My heart pounding, I grab it just before it goes to voicemail. “Mr. Fleming?”
“There you are. I lost the signal somehow. Are you in a bad zone?”
“No. I don’t know what happened.”
He mumbles under his breath, “Stupid technology,” then says in a normal volume, “I have a very tight schedule, but I can fit you in if you can come here before nine o’clock. Work for you?”
Silently (thanks to fuzzy socks) I jump up and down twice. “Sure… yeah. I think I can do that. Sure.”
“Great. I assume this is a cell?”
“It is.”
“Great, I’ll text you the address. See you soon.”
“Yes. See you soon!” We hang up. I run into my bedroom, throw the phone on the bed, and attack the problem that is finding the perfect outfit in less than fifteen minutes.
Rapidly sifting through my closet, I whisper, “It’s happening, Momma!” and in my mind, I see her smiling down on me, so proud.
Nineteen Minutes Later
They say when you’re on the right track, doors fly open to help you out. I am so ready for this opportunity and I am going to make this Mr. Fleming guy fall in love with my work so hard that he will beg me to use his gallery!
Coming off the subway at 4th street, I strut past Third Rail Coffee. My eyes flit to the sign and I consider going in, but decide to grab some on my way home, instead. I don’t want to walk into the gallery holding coffee. What if he has a no-liquids rule around the art? I am doing nothing, and I mean nothing, to jeopardize my first impression.
“Nicole!”
I whip around, my hair flying. “Jess!” We hug and kiss each other’s cheeks, both cheeks, like Jessica does whenever we run into each other by accident. I wonder if I will ever tell her how much I hate doing this. “What are you doing in Greenwich?”
She holds up her cup. “I stopped for coffee since I woke up early.”
My eyes nearly fall out of my head. “You woke up early? To go to work? Did The Bitch quit… or drop dead?”
Laughing, she says, “No,” and then quickly gets guilty. “Best not to say that, though.”
I shrug because I hate The Bitch.
“Karma?”
“Right.”
I nod and we begin walking to the train stop together because I have to know why the sparkle is back in her eyes! I’m inspecting her closely as she explains, “No, I felt like getting ahead of the game. You know… show up. Get some work done. Impress The Bitch. No big deal.”
Does she really think I can’t see how full of shit she is?
“Who is he?”
“It’s James.”
Say what? “The gay guy?”
She shakes her head. “Turns out he’s not gay.”
Puh-lease. “No one is that handsome and not gay.”
Without missing a beat, Jess rattles off, “Brad Pitt. George Clooney. Matt Bomer.”
Both my hands fly up. “You win!”
We arrive at the subway stairs and when she smiles a naughty smile and says, “I can’t wait to tell you how I know he’s not gay,” I want to jump up and down and shout to the world, she’s back!
“Tell me now! Don’t you dare pull a ‘Jess’ on me!”
She scoots down the stairs raising her coffee like it’s a sword she’ll fight me with. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sings.
“Jess! You will not drop that juicy little morsel, and then walk away!”
“Come with me to work and I’ll tell you.” She’s standing on the staircase as people pass her quickly, narrowly avoiding getting trampled. She looks so fun and happy that I want to cry. Frankly, if I weren’t going to meet this dealer, I would jump on the train and love on every detail she has to share.
“I can’t. I have a meeting with a dealer. Jerk.”
“He’s a jerk?” she asks, pretending innocence.
“You’re a jerk! And I love you. Let’s get together tonight. HEY!” That last part I said to some dick-wad who rams into me as he hurries for the train.
Jessica glares at him. When he rushes past her, she yells after him, “I should’ve tripped you!” then turns to me and says, “Sounds good. I’ll call Amber.”
“Wonderful. See you tonight!” We blow kisses to each other and I stroll off feeling like happiness is in the air again, for both of us.
JF Gallery is a block up on the right and I stop and stand outside it, breathing the excitement into every cell of my being. Why has it taken me so long to get here? What have I been doing with all this time? I don’t even want to think about the five years I spent in college trying to find a ‘practical’ profession, coming out with no degrees to my name…just a lot of useless information toppled over by hangovers. After that I searched sculpture, graphic design, and cartooning for my passion, but it wasn’t until I picked up a paintbrush that I found home.
I take a deep breath, reach out, open the door, and walk in, my heels clicking news of my arrival on immaculate white tile.
“Mr. Fleming?”
Silence. There are no sounds of life, no papers rustling, no footsteps… nothing. He must have stepped out, so I take the opportunity to look at the space, standing in the center of the large, open, angular, white room. Floor-to-ceiling windows face the street, adding a great deal of sunlight to the recessed tungsten lighting. The walls are clear of scuffmarks or flaws of any kind. The current exhibit is of classy, clean, bright, modern art. Cement stairs framed by two glass railings lead to the second-floor loft, which is half the size of the gallery. In the back of the first floor is a partition that blocks my vision from what I’m guessing is a back room? I can’t be sure.
“Hello?” My voice bounces against the walls, and I subconsciously cross my arms at the echo. Did he go somewhere? Just as I step toward the partition I hear a backdoor opening on the other side of it. I smooth down my hair, and wait.
“Let me know how it goes,” a voice says, and instantly the hairs go up on my neck and my breath catches in my throat.
I recognize Jack Fleming’s voice from our phone call as he answers, “I can see by the look on your face, and your haste in leaving, that something is going on here, Michael. Did you have an affair with this woman?”
I stand very still, holding my breath, my heart breaking, knowing now that it was Michael who referred me.
“Jack, don’t be a dick,” he says.
Does he think I’m charity? How can I escape? These heels would betray my trying to sneak out of here. I’m stuck.
My fingernails press into my palms as I hear Mr. Fleming say, “No secrets. This is my gallery. I need to know if I’m walking into drama.”
Michael sighs. “There has been no affair. You know me better than that.”
My stomach lurches. Of course there’s been no affair! He would never. But what he would do is kiss me, hold me and break my fucking heart until I want to claw his eyes out!
“Did you send her my way because you wanted to get your hands up her skirt?”
I feel so pathetic standing here, so disappointed. Run! Run Nicole!
“Jack. I wouldn’t waste your time. Or mine. Her work is incredible. That’s the only reason.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Jack’s tone suggests more than a hint of skepticism. “You sure you don’t want to stay?”
I feel like I’m going to throw up right here on this pristine white tile floor.
He pauses and in that pause the world waits with me. Am I about to see Michael face to face? I look over my shoulder at the door, at how close it is, at how easily it would be to sprint away to safety. Mema’s voice sounds in my ears: Child, make them respect you.
Michael finally answers, but his voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear it. “No. I have somewhere I have to be. Tell me how it goes.”
“I will. I’m guessing you don’t want me to tell her you referred her,” Jack says, with a sense of humor.
The next sound I hear is the back door closing. Michael
must have just nodded? Why do I care? Only one set of footsteps walks toward me as around the partition comes the type of man you’d expect to own a gallery in New York; sophisticated, intelligent eyes, salt and pepper hair, elegant black clothes. He carries a cardboard tray of three paper coffee-cups all bearing the stamp: Third Rail Coffee. I must have walked right by them, and maybe even twice. Maybe Jess ordered her coffee with Michael in line behind her. Never having met him, maybe she smiled at him, because he’s so beautiful. The thought makes me ill.
Jack Fleming pauses in surprise, but recovers quickly. “Nicole Henry, I presume.” He pulls a coffee cup from the tray and says, “Black with cinnamon, yes?” Michael must have told him how I take my coffee. Had I not heard him here, even this coffee would have made me still think Jess was the referral, or even Amber since they know me so well. I wouldn’t imagine that Michael had retained such nuances about me.
Shields up, I take it. “Mr. Fleming, it’s so nice to meet you.” He puts the tray down with one cup left in it. I tear my eyes from it as Jack Fleming takes a sip from his own cup. His head jerks back as he yells, “Ouch! Fuck, that’s hot! Ouch ouch ouch.” Then he turns to me, licking his lips, and says, “So… you heard us discussing you?”
His frankness throws me, but only momentarily. “I did. But it didn’t bother me.”
“Didn’t it?” He inspects me. He’s the type who sees no value in sugarcoating a conversation with banalities.
I say smoothly, my head held high with grace. “Not at all. I also won’t hold it against you that you asked if he’s trying to fuck me. This is your business and you’ve worked hard for your excellent reputation.”
Jack’s eyes light up and he lets out a loud guffaw. He wags a finger at me. “I like you.” While blowing on his coffee to cool it, he turns towards the stairs, and says, “Come.”
I follow him up and find his desk sitting in the middle of the floor. Filling the wall behind him like touching dominoes are stacked pieces from past shows waiting to be picked up by lucky buyers, or unlucky artists who did not sell. I expected the partition downstairs to be hiding an office, but this is a much brighter, open space to work. I sit down in the chair he motions me to. He sits above me on the corner of the desk, and looks at me through narrowed, amused eyes.
“Why didn’t you bring me some of your work? Or do you have miniatures hidden in that little bag of yours?”
I blink and reach for my phone, wishing I’d known how this was done before I showed up here looking like an amateur. “I took pictures of them on my phone.”
“Let me see.” As he takes it from me, he mumbles, “Technology…I hate it.” Glasses get pulled from his shirt pocket and he wipes the screen on his pants to remove smudges as if he’s done it a million times and hated it every single time. Satisfied the screen is clean, he holds the phone away from him until his vision settles on a pleasing focal distance. His frown behind the reading glasses, combined with the way his chin is raised, makes me imagine him as a scientist inspecting a fossil.
“Hmmm…Interesting.”
I cross my legs and force myself to look elsewhere like I am unafraid, when really I’m terrified. The sound of his finger flicking through my photo album is punctuated by an occasional break for a sip of coffee and an “Mmm.” When he is done, he hands the phone to me.
My smile is long gone.
“Ms. Henry, have you had your work displayed before? I’m not familiar with your name.”
He hates my work. I knew it. Every muscle in me is tense.
“No. I’ve not had the nerve until now.”
He stands and walks around to sit opposite me on the other side of his desk, leaning back in the high-backed black chair before he says, “What’s changed?”
I answer simply, “Me.”
His eyebrows go up and he thinks on this. “I see. Well, your work has a distinctive edge I’ve not seen before. It’s not a copy of anyone else, but there is something in it that reminds me of Basquiat and even Picasso at times.”
I say nothing, shocked.
“Michael told me…” He pauses languidly to drink another sip of his coffee. “Mmm.” He looks out toward the sunlight pouring in through the windows and picks up again with, “Michael told me… that you’re going to be a huge hit and that if I didn’t meet with you, I’m an idiot.” He waits and watches my face. “I think he’s right. Breathe, please.”
I suck in enough room air to make the walls cave in. Jack laughs and opens up a drawer to pull out a contract and set it in front of me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, looking at it.
He smiles and reaches to hand me a pen, enjoying every second of watching my expression.
“Jack, I’m going to need a little time. I want to put the canvases in shadow boxes and finding the right ones is…”
I stop speaking as he raises his hand into the air.
“Jack now, is it? Fine. Call me Jack, but I’m going to call you Ms. Henry because that’s just who I am. Ms. Henry, I have a show running now as you can see. And one after it. But there is a two-week window in between and I plan to squeeze you into it, to see how you’ll do. People love a sense of immediacy as well, so the short time frame might just do wonders for creating ‘buzz.’ It will be around two months from now, enough time for me to announce you, and for you to get ready. That is, if you think that’s enough time?”
The smile that spreads out from my belly is the biggest I’ve felt in years. With massive enthusiasm, I nod and pick up the contract. “That’s more than enough time! Thank you!”
My joy is infectious, as joy always is, and he smiles back at me, immensely pleased with himself. “I so rarely give someone their first break. Seeing your reaction makes me think I should do it more often. Take that home with you and give it a good reading. Then we’ll meet again. And please take your coffee, too. You haven’t had a sip. It’s too good to waste.”
I grab it apologetically and stand up. “Yes, of course. Thank you for the coffee, too.”
He laughs. “Get ahold of yourself. You’ve earned this.”
I smile and nod, turn away.
“Ms. Henry?” He calls after me.
I look over my shoulder, my hand on the railing. “Yes?”
All humor is gone from his eyes. I let go and turn to face him. He folds his hands on his chest and leans back in his chair, frowning. “I would not have given you this chance just because Michael Benitez asked for a meeting. He’s a brilliant artist, and a friend, but this is my gallery and I am very picky about who I put on these walls.” I nod. “You have gotten this show on your own merit. Do you understand?”
The tears jump up, dancing in my eyes. I breathe in, nod once, causing a tear to roll off my cheek. I don’t hide it. I’m not afraid of my emotions anymore.
“Thank you for telling me that.”
He doesn’t answer. It’s understood between both of us that the gift he just gave me was more than an art showing. That gift will pass with memories and time. He gave me something greater, something that will never go away. He gave me my dignity.
Saturday Night
In The Middle of Fashion Week
Amber and I are in the East Village, hoping Jessica will be able to join us after work. Her emotional state has gone from too low to too high, in Amber’s opinion, and we want to have a talk with her. I’m backing up Amber, because well, she’s Amber. If Amber thinks it’s pow wow time, who am I to argue?
We’ve texted Jess, but there’s no answer.
“She’s probably on the subway since it went straight to voicemail.”
“What if she’s working still? She probably has parties to go to tonight.”
Amber sighs. “Well, maybe she has to go home to change?”
Amber’s really got her lockjaw on this plan. “Okay. What are we going to tell her? ‘We want you to take a deep breath and stop banging your co-workers?’”
Amber says, “Yes. That is what we’re going to tell her,” as if it’s the
most obvious thing in the world and not ludicrous at all.
I turn to the bar. “Can I have a chardonnay, please? Do you have a good one?”
The bartender – a Jamaican looking dude who keeps giving me the eye – nods like he’s got dirty things on his mind. “What about you?”
“Same thing is fine, thanks,” Amber answers, thinking he was talking to her. He wasn’t. But it does the trick of sending him on his way.
“That was hilarious.”
Amber, not hearing me, turns and announces, “Did you know she banged some guy off the Internet she’d never even met?”
My eyes go huge. “She what?!”
Amber nods slowly several times. “Can you believe it?”
I shake my head, but secretly I’m impressed. “Who was he?”
Amber waves it off as unimportant. “Some guy visiting from the west coast… San Francisco? Who knows? That’s not the point. The point is that she is freaking me out and I think between the both of us talking, she’ll listen.”
The bartender returns and sets our wine down. He gives me a slimy smile but Amber chucks her card on the counter so hard and fast that it looks like she’s cock-blocking him. He takes it and leaves, dejected. Having no idea she saved me, she pulls her hair up into a ponytail, talking as she does it. “You think I’m being too controlling, don’t you?”
Nail… meet Head.
“No, you’re just looking out for your girlfriend,” I lie.
Amber holds her glass to mine and says, “To girlfriends.”
“To girlfriends.” We both take a sip and set the glasses down. “Amber, I hate to tell you this, but I have a lot of sex, myself. Are you going to give me an intervention soon, too?”
She rolls her eyes. “Stop bragging. Jeez.”
“Wait. How is it bragging when I do it, but bad when Jessica does? You’re not making any sense.”
I Love My Hope (Nicole's Erotic Romance) Page 3