by Kitsy Clare
“In fact, I do have Dave news to report,” I tease, “but not on the romantic front.”
Harper stops chopping garlic, and Merry stops stirring the broccoli rabe. “What?” they ask in unison.
“He introduced me to his aunt, the infamous Lydia Hightower, who owns Studio Hightower. Tomorrow I have an interview with her.”
When the screaming dies down and I’m sure my neighbors aren’t calling the police, thinking someone just got murdered or drank too much and fell down the trash chute, I elaborate. But first, I take a gulp of vino. “Since you ladies are my most trusted critics, after we eat dinner, I’d love your help in picking out three of my best artworks to show her tomorrow.”
“Sure, Sienna.” Harper narrows her eyes at me. “So that’s why you want to let Dave down easy.”
“Well, yeah, sort of. Don’t hate me for it.”
“Just a little,” Harper says and hugs me.
After that, we all jump up and down and screech.
“Oh my God, you’re really doing it,” squeals Merry.
“You guys will be next,” I yell as I jump. “We’ll all become art stars.”
“I can see it!” shouts Harper.
Under our ladylike exteriors, we’re wild children leaping into virtual mud puddles and making giant pies out of them, only without the goopy, yucky real thing. That’s why I love my besties so much.
We gobble up the salmon and broccoli rabe and wash it down with another bottle of wine, this time a spicy Pinot Grigio that Harper’s contributed. We’re all tipsy by the time we venture into the spare room I’ve converted into a studio. Merry remarks that every pen and eraser has its unique place on my worktable.
“If you think that’s organized, check this out.” I get on my laptop and show them how all of my art is categorized by color and size. They exchange shocked glances. Checking against my online files, next I retrieve my six best computer prints from the overhead storage shelves. Making sure the prints are all perfectly aligned, I step back.
Merry murmurs a long, reverential “Wow.”
Harper shakes her head slowly as if it’s an impossible task to only pick three. “You have some serious talent, my friend. If Lydia Hightower doesn’t give you a show, she’s blind.”
I straighten my back, trying to feel taller. “I don’t know. My gut keeps telling me that my work doesn’t fit in there.”
“Sienna, “Harper gives me a stern, motherly stare, “why on earth not?”
“They like expressive, passionate art. Messy art.”
Merry snorts. She gives my desk and the five brands of screen cleaners next to my computer monitor a pointed look. “Messy you’re not. But Lydia Hightower will be losing a star if she doesn’t go with you.”
I give Merry a drunken hug. “Aw, you guys are the best.”
They end up helping me pick three pieces that compliment each other—one with a pink digital palette, one with mint-green tones, and the last with chill blues. They’re all flawlessly symmetrical, their spires and diamond shapes perfectly mirrored on each side.
“I’ve got a good idea,” Merry blurts as she takes another sip of wine and tries in vain not to spill any on the floor. A few drops splatter on the polished wood, but I’m too tipsy to care.
“Do tell,” says Harper.
“Let’s model our new Victoria’s Secret lingerie. We can help each other pick out the best outfit for each of our dates.”
“You’re mad,” I say affectionately. And then I start to think about it. “We’ll have to help get a date for Harper, but yeah, that’s actually a great idea. I’m supposed to model for Erik this Friday, and I need to look my best, you know, in my skivvies.” Oops, my secret’s out now.
For the second time tonight, my friends emit huge shrieks. “You didn’t tell us about Erik! You were holding out on us.” After we wait to make sure our latest screams haven’t inspired the neighbors to pound on my door to see if we’ve been attacked by roving bands of East Village rats looking for gourmet cheese and salmon, we discuss the matter.
“So, that’s the real reason why you’re not interested in Dave anymore,” Harper deduces. I give her a sheepish smile.
“It’s just for a lark, though, right?” Merry asks, worry in her eyes. “You’re not planning to date the guy?”
“Who knows?”
“C’mon, let her experiment,” Harper says way too quickly. It’s obvious that she wants me to date anyone but Dave.
“He’s a model,” says Merry. “What kind of respectable guy works as a model? I mean, he probably has lots of girls from the drawing classes throwing themselves on him. He’s so hot.”
Valid points. I have seen a few of the girls flirting with him. Especially Taffy. Her name sounds like a friggin’ porn star’s, which doesn’t help my discomfort. The memory of Erik talking to her on break makes me shudder all over again. But talking isn’t against the law. It doesn’t prove anything. “He’s an incredible painter,” I rationalize.
“And he’s sexy as anything,” Harper adds. “That long blond hair, wow.”
Merry wags her finger at me. “Just promise me you won’t fall for him if he’s not up to your standards or if you find out he’s working his way through the ladies in drawing class.”
“Promise,” I vow reluctantly. With my feelings slipping and sliding all around, I can’t honestly promise a thing.
“Well!” Harper picks up the Victoria’s Secret bags and doles them out. “Now that’s settled, let’s play dress up.”
“I’m in.” Merry does a shimmy.
I slide over and bump her with my hip. “Let’s do it!” A lingerie walk-off will distract me from my uneasy suspicions brewing about Erik.
Merry dons a yellow lace bra and panty set. It looks perfect on her petite frame.
“Graphic-novel bright,” I note.
“It’s sunny, like Sammy and Merry are,” says Harper.
Harper slips into in a crisp pink-and-white-pinstriped halter babydoll and minces around the room in it. With her voluptuous hips and come-hither stride, it’s easy to picture Dave’s appreciative expression upon seeing it.
“The perfect blend of corporate and sexy,” I declare.
Merry giggles. “You look like a human candy cane.”
I reach for one of my purchases, a baby-blue ruffled romper. I step into it and zip it over my curves. We bump and grind our way through a rousing Bruno Mars number and collapse on the bed laughing and shaking our legs at the ceiling.
“So, what do you think of the romper?” I get up and twirl around.
“For Erik? Doesn’t show enough skin,” Merry decides. “After all, he only wears a loincloth.”
“Point taken.” A sudden, unwelcome picture of Erik doing a private modeling session for Taffy overwhelms me. I’ll bet she would go topless and wear a super-skimpy thong, leaving her lower cheeks fully exposed, something a normal man would have big trouble resisting. I shake the upsetting image off as I wriggle out of the romper.
They help me dig through my brimming pink bag, and we end up choosing a black eyelet lace bikini-panty set. I snake into the skimpy black number.
Merry gives the thumbs-up. “Artsy.”
“Sophisticated,” says Harper, snapping her fingers.
It’s true, I think as I admire myself in the mirror. I bet I can rock this sexy lace bikini better than Taffy, even if she does have bouncing boobs that are much bigger than mine under those too-short dresses of hers. Stop it, I tell myself. Quit being paranoid about Erik having a roving eye.
As I strut across the room to the wails of Justin Timberlake’s latest track, my friends make approving clucks and yips.
Over the music, the doorbell rings. We all freeze. Can it be Erik? My heart hammers in my chest. I did give him my business card with my address on it.
“Holy freaking shit! Did you invite someone else over?” Harper hisses.
“The pizza man? The UPS dude? Show ‘em in,” Merry jibes as she does a pervy thrust
.
“No, seriously, I’m not expecting anyone,” I say. I’m not quite ready for Erik to see me in my black lingerie, and certainly not right now with my friends eyeballing us. The doorbell rings again. Whoever’s there sure is persistent. Running to the intercom, I take a sobering breath and ask who it is.
“Dave. Dave Hightower.”
I can’t lie. My heart sinks. Just as well Erik doesn’t see me this tipsy though. Plus, I’d probably lose all common sense and jump his bones like that sneaky redhead from class wants to do.
Dave must hear my friends’ drunken exclamations of “Jee-zus!”, “What a guy”, and “Uncanny timing”, because he says through the intercom, “Sienna, you have visitors?”
“Um, hold on a sec.” Looking back at my friends, I frantically mouth, What should I do?
“Let him in,” orders Harper. “We’ll hide.” Must sound logical because of all the Pinot Grigio blazing through me, so I shrug on a top and my low-rider pants as they scramble for cover. As I buzz him in, Merry hides in the living room closet and Harper ducks into the kitchen pantry where I keep my canned goods and a broom.
I almost burst out laughing when I answer the door. It’s all I can do to keep it together. “Well, hello, Dave,” I chirp woozily. “What brings you here tonight?”
He lets himself in, removes his tasteful gray jacket, and props it neatly over one arm. “I understand that you’re showing your work to my aunt tomorrow at Studio Hightower.”
“Right.” What? Is he going to tell me which prints I should take over there? I know Dave’s into power and money, but is he also a micro-managing control freak? Guess so!
He sniffs the air. “Whew, smells like a brewery in here.”
“I had some friends over earlier.”
“Harper?” he asks with clear hope in his voice. I sense Harper’s ears pricking from inside the pantry.
“Sure, Harper, Merry—the art ladies.”
Dave brushes a hand through his gleaming black hair, and I can’t help thinking that Harper and Dave match perfectly with their gorgeous dark tresses and striking features. “I figured you’d want to run the pieces you’re taking over there by me,” he says. “I know my Aunt Lydia’s taste, so I can be helpful.” He’s got a point. I should be grateful for his informed help. Dave starts walking toward the closet. “My jacket’s new, and linen wrinkles like crazy. Mind if I hang it up?”
Dashing past him, I block the door. Merry gasps from inside it, but hopefully Dave didn’t hear that. “Yes! I mean, I’ll take your coat and hang it in my bedr—” No! Not the bedroom closet, fast-thinker. He’ll get the wrong idea. “Um, it’ll be safest on the shower curtain.” I chuckle nervously. “My closets are dusty. You don’t want dust bunnies on your best jacket.”
Dave gives me a skeptical look but forks it over, and I rush to hang it up.
“I’m out of wine. Want some seltzer?” I ask.
“I bet you’re out of wine.” He snorts and follows me to the kitchen, no doubt studying my unsteady walk. I wonder if my black eyelet bikinis are peeking out of my low-slung pants. If Dave only knew what we’ve all been up to before he barged in, he’d be wearing big fat boner, not just a bemused grin.
His Perrier poured, we head to my makeshift studio, where, thankfully, Dave ends up agreeing with me on my picks. “You’re such a talent with digital art,” he admits. “I don’t know how you do it, but you’d make a bundle if you could bottle your secret.” He balances his goblet of Perrier on the edge of my drawing table and rubs his chin in a thoughtful manner. “By the way, speaking of your friends, have you seen much of Harper’s work? I was checking out her painting the other day, and I’d say she’s a big talent too—fearless lines, bold movement. Very expressive.”
Expressive! That’s Studio Hightower’s pet buzzword. No doubt Harper is reveling in this last comment as she crouches among the canned goods. It’s obvious Dave likes Harper as much as Harper likes him and that he’s already half gotten over me after witnessing my enthusiastic chat with Erik. Did Dave overhear Erik ask me out? In one way, that would be a relief. But in another way, it sets me in panic mode, because I still have to convince his aunt to give me a show. I’ve made up my mind that I don’t want Dave, but I’m still not ready to come clean to him. I can’t afford Dave telling Lydia that she should replace my show with Harper’s.
As I wheel around, I weave left, then right. Darn my wine gluttony! I yelp as my hip jabs into the corner of the drawing table. There’s a loud tinkling of breaking glass and my side is spattered with cold seltzer. “What a klutz I am.”
Before I know it, Dave’s in the kitchen saying he’ll get the broom. “Wait! Dave, don’t open that pantry door,” I call as I scramble after him. Too late, he’s pulling it wide open, and Harper leaps out in her haltered outfit.
“Surprise!” she yells and starts dancing around him like a sexed-up Barbie Doll.
Dave’s mouth hangs open as he distractedly grabs the broom.
My ordered apartment is fast becoming the scene of an unruly, hot mess. Because the next thing I know, Merry jumps out of her hiding place, turns on an R Kelly track, and my friends are all bumping and grinding for Dave. What’s a drunken girl to do?
Sweep up the broken glass and then dance along with them!
Harper unearths another bottle of vino from the cavernous depths of her Gucci messenger bag, and we end up having a super-fun house party. We line dance, crump, and even make up our own hip-hop routines. Getting in the skivvies spirit, Dave strips down to his snug lime-green Polo boxers and pulls off some surprisingly fluid dance moves. I must admit, he’s buff and does a wicked bump and grind. If his personality didn’t turn me off, I might be very interested.
Harper sure is. She and Dave do some risqué belly dance moves together, arching and rolling their pelvises like mating rabbits on Red Bull.
Before Dave throws on his clothes and leaves for the night, he disappears in the bathroom for an extended visit. Is he constipated?
After everyone staggers out at 2:00 a.m. and I’m snuggled in my nightie, I have an obvious revelation. Harper, Merry, and me dancing around in lingerie were way too much for Dave. Clearly, in the bathroom he was playing one-fisted ball in addition to collecting his jacket.
Poor old Dave.
I still haven’t come clean with him about my feelings for Erik. Chaos does have its merits though. It distracts me from the terror of my upcoming meeting with the ice-goddess art dealer, Lydia Hightower.
5 CHAPTER FIVE
Lydia’s assistant leads me into Studio Hightower without so much as cracking a smile. She is every bit as frosty as her boss and every bit as pulled together in her silk Louboutin heels and form-fitting Atria tube dress. I know these designers because it’s kind of a side hobby to track the trends. I buy knock-offs though, because I can hardly afford the real designer dresses and heels.
As we pass the walls of paintings, I mentally drool, not at the art, but at the neat red dots by every single work. A red dot means a sale. Which means that Lydia Hightower has sold out the entire freaking show. I saw that price list and each painting was listed at the mind-boggling price of around forty-five thousand dollars! I do the multiplication in my head; at that times fifteen paintings, the lucky artist¸ even at fifty percent net has raked in a cool $337,500.00. Mother of effing pearl!
In a flash, I review all of the things I’d do with that money: rent an apartment with a glitzy studio space; buy a boatload of costly art supplies and archival print paper, get a new computer that can handle oversized, high-definition digital prints, take a Caribbean cruise with my new honey…
It feels more than a little devious to be dreaming about taking a cruise with my new honey, Erik, the humble model, not hooked-up Dave, while Dave is the guy who is getting my foot in this solid gold door. Oh, Sienna, I chide silently, quit playing the goodie-goodie martyr. Everybody who’s anybody in New York works their connections like a lithe snake charmer.
The assistant has tu
rned around and is narrowing her eyes at me. “Coming?” she chides in a sugarless voice.
“Sure, sure.” I trip over myself to catch up. It’s a mystery how someone in such needle-thin heels can power-walk.
I make it back to the inner sanctum, hauling my bubble-wrapped prints. Lydia, in a black Donna Karan V-neck dress, points with one long black fingernail to a viewing shelf as she finishes up a call. I unwrap my work, line them up, and inspect each one for dust motes, eavesdropping on her conversation.
“Yes, we expect our European clients to eat the work up. That’s right, it’s a debut show. Yes, this May. Will you be there? Darlington’s work is reminiscent of early Rembrandt, yet updated in the most stunning fashion. We’re doing ornate neo-Renaissance frames to accentuate the connection.”
May! That must be Lydia’s next exhibition. Darling Darlington has it made, whoever she is. I wonder if she’s another “Dave find.” I suppose Dave reels them in, and his aunt does the rest. Clever racket. Lydia Hightower raises her index finger to indicate that she’ll be off momentarily.
I take a clearing breath and stretch. Shaking out my Valentino knock-off, I wonder if pale pink doesn’t give too angelic a signal.
Lydia snaps her phone shut and rolls forward in her leather throne. “Well, let’s see what you have. She slides on her tortoise-shell specs and squints across the room at my digital prints. I’m painfully aware that she hasn’t uttered a sound. Bad sign, or is she so blown away by my visual magic that she’s at a loss for words?
In the interim, all of the guilt that I’ve been feeling at using Dave and not coming clean with him and all of my gut feelings about my work being so completely wrong for this gallery, despite how much dough I’d reap come crashing down inside me like a tsunami.
I don’t know if Erik’s right for me, or if he’s shameless flirt who tries out his I-love-to-paint-women line with every pretty art student. But I know he’s all I can think about, and I know I want to get to know him better. I want him to keep gazing at me with his smoky-green eyes that see right into me. I want to feel his thickset hands brush back my hair and taste his lips on mine. I know that he’s an incredible painter and that hanging out in the museum with him and studying the paintings together was the most fun I’ve had in ages. Plus, I don’t want to play this dishonest Dave-and-me charade for another second.