wine and passed one to Laura. She looked at the glass suspiciously.
“A free bar?”
We exchanged a glance and laughed at the same time, clinking glasses.
“Cheers!” she said.
“Skål!”
We were both surprised: the wine was considerably better than the cheap stuff usually provided at openings.
She smiled again, her eyes lighting with pleasure.
She really was a beautiful woman. I don’t think anyone had told her that in a long time. I almost said something, but she was still very reserved and another compliment would most likely make her uncomfortable.
Her eyes dropped to the brochure, and I suspected my presence alone was making her nervous. I slipped my catalogue into my pocket, pretending I’d mislaid it.
“Tell me what we’re going to be looking at,” I suggested.
She scanned through the reams of text, pulling out prescient points. There were three artists showing tonight. One was a cubist working in textiles and not really of interest to me, the other two were both good and we spent an enjoyable half-hour discussing compositions and the use of color. And then I heard someone call my name.
“Hallen! It is you! I was confused because I’ve never seen you in a suit before.”
I recognized her immediately. Her name was Susie and she worked at the art store I used. I’d been going there since I was a student and they supplied my oils and canvases. She always flirted with me and teased me about taking her for a coffee after work. It had never happened and never would, not that she knew that.
I wasn’t happy about my private life colliding with my escort work, but there was nothing I could do about it.
“Hey, Susie. How are you?”
She leaned in and kissed my cheek even as I’d been poised to shake hands with her. I could tell she’d been drinking, although she was a long way from drunk.
“This is my friend Laura,” I said, pulling away from Susie slightly.
The women shook hands, measuring each other up, but not aggressively so, thank God.
“So, how’ve you been, Hallen? I haven’t seen you in a while, but I left a message on your phone. We got in those Winton hog bristle brushes that you ordered. I thought you must have been out of town.”
“No, I was just taking a few days off. I haven’t checked my messages. I’ll come over soon.”
“And buy me that coffee?”
“You never know.”
I was aware that Laura was gazing at me curiously, so I was glad when someone else came over and started talking to Susie, allowing me to steer Laura away, refocus, and remind myself that I was working.
“Are you an artist, Hallen?” Laura asked immediately.
“Not really. It’s a hobby, that’s all.”
“I should have guessed that you painted. Your comments on the artwork were very intuitive. Have you exhibited anywhere?”
“No, and I don’t think that’s likely to happen.”
“I’d love to see them some time.”
“I doubt they’ll ever see the light of day, Laura. Let me refresh your glass.”
The seven minutes it took me to get her another drink and a mineral water for myself helped me to get my head back in the game. Laura was also smart enough to realize that she wasn’t going to get an invite to see my work any time soon because she didn’t try to restart that conversation. I was grateful. Tonight was becoming more complicated than I’d expected.
But Laura was easy to talk to and good company so I began to relax again. I was completely blindsided by what came next.
“Laura, darling, you came. How marvelous to see you!”
A woman in her fifties with a strong East European accent came sweeping toward us.
“Magda!”
They hugged each other warmly.
“How do you like my new enterprise?”
“Oh, it’s such a wonderful space. I was just saying so to my friend, Hallen. He’s an artist, too,” she said, a sly smile lifting the corners of her lips. “He was taken with the ethnically diverse influences in the Christine Schwimmers, saying that he found them particularly intense.”
“Indeed?” she said, sweeping her eyes up and down me. “How perspicacious. What is your style?”
“He’s being shy,” said Laura, with a teasing expression on her face. “Perhaps you can persuade him to let people see his work.”
Irritation made me curt.
“Ladies, you’re too kind. But I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
And I turned the conversation to the present artwork. Laura frowned slightly, but Magda didn’t seem to notice.
“Would you agree, Hallen,” Magda said provocatively, two drinks later, “creative people are naturally deviant and with low self esteem? It’s that lack of skin that causes them to create—to explain their view of the world, their warped view.”
I’d never thought about it like that. The part about lacking a thick skin—that was true. I knew that if I ever tried to show my art professionally, I’d be waiting for someone to point a finger and say, ‘he’s not a real artist—let’s expose him as a fraud.’ But deviant?
Only if you considered my lifestyle. In which case, hell yeah!
Laura just laughed off the question without answering. Perversely, I’d have loved to hear her view.
Magda invited us to join her and some friends for drinks after the preview; I wasn’t sure what Laura wanted, so I waited for her cue.
“No, but thank you,” she said. “I think I just want to go back to my hotel room and collapse. It’s been a hectic few days.”
“Of course,” said Magda, her eyes flickering toward me again.
I could tell she was desperate to find out more about our relationship, but Laura simply smiled and gave her apologies as we left.
We drove back in companionable silence, but as we neared the hotel she hadn’t made it clear whether or not she would be inviting me to her room. She was hard to read. I was pretty tired myself, having stayed up the previous night painting, as well as going for a long beach run, but Laura still had an hour on the clock.
“Would you like to come in for a nightcap?” she suggested, at last.
“Yes, thank you. That would be great.”
The same valet parked my car while I escorted Laura inside. I was surprised that she took a seat in the hotel bar rather than going up to her room. I didn’t mind though; I’d learned that it’s easier to negotiate additional services on neutral territory.
We both ordered brandy and settled into a small alcove toward the back of the room.
“I’ve enjoyed tonight, Hallen,” she smiled warmly, the most relaxed I’d seen her all evening. “It’s been such a pleasure talking about art and artists. My ex-husband had little interest in anything outside of his business, except…” She halted whatever she’d been about to say and stared into her glass. I could see that she was making a deliberate effort to shake off the dark shadow of a memory.
She sighed. “It was a real bonus to find out that you’re an artist.”<
br />
I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t say that.”
She laughed lightly. “Oh, please! Only a serious artist uses hog bristle brushes.”
“Well, like I said, it’s just a hobby.”
She inclined her head to one side as if she didn’t quite believe me. I decided to move the evening along.
“What do you do for fun, Laura?”
She blinked a couple of times.
“I have many interests. Music, Art, as you know…”
I leaned back in my chair. She didn’t want sex. I was surprised that I felt a flicker of disappointment.
We chatted for a while longer, and then I glanced at my watch. Time’s up.
“Well, I’d better let you go get some rest. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Laura.”
I stood, then leaned down to kiss her cheek.
“You too, Hallen. Perhaps next time I’m in town we could visit another gallery?”
My smile was almost genuine. “I’d like that.”
As I waited for my car, I felt oddly disconnected and dissatisfied. Having sex with Laura would have been a good de-stresser, but now I felt wound up, an edge of irritation making me impatient.
For the first time in years, I began to work out how many dates I’d have to do just to be able to buy food and pay bills. I calculated that if I cut back on the clothes budget and wine budget, maybe just one date a month would be enough if I used my savings to pay off my mortgage in full. Although that plan also depended on Eloise’s agreement.
I knew that she had another dozen or so escorts on her books, but our relationship was closer than employer and employee. I’d been her first, and we’d learned the business together. More than that, we’d become friends.
As I drove home, I tried to remember exactly what I had left on my mortgage. I knew it wasn’t much—less than $20,000. I could probably pay it off now, although that would leave my checking account a little too close to zero for comfort—not forgetting the tax deductions I’d be missing out on.
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