by Louise Bay
“I think I’ll keep the whole place open, just in case anyone’s interested in anything else.” I didn’t owe any loyalty to Steve, now did I?
I finished rearranging the paintings and set the handymen to work so I could come back and hang the pictures up when the fixtures were on the wall.
“Right.” I put my hands on my hips. “Can you help me move the tables so there’s more of a flow into the back?” Hell, not only was I not going to block off the back, I was going to encourage people to take a look at the rest of the gallery. Tonight had gone from showcasing Steve to showcasing Grace Astor Fine Art. I was done pushing men forward, wanting them to shine. It had gotten me precisely nowhere. I was going to put myself first from now on.
It was just good business.
“You look great,” Harper said as I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror at the back of the gallery. “Are you ready?”
I was as ready as I ever would be. My red dress fit like a glove and my five-inch nude heels felt like a power source—like I was wearing weapons on my feet.
I checked the time on my phone. Just a few minutes before the exhibition opened. “Yeah, I’m ready. I just hope people come.” When I’d envisaged opening a gallery, I’d focused on being able to showcase up-and-coming talent, influencing consultants to choose certain artists for their clients. I’d thought it would be all about the art. But I’d learned that was only the tip of the iceberg. The business of art—trying to make sure I had enough money to pay the rent, getting all my tax documents filed, organizing cash flow—took up so much time. I’d really not understood that making a profit would have to be my primary focus. Art was simply how I did that.
“Of course they’ll come,” Harper said. “You have an eye for talent.” We strode back into the gallery space. There was a bar set up toward the back of Steve’s paintings and a tray of champagne glasses that had already been poured. “Can you go stand over by the door with that?” I asked one of the waiters. “People should be arriving any minute.”
I hoped.
The bell over the door tinkled. It was Violet, Scarlett’s sister who she’d gone to collect. Okay, so at least when potential customers came, the place wouldn’t be empty. I greeted them and sent them on their way to look at the paintings.
The door chimed again. “Melanie, so nice of you to come,” I said, kissing an old friend of my mother’s on the cheek. She bought a lot of art and liked to say she’d seen new artists when they were still unknown. If I could get her interested in the gallery, then I’d feel like I had some momentum. She knew a whole lot of wealthy people across the world.
“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it.” She glanced around. “This is a great place you have here, darling.”
“Thank you.” I’d finally gotten what I’d been working toward all these years, but women like Melanie would never really know how that felt. She worked by going to charity luncheons and donating money to the needy. It was the work women like her and my mother did. And the kind my father would feel more comfortable with me doing. The idea that his daughter had to concern herself with things like profit and loss distressed him. He wanted me to remain his princess.
“Let me show you this artist’s work,” I said, picking two glasses of champagne off the tray and handing one to Melanie. “I think you’re going to love him.” My stomach lurched. Like it or not, I had to convince buyers he had a gift and launch his career despite what he had done. I had to keep reminding myself I was really selling Grace Astor Fine Art, and Steve’s success was just a by-product.
Luckily for me, over the course of cocktails, people kept arriving. I moved through the throng of people from one person to the next, encouraging enthusiasm for Steve’s work and trying to cement contacts.
It wasn’t until Steve crashed through the door an hour after doors opened that I realized he hadn’t been around. His eyes were glassy, his overly-long brown hair a little greasy. He had his arm insensitively slung around the shoulders of his assistant. Standing at the door, he clearly thought people had been waiting for him and he was expecting to get a round of applause, but no one knew who he was.
It was my job to effusively introduce him to people, and then his job to charm them. But the images of walking into my office and finding him there stopped me from approaching him. My business savvy could make me fake it when I didn’t have to look at him, but I didn’t want to hang out with him.
He caught my eye and moved toward me. I quickly made an excuse to the art dealer I was speaking with and escaped, almost knocking down Nina Grecco—one of the most influential art consultants in the city.
“Nina, I’m Grace Astor,” I said as I held out my hand. She gave me the same tight smile I’d been dishing out all evening as she took my hand. “I’m so pleased you could come.”
I understood the role consultants played. I got that the art world was difficult to navigate and that sometimes people needed an education when they were shopping. But most of Nina’s clients just wanted to know what was going to make them money. They weren’t interested in the art, only the dividends it could pay. Art had been an investment for hundreds of years, but I still hoped that rich romantics were going to fall in love with everything this gallery had to offer. I wanted clients who would have an emotional investment in what they were buying. Art wasn’t stocks or gold bullion—it was far more personal, or at least, it should be.
“Ms. Astor, this is my client, Sam Shaw.” Nina put her hand on the arm of the man standing next to her.
I trailed my eyes up to see a man who was around thirty, with dirty blond hair and deep brown eyes staring back at me. “Mr. Shaw, it’s very nice to meet you.” He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked bored, as if the evening was something to be endured rather than enjoyed.
“Grace, this artist tonight is just on the cusp of breaking out, isn’t he?” Nina asked, while still gazing at Mr. Shaw.
An eye roll nearly escaped me but I managed to rein it in. “That’s right. There’s a real buzz about him at the moment and some very important collectors here tonight.” I slipped into the rhythm I’d developed along the course of the evening. “He’s a very painterly painter who clearly has his roots in abstract expressionism.” Mr. Shaw didn’t meet my eye. He stared at the canvas wearing a confused expression. Nina was wasting her time.
“Gracie,” Steve’s voice boomed out behind me and caught Mr. Shaw’s attention.
I tried not to let the uncomfortableness I felt show. “Let me introduce you to the artist,” I said.
Steve’s arms went around my waist and I squirmed. “Hey, Gracie.”
“Steve, please meet Mr. Shaw and Nina Grecco.” As subtly as I could, I pushed against his chest, trying to break free from his grasp. He ignored me, holding me tightly. “I was just going to tell them about this piece.” I pointed to Nina’s left. “Do you want to give us some more background?” I smiled and caught Mr. Shaw’s eye. He looked between us as if he were trying to figure out what was going on.
Steve began to talk about his inspiration for the collection while I tried to wriggle free from his clutches.
“Ms. Astor, would you please show me around your gallery?” Mr. Shaw asked, interrupting Steve in full flow. I smiled. Intentional or not, I couldn’t have been more grateful for his rescue.
“Do you want me to come?” Nina asked.
“We’ll manage just fine,” Mr. Shaw replied before I said anything. “Lead the way.” Steve released me and I headed to the back of the gallery, Mr. Shaw following.
I stopped as the crowd thinned out and turned to him. “This space at the back has a mixture of artists,” I said, and Mr. Shaw shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded. “What kind of art do you like?” I asked taking an opportunity to look at him more closely. Instead of being able to decide whether or not he was handsome, I was struck by his expression—the way he was looking at me. It was almost the way a person might look at a painting—first to get an overall impression and then more clo
sely at what the painting was trying to say.
Our eyes unlocked as he looked around.
A frown formed on his face. “I have no idea.”
While he was otherwise occupied, I looked at him closely but I couldn’t place him. The wealthy in New York was a pretty small number. Everything from the watch hanging heavily on his wrist to his soft leather shoes told me this guy clearly had money—he was an Upper East Sider. But I’d never met him before. I would have remembered. He was tall, well over Steve’s six feet. Broad shouldered, Mr. Shaw filled out his suit very nicely. The slight curl of his hair in his otherwise perfect façade suggested something a little wild about him. The sound of someone’s deep belly laugh made me realize I was staring at him and I turned away.
Mr. Shaw began to walk farther away from the exhibition, toward my secret space, and I followed him as he poked his head around the wall. “Is this part of it too?” he asked.
“Part of the gallery? Yes. But the work behind the partition doesn’t really fit with the rest of the pieces. I just like them.”
He glanced at me and then turned his attention back to my hidden works. I followed his gaze. “This is a La Touche. An impressionist oil painting. And this”—I pointed at the Degas—“is an original lithograph, signed by Degas, who, as you probably know, was famous for painting ballerinas. He was a contemporary of La Touche.”
“And these?” He nodded to the pair of photographs.
“These are recent and not particularly valuable, but the photographer was homeless for a period of time, and I think you can see it in his work. He takes pictures of New York through the eyes of someone who’s slept on the street. He sees the contrast between the beauty and the harshness this city offers.”
He refocused on me, his eyes narrowing slightly just before he spoke. “And you like them because of his story, or because of the photographs themselves?” he asked.
I thought about it for a moment. “Both.” I shrugged. “The photographs stand on their own—they’re both pretty and gritty at the same time.” I glanced at Mr. Shaw, who was still inspecting me. “But I think knowing the artist’s story adds something to them. He knows this city like most of us don’t and I think you can tell.”
I lifted my head a little, not wanting to be found lacking under his inspection.
Silence pulsed between us. Did he like what he saw?
“As I said, these are kinda passion projects for me. They’re not necessarily meant for people to buy. The rest of the gallery is more contemporary.”
“They’re not for sale?” he asked, his tone a little confused.
“Well, yes they are.” Of course it was great if people liked them, I just didn’t expect people who liked the work in the front of the gallery to like this stuff. “I guess it’s not the main focus of the gallery.”
He looked at me again and it was as if his stares had built up into something more—into something tangible and I had to stifle a shiver.
Something in his non-response was intriguing, almost as if he were keeping something back—maybe there was a little Batman underneath the Wall Street façade.
“You don’t like the rest of the work in the gallery?” he asked, looking over my head. “Just this little section here?”
“Of course I like all the things in the gallery. Steve’s very talented and the pieces back here are all very collectable.” Had I talked myself out of a sale?
“But you’re not passionate about them.” His eyes were on my mouth as he spoke, and I swept my finger over my lips, almost feeling the burn of his gaze.
“It’s not that.” Wasn’t it? He’d summed it up pretty well. “I just need to wear a business hat. Everything can’t be about what I’m passionate about.”
He nodded and I smiled awkwardly. I’d not explained myself very well, but I hadn’t been prepared for the question. I hadn’t really expected anyone to come back here.
Silently, we wandered back toward the edge of the crowd where Nina was waiting for us. When she pulled Mr. Shaw back into the exhibition, I went to find my friends. I needed a five-minute break from the constant smiling and I wanted to be able to breathe again after holding myself so tightly under Mr. Shaw’s inspection. When I reached Scarlett and Harper, they both squeezed me tight and congratulated me. Over Harper’s shoulder, I found Mr. Shaw ignoring the art and looking straight back at me, his stare unrelenting. He wasn’t embarrassed to be caught, but the glance wasn’t flirtatious either. I couldn’t decide if he was trying to communicate something or he was simply still studying me. “Do I have my skirt tucked in my panties or spinach in my teeth or something?” I whispered to Scarlett and Harper.
They both looked me up and down. “No, you look perfect,” Harper said.
“Beautiful,” Scarlett said. “Why?”
I shook my head. “Just, that guy over there is staring and I can’t work out why.”
Harper looked around and found Mr. Shaw in the crowd immediately. “That one?” she asked. “The really tall, hot one who wears a suit almost as well as my man?”
“He’s not that hot,” I said. He was handsome, just not someone I found attractive. Normally.
“He’s extraordinarily hot and it looks like he’s hot for you.”
“He looks angry,” I replied. “And anyway, definitely not my type.” Our exchange had been a little odd—less small talk and more existential.
“That’s for sure,” Harper said. “He looks like he pays his own rent and goes to the barber regularly. You wouldn’t want any of that, would you?” Harper’s and my taste in men were polar opposites—a prerequisite of a friendship that was going to survive teendom into adult-hood. Too many friends had fallen over the hurdle of the same man.
“Different strokes,” I said. I’d always resisted the kind of man my parents wanted for me. Someone safe. A doctor, a lawyer from the right family, someone from the Upper East Side.
I’d never seen the appeal of a suit in the way Harper did. While there was no denying Max King, her husband, was handsome, he just wasn’t my type. I liked a guy I could daydream with, who was spontaneous, someone bohemian who could constantly surprise me. I didn’t want some guy who thought they could buy and sell people just like stocks and bonds—or art.
But Batman? He didn’t seem to fit into either mold. He dressed in a suit, but the questions he asked, the way he looked at me—it was as if he wanted to strip away anything inconsequential and dig deeper, into my soul.
Maybe I’d like to let him.
Chapter Three
Sam
One week since the exhibition at Grace Astor Fine Art and I couldn’t remember a single piece of art that had been featured that night. Grace Astor, however? With her full mouth, curving waist and confused smile? Her I couldn’t seem to forget. My office was in midtown so when I’d finished for the day, I decided to take a walk and pay Grace a visit. The only art I did vaguely remember were the pieces she’d hidden away. I wanted to see them and her again.
The bell above the door dinged as I entered the gallery, seemingly at odds with the modern paintings on the wall. Despite my distaste for the work, the little red stickers below each painting told me the exhibition had been successful.
I had no interest in anything at the front of the gallery, so I strode toward the back to find Ms. Astor’s hidden stash.
“Good afternoon,” a woman called from behind me over the clip of heels. I turned to find Ms. Astor walking briskly toward me wearing a tight blue dress that hit just below the knee and thick, black-rimmed glasses. She was like a fantasy Lois Lane, though something about this woman’s frown, the determined look on her face, told me she was the hero of her story, not the sidekick.
“Ms. Astor,” I said, hoping she’d remember me.
She slowed and surprise replaced her frown. “Mr. Shaw, isn’t it?”
I put out my hand to greet her. “Indeed.” I flashed her a grin. Angie had told me my smile could make a woman’s panties drop from ten yards away. Unfortu
nately, Grace didn’t look impressed, just confused. She took my hand, and I gripped it tightly, holding on a little too long.
“How can I help you?” she asked, as she glanced down to our hands. I released her and she exhaled.
“I came to have another look,” I said, pointing to her hidden collection. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” she replied as we walked toward the back.
“Did the exhibition do well?” I asked, hoping she’d give something away in her response about her relationship with the artist. His hands had been all over her before she’d given me a tour of her gallery.
“Yes, almost everything sold that night or in the following days once the reviews were published.”
I nodded, trying to leave space for her to say something more. Wanting to watch her mouth curl around the words she spoke.
“I have four pieces left if you’d like me to show you?”
“Like I said, not my thing.”
We stood in front of the hidden collection.
“You like your art more classic,” she said as we both stared at the art. It wasn’t a question.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m new to all this.” Ordinarily, I was very careful about what I revealed to people. I’d learned quickly that business and Manhattan were full of bullshitters who didn’t want to be reminded of their own flaws and weaknesses, which meant you couldn’t reveal yours. It was a game—if everyone kept pretending, no one would be found out. As much as I was an outsider, I proficiently played the role of someone who belonged.
“New to what?” Grace asked.
“Art,” I replied. “I’m not sure what I like.”
“But you like these?” She nodded her head toward the paintings we were looking at.
I nodded. “I guess.” I was drawn in by their intimacy and mystery, but I had no idea whether or not they were investment pieces.