“Are you okay?”
“I try not to get attached to stuff. I told myself that place was temporary. I didn’t expect it to last forever. But it’s been almost a year. I got comfortable.”
Comfortable? It makes me realize how far apart we are in fundamental ways. I want him to see that there’s another way. His work is too valuable to rot underground. And he’s too valuable, too talented, too thoughtful, too ambitious, to stay in the shadows.
“I know you’re upset that people didn’t talk about what the boxes meant. But they’re talking about your work as a whole and what it means. Look at this article—they have the IN GoST WE TRUST money. They have the princess series—Snow White, crack Cinderella. Art critics are parsing it all and saying you’re a genius. The only problem is that half the article is spent with bullshit interviews trying to figure out who you are. And because of a lot of lazy reporting and the police report, the conclusion is that it’s all Brandt’s work.”
“And I wonder why that is,” he says, coldly.
“Look, the things you’ve been doing would have gotten you this level of attention regardless. The only thing that links me to you, or you to Brandt, is that damned photo outside the Brooklyn club. And you could make all of that go away in a second just by coming forward,” I plead.
“Oh, just like that? Just erase years of work protecting my identity to disprove some stupid gossip magazine so your boyfriend can’t steal my work.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I say quickly.
Rory stands, and I jump up.
“If you leave this article unanswered, you have no one to blame but yourself—not me, not Brandt, not the big, bad art conglomerate. All you have to do is call this magazine, say that you are GoST and Brandt Penn has nothing to do with your work. Then you can tell them what you’re saying with your work—all of it. Including the boxes. The problem isn’t that other people are stealing your work. It’s that you’re not owning it.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I do own it. This is your bullshit world.” He tears the magazine in half and throws it on the floor. “This means nothing to me. I don’t want any part of it.”
“What good does your work do if it’s just painted over the day after you put it up? Don’t you want to do something bigger? Be something bigger? I think you do. The city—the entire art world—is ready to pay attention, but you’re squandering it. What are you afraid of?”
He glares at me. I want to grab him, to hold him and kiss him and beg him to stop living in the shadows. It’s time—I feel it in my gut. And it’s not just about him. I’ve been watching these patterns in art my entire life—periods of generic work, when everything is derivative and running on the fumes of greatness that changed the landscape decades before. And then—boom—someone comes along and blows the whole thing wide open again. It happens once a generation, and everyone waits for it. And it’s happening now, with him.
“Fuck you,” he says. And walks right out the door.
Chapter Fifty
“They didn’t even use my quote!” Damian Damian said, tossing the magazine across the bed to Troy. “This is just shoddy journalism.”
Troy lazily picked up the issue, flipping to the party pages. “Hey, check it. My Calvin Klein ad is in here!”
“You are a pathological narcissist,” Damian said, snatching the magazine back. “Did you hear one word I said? I told the reporter that I had serious doubts that Brandt Penn and GoST were one and the same. But they didn’t have the balls to run it.”
He pulled his iPad onto his lap.
“You’re not going to start writing now, are you?” Trent moved closer to him and playfully tugged it away.
“Don’t give me that horny puppy-dog face. I can’t get you off right now. I have work to do.”
Damian started typing, a vicious glint in his eye.
The Mother, the Daughter, and the Holy GoST
Word on the street is that Brandt Penn’s sterling reputation is a bit tarnished now that he’s ditched his art world princess for a blond catwalk queen.
But on to more important matters: For all the hoopla surrounding last week’s Fresh Arrest, yours truly was the first to recognize that it wasn’t terrorism, but a brilliant art installation, the ballsiest I’ve seen since 2005 when Banksy hung his own painting of a woman wearing a gas mask inside the Met.
But that British import is yesterday’s news, since it seems NYC has its own perverse prankster. And while conventional sources—and by conventional, I mean boring, boring, boring—are quick to link this delicious mayhem to media darling Brandt Penn—I will go on record to say that this is just a smoke screen. And where there is smoke, there’s fire. Personally, I’m calling 911. And I’ll have this fire out in no time, dear readers.
*** ***
I’m making a mess of Niffer’s couch—Umberto’s couch, actually. It’s black suede and littered with my soggy tissues.
For every reasonable thing she says to me, I respond with an hysterical, “But I’m in love with him!”
Niffer, to her credit, is infinitely patient and just pats my hand and nods.
“He told me once that he wasn’t going to change and I said I wasn’t trying to change him. But I guess I am. He’s just got so much talent and it’s his moment, you know? I’ve seen people struggle to get any kind of attention or recognition for what they do, and he has everyone’s attention, and he’s just turning away from it!”
“It’s his choice. Maybe he doesn’t want fame. Maybe he’s scared of it.”
“But he’s rejecting me, too! You should have seen the way he looked at me. Just like when he first found out who my mother is. And it was bad enough then. But now that we’ve been together … “ I start sobbing again. Niffer hands me another tissue.
“Look, I’m going to give you the same advice I gave you at the beginning of the summer: You have your whole fucking life to work at the gallery and be so serious. You should be living it up right now. Be a kid—for one last year.”
“I’m not at the gallery anymore. I’m nowhere. And you’re one to talk—you’re getting married.”
Niffer screws up her face like I just said something crazy. “I’m engaged. I’m not getting married.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Of course. When I set a date, I’m getting married. But that’s a ways off.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering if Umberto is aware of these fine distinctions.
“Do you hear what I’m saying? Let all this go. Forget Brandt, forget the gallery, forget this guy and all his craziness. You need to come out with me, and just fucking be.”
She’s probably right.
“But I feel so lost.”
“You mean, you’re so free.”
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” I say, echoing Rory’s words.
Niffer sighs, patting my knee. “Let’s try to look at everything from the whole things-happen-for-a-reason perspective: you couldn’t go to Spain because your mother wanted you to work at the gallery. So I went alone, and met Umberto. If you had gone to Spain, Brandt still would have cheated on you, only you wouldn’t have found out about it. So that all goes in the plus column. Then you met GoST, and you realized you love his work, you don’t want to peddle the same shit your mom always sells, so you break free from her. And you had the best sex of your life.”
“It wasn’t just the best sex—it was like it was the only sex.”
“That’s just heartbreak talking.”
“No—I mean it. I never, um, came before. With a guy.”
Niffer’s mouth drops open in the shape of, well, a big O.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was embarrassed. I thought something was wrong with me.”
“All those nights we talked about our boyfriends and who had a big dick and who knew what they were doing and who gave bad head … you totally were holding out on me! And the worst part is that maybe I could have helped you.”
> I shake my head. “How? It’s not like there’s some magic button to push.”
“Actually, there is.”
“You know what I mean. With everyone else, it was like I was waiting for something to happen. With him, I just wanted to be with him in every way and I didn’t think—it was like my body just took over. And it made no sense to be with him—it contradicted everything else in my life. And once I let go of everything else in my life, that’s when it happened.”
“No wonder you’re such a wreck. You think you’re watching your last chance at an orgasm walk out the door. Trust me—there is plenty more where that came from. No pun intended.”
“That’s not it. Be serious, okay?”
“I am being serious. The best thing you can do—the only thing—is to go out tonight like the young, gorgeous, single, free bitch that you are. Umberto’s friend is having a party at The Maritime. Meet me there at nine.”
My phone buzzes with a number I don’t recognize.
“I should get this.” I hope that it’s Rory, calling me from a pay phone or Banger’s phone or anyplace.
“Is this Lulu?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Damian Damian.”
“How did you get this number?”
“I’m a journalist, sweetheart. Now listen, I don’t buy that bullshit New York mag story. Tell me I’m right.”
I freeze. Seconds tick by until he finally says something.
“Silence is golden—but in this case, tedious. Meet me for coffee?”
“I have nothing to say to you, Damian.”
“Drinks—tonight. Name the place. I just can’t stand to see that marginally talented ex-boyfriend of yours get credit for sheer genius. And to go from you to banging some cheap blond model—talk about trading down!”
He’s baiting me … and it’s working.
“I can meet you at the bar at The Maritime tonight at nine. For one drink.”
“I like your style.”
“I mean it, Damian. Ten minutes, tops.”
“I’ll bring a stopwatch.”
I hang up.
“Who was that?”
“Don’t ask. I’ll meet you guys at The Maritime.”
She hugs me. “It’s going to be a great night. A fresh start. Can you promise to come out with an open mind?”
“I’ll try.”
Chapter Fifty-one
In a city full of dramatic spaces, The Maritime Hotel on West Sixteenth Street stands out as one of the most over-the-top.
The nautical theme is so relentless, it’s almost campy. All the windows look like ship portholes and the guest rooms face west overlooking the Hudson. Inside, it’s easy to imagine you’re on a luxury cruise ship.
The restaurant bar is hipster heaven. La Bottega, an Italian bistro on the first floor, has a ten-thousand-square-foot terrace. It’s always a huge scene and not a place I would choose to hang out. But I will try anything to alleviate this misery, so I may as well put myself in Niffer’s hands tonight.
But first, Damian Damian.
He is already sitting at one of the leather banquettes near the red-upholstered pool table in all of his pink-haired, foppish glory. He’s dressed in a cream-colored seersucker suit.
“You look gorge,” he says, standing up to air kiss me on both cheeks.
I don’t feel gorge. I could barely muster the energy to pull on a pair of jeans and a black tank top. My hair is in a high, messy ponytail, and I penciled on my black Laura Mercier eyeliner out of sheer habit. I can’t even wear my NARS lipstick anymore because it reminds me of Inez.
“So what do you want?” I ask, sliding into the seat opposite him. He pours me a glass of Pelligrino from the large bottle on the table.
“Don’t you check your e-mail?”
I sigh and pull out my phone, checking my inbox. There’s something from Damian from a few hours ago. I click on the link and my browser opens to his latest post. I see the words “brilliant art installation.” And I read his denial that Brandt is the one responsible.
Finally. I look up at him, trying not to smile. I know I have to tread carefully. As the police say, anything I say can and will be used against me. Or, rather, to expose Rory.
“Okay. So?”
“You know I’m right.”
“I never said Brandt was the artist behind all of this stuff.”
“So why is he taking credit?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Because I’m not looking for another sound bite. I want the truth. Who’s GoST?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were photographed with him. And don’t tell me that was Brandt, because you just admitted it wasn’t.”
It’s tempting to tell him. But if I want to get Rory back, I can’t risk it. Though maybe I can steer Damian in a useful direction.
“I think you’re asking the wrong questions.”
“No, I’m asking the exact right questions. That’s why you don’t want to answer.”
“You want to be the first one to write about who GoST is. But why not be the first one to write about what he’s saying? Maybe then, instead of chasing him, he’ll come to you.”
Damian leans forward.
“So what is he saying?”
I shrug. “I don’t have all the answers.”
“I think you do.”
A waitress stops by the table. Damian orders a crostini and a bottle of red wine.
“I can’t stay long,” I tell him. He ignores me.
When she leaves, he drums his fingers on the table. His small brown eyes scrutinize me. “You’re in love with him.”
The comment takes me completely aback. My eyes fill with tears.
“Yes, I know—I’m good,” he says. “You don’t get to my position without a little something special.”
“I thought you were an art blogger, not a gossip.” That’s not entirely true. I know he’s both—an art gossip.
“I was wrong about you, Lulu. I thought your mother was the only one worth watching. And I thought Inez Elliot was the only one who had anything to say.”
I stand up to leave. My back is already turned to him when he says, “Sustainable agriculture?”
I turn around. “Not exactly.”
“Come on, Sterling. Throw me a bone. I know he’s throwing you one.”
It’s so tempting to just tell him to fuck off. But I’ve come this far. And I’m so close to having good news for Rory—someone finally writing about what the boxes mean.
“The three-thousand-mile Caesar salad,” I say.
“Clusterfuck Nation.”
“You know about it?”
He’s doesn’t answer, already typing into his phone. He doesn’t even notice when I get up and leave.
*** ***
Inez was surprised at how difficult it was to get away from Anna for a few hours.
“It’s just an old friend in Greenpoint. A totally lame, hipster scene, but I have to make an appearance,” she said, kissing her.
“Since when do you make appearances that don’t have to do with work?”
“There could be some talent there.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Anna said dryly.
This whole Brandt situation brought out an insecurity Inez had never seen before.
“You know what I mean,” she said, trying to sound breezy as she glanced at her phone for the time. The sooner she got to Brandt’s, the sooner she could get back here and know Bianca was placated and willing to stay quiet—at least for a little while longer.
*** ***
Brandt answered he door wearing only jeans and holding a bottle of Stella.
“Come in, come in. Hope you don’t mind the party started without you.”
“Whatever. I don’t have all night. Where’s Bianca?”
He pointed to the living room.
Bianca was wearing denim shorts and her pert breasts were on display in a see-through black mesh top. Her hair was loose arou
nd her shoulders, and her heart-shaped lips painted fuchsia. Despite her astonishing beauty, Inez felt nothing. She had the grand prize waiting for her at home.
The coffee table was dusty with coke. Brandt sat next to Bianca, did a line, then offered some to Inez.
“You really should cut back for a few weeks and finish your damn work,” Inez said.
He shook his head. “Can’t work. My head is so fucked up from all this press, the whole GoST thing. Can’t you make it go away?”
“Just throw some paint on a few more canvases. The quality is completely irrelevant at this point. Doesn’t that take some of the pressure off?”
Bianca smacked a few pills down on the table, round blue tablets with butterflies on them.
“You need to get happy,” Bianca said.
She was right. There was no way she could stand these two losers without a little bump. Inez swallowed the pill dry, hoping the MDMA kicked in before she fucked her.
“And why can’t I go out with him in public?” Bianca whined. “What good is he doing me if I only hang out with him in this apartment? What am I getting out of it?”
“We’re going out tonight, baby,” he said.
“No, you’re not. How am I supposed to keep convincing the press that you’re the guy in the photos with Lulu if you’re out with Bianca? This shit is staying under wraps until after the show. Look, Bianca—he’ll bring you to the opening. You’ll be in every magazine. Just have some patience!”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Bianca said.
Maybe she should have taken two pills.
Inez told herself to keep it together. One more week until the opening. Her name would be on the door, the paintings would be sold. After that night, Brandt and Bianca could self-destruct all they wanted. And she’d be bulletproof. She was already feeling pretty damn secure. The way Anna looked at her when she walked out the door tonight—the longing, the jealousy. She wouldn’t be kicking her out of bed anytime soon. Even if she did, weeks from now, make the loose, triangular connection between her, Bianca, and Brandt, it would be too late. Anna would be at the point of no return—personally, and professionally.
Until then, Inez had to play it safe.
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