Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  “Oh, and thank you for the tea,” I say with a friendly voice.

  She shuts the door abruptly, thereby missing the scowl that crosses my face and stays there the entire way to the elevator.

  I’m numb as I drive toward my apartment, thinking about Phoebe’s changes. I pull into the drive-through at Starbucks to get a venti vanilla latte to get that foul tea taste out of my mouth.

  Luckily, Riley’s spent the night at Dylan’s, so our place is quiet. I curl up on the couch and open the top folder, intent on working through the pile.

  Once the shock of her dramatic edits wears off, I get a grip on my emotions. I have to read most section three times before I fully grasp the changes. In some cases, she’s sharpened and focused the ideas I’m trying to convey. In other places, it just felt as if she took a hatchet to my carefully-constructed words. I flag the sections that upset me the most . . . figuring, at the very least, I can discuss them with Jonathan.

  But as I read, another theme becomes apparent. The overall tone is very sharp, often bordering on unflattering. Max and I had already discussed mentioning his notoriety in the social world, but now it has a much harsher tone. And the digs aren’t just about his public persona; they hint that his work is derivative and that he borrows some of his more important ideas.

  When I finally close the last folder, I realize if I were Mr. Joe Public and had read these words, I’d conclude that Caswell was a real asshole with questionable talent. I wonder if Phoebe has an agenda, and I even consider that Jonathan might too. Is this really what Taylor and Tiden wants?

  An unsettling feeling creeps up my spine, and my mind scrambles for my next move. I turn on the stereo and make lunch before I do anything else. As music fills the silent apartment, I make a quesadilla and steam some veggies.

  It feels good to avoid thinking about this mess, so I do a couple of chores to occupy myself until I accept that the issue with Phoebe’s butcher job can wait no longer. I do the first thing that comes to mind . . . call Jess. Luckily, I catch her at home.

  “Hey, babe, what’s up?” She sounds happy and relaxed.

  “I had a meeting with that Phoebe this morning, and it didn’t go well. Now I don’t know what to do.” I can’t hide the panic in my voice.

  “Did you ever get her last name?” she asks calmly.

  “No—oh, I got her card. Wait a sec.” I grab it from my purse. “Phoebe Carter.”

  Jess gasps. “FUCK! I’ll be right over.”

  This isn’t good. I pace my living room until Jess bangs on the front door.

  “Let me see that bitch’s card,” she growls.

  I hand it to her, and it bows as her hand tightens over it.

  “Damn, I had a feeling.” Her face is tight with anxiety.

  “What is it?” The curiosity is killing me.

  “Several years ago, Max went out with this whack job a few times. As I recall, she was into some really kinky stuff, and Max lost interest quickly and cut it off.” Jess shakes her head. “Well, she went ballistic . . . like they were engaged and he’d left her at the altar. She stalked him for months. He had to get a restraining order. A helluva lot of good that did, though; she still managed to cause all kinds of trouble. That bitch had an unholy obsession. Finally, she got in trouble at work, and they relocated her to the home office where they could watch her.”

  “Well, that explains the way she asked me about him. It was creepy.” I chew on my fingernail. “But the worst part is, she reworked all my writing so he sounds like a complete asshole—not just a bit of an asshole like he actually is.”

  She smiles at my attempt to lighten the mood, but her face falls again. “Can you show me some of what you’re talking about?”

  We settle into the couch and I show her the sections I’ve marked.

  She hisses as she reads. “This will kill Max. You can’t let this be published.”

  “What should I do?” I search her face for answers. I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful for her friendship and guidance.

  “You have to talk to Jonathan first thing tomorrow. Tell Adam you have a doctor’s appointment or something. I wouldn’t wait until lunch.”

  Memories of Friday evening resurface. “Ugh. Max and Jonathan had a tug-of-war Friday night at the Getty event, and I was the rope. Jonathan wasn’t too pleased with Max by the end of the evening.”

  “Great, fucking great. What’s wrong with Max anyway? He always makes thing difficult for himself.”

  “You can say that again,” I add, remembering my intervention with the Matthews over the MOMA comments.

  She looks at her watch and jumps up. “I was supposed to meet Sam ten minutes ago. Call me as soon as you’re done with Jonathan and let me know what happened. Meanwhile, I’ll think about how to break this to Max.”

  I give her a big hug. “Thanks so much, Jess. I’m so grateful for your help with this nightmare.”

  She pats my shoulder. “Sure thing, babe. Tomorrow . . .” She says before she hurries downstairs.

  Luckily, Jonathan agrees to meet me at nine thirty.

  Attempting to look as professional as possible, I dress in my black sweater, gray slacks and a jacket. He greets me warmly, and we move to the table by the window so that we can sit side by side as we go over the changes.

  Before we begin, Jonathan takes a moment to address the editing process with me. Perhaps he’s hoping to head me off at the pass. “Surely you understood when you took this on that your work would be stringently edited,” he states firmly, not as a question.

  “Yes, I understand that, Jonathan.” I fight to keep my expression neutral. “But this is more than editing. Phoebe has changed the tone of everything I’ve written. When you read it, you’ll see what I’m talking about.”

  “Ava, you must be exaggerating.”

  I don’t like his suggestion and I frown as I consider how to reply.

  “I hope you realize that Phoebe has far more experience editing than you do writing. I’ve always trusted her judgment implicitly.”

  “Really?” My anger bubbles up. “Well, do you know she has a personal vendetta against Max?”

  “What are you talking about?” His eyes narrow as his mouth tightens into a straight line.

  “Yes, they dated at one time, and when it ended, she didn’t take it well. He had to get a restraining order against her.”

  Jonathan’s face turns bright red, and the vein on his forehead looks like it’s about to burst.

  A loud commotion on the other side of the wall interrupts our conversation. Jonathan’s office door bursts open with Jacqueline trying to physically hold Max back.

  It’s no surprise Max overpowers her as he storms into the office.

  “Jonathan, what’s this about Phoebe Carter rewriting my book?”

  He’s on fire—his voice is booming, and his expression is so fierce it’s frightening.

  Jonathan takes off his glasses and presses his fingers to his temples as he closes his eyes. “Max, can’t you see I’m in the middle of a meeting? How dare you storm into my office?”

  “How dare I? When this meeting is about me . . . about something that affects my entire life!”

  “Very dramatic, Max,” Jonathan says with a scoff.

  “But it’s true,” I add.

  Max glances at me with a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes.

  Jonathan stands up and moves behind his desk. “As it is, Ava, was just explaining how inappropriate it is for Phoebe to be your editor. Obviously, I wouldn’t have assigned her to this project if I’d known your sordid history with her. Once again, Max, your miscalculations in your personal dealings never cease to amaze me.”

  Max’s rage is barely under control. Every muscle in his neck and arms tense as if he’s a panther ready for the kill.

  For a moment, I wonder about Jonathan being judgmental with Max, considering his willingness to seduce me even though we work together. It’s easy for things to go wrong professionally when lines cross p
ersonally.

  Jonathan folds his arms over his chest. “Now, you’re clearly not in any state to discuss this. Furthermore, you’re interrupting my meeting with my writer. I’ll call security to have you removed if you don’t leave this office immediately.”

  Max stands still as a statue while Jonathan heads to his phone and begins to dial.

  “Okay, I’ll leave so you can finish with Ava. But I want to talk to you today, Alistair, and hear what the resolution is . . . or I’m going to demand that Taylor and Tiden drop the project.” Max turns and storms back out, slamming the door behind him.

  I’m shaken. Even Jonathan looks unfocused as he taps his fingers on the edge of his desk. He slowly returns to our worktable as I try to compose myself. I wonder about Max and what I’ll say when we next speak. For all I know, he’s holding me responsible for this mess too.

  After glancing over the documents for a minute, Jonathan decides that he wants to take the time to go over Phoebe’s changes and then he’ll call me to arrange a meeting. He calls Jacqueline in and hands her the folder, instructing her to make copies immediately.

  “It may be wise for you to talk to Adam and arrange a personal day tomorrow so we can spend the day sorting this to make the Friday deadline.”

  I nod and get up to leave, but as I turn from the table, he takes my hand. “Ava, I’m sorry for all this drama. I don’t want you to worry. We’ll get it sorted out.”

  I offer him a small reassuring smile, even if I don’t feel it in my heart.

  “Are you feeling better from what ailed you the other night?” he asks running his hand down my arm. “I’m so sorry we didn’t get to finish our lovely evening Saturday.”

  “I’m feeling okay, thank you. How was the rest of the party?”

  “Fine, but the remainder of the evening would’ve been a lot more engaging with you there.”

  Just as he moves in closer, Jacqueline pops into the office to return my folder and the copies.

  I look at my watch. “I have to get back to the gallery. We’ll talk later?”

  “Yes, of course.” He kisses me lightly on the cheek, and I head out the door.

  When I get to the parking garage, I turn the corner near my car and stop in my tracks. Max is leaning against my car.

  I pull out my keys and step forward. “Hey, Max.”

  His expression is extremely disconcerting.

  “Ava, why didn’t you call me?” He looks like he’s in pain.

  “I was hoping to resolve it with Jonathan so you wouldn’t have to deal with it. Besides, Jess wanted to be the one to talk to you,” I explain, although it sounds rather unconvincing as I listen to myself. Maybe I should’ve called him first thing. I scrutinize him. “You have to know, Max, I would never have accepted what she did to your story without going to battle over it . . . even if it meant war.”

  His whole body sags with my words. “Come here.” He pulls me into a tight hug and doesn’t let go. I feel him rest his chin on top of my head.

  “I know, Ava, I know.” He sighs. “It just freaked me out when I learned Phoebe was messing with my life again. I thought she was ancient history, and now she’s back.

  He suddenly sounds panicked. “She didn’t do anything to you, did she?” As he asks, he holds me at arm’s length and inspects me as if he expects to find evidence of a physical attack. When he seems satisfied that I’m unmarked, he pulls me back into his arms.

  “I know you’d go to battle for me,” he states with conviction. “You’re my angel, right?”

  As much as I don’t understand his lingering fixation on my being his angel, I nod, press closer to him and try to offer what comfort I can.

  “Yes, I promise; I’ll always fight for you.”

  “You’re too damn good for me. I don’t deserve you, and it kills me that I keep dragging you through my garbage. I’m trying to get my life on track, but every time I feel like I’ve made a step forward, this kind of crap forces me two steps back. I keep wondering when you’ll reach your limit and decide that I’m just not worth the effort.”

  Something about the tone of his voice and the feeling of despair seeping out of him makes my heart hurt. I want to shield him from the demons nipping at his heels. But what can I do when I’m not ever sure who or what the demons are? So I hold him for another long moment, trying to warm his spirit, despite being swallowed up by the gray in this cold cement parking garage.

  When I try to pull away, he’s hesitant to release me from the hug, but when I explain I’m already late for work, he lets me go. I assure him that I’ll call as soon as I know more, and he promises to do the same. My heart is heavy as I finally head to the gallery.

  Jacqueline calls me that afternoon to tell me that Jonathan would like to meet at nine the following morning and to plan on being there most of the day.

  Luckily, Adam approves my request.

  By the time I get off work, I’m completely drained, so I stop at the market and buy a pre-made salad and a bottle of wine, only to get home and find Riley especially cheerful.

  “You’re in a good mood,” I say, feeling envious.

  “Dylan just called me. He’s taking me out tomorrow. He’s such a sweetheart, always thinking of special things for us to do. Remember, Franco? He thought a movie and Applebee’s was a special date.”

  I laugh, remembering Franco. He may have been tall and handsome, but in terms of boyfriend material, he definitely was a dud.

  “Dylan treats you really well, and it’s great to see you so happy.” For a moment my mind drifts to Max’s idea that Riley isn’t genuine about Dylan. If only Max could see that underneath all the fashion and social talk, she has a good heart and truly cares about Dylan.

  Talking to Riley reminds me that things have a way of working out. And although her Pollyanna tendencies can exhaust me, the sweet affection between her and Dylan is refreshing to witness.

  In contrast, I have an up and down friendship with Max that’s wearing me out. And as much as I don’t fully understand his intentions, I do know my being his friend has come to mean a lot to him. I wonder if his partying and constant stream of art sluts has slowed down. I’m also starting to believe the chemical reaction I have when I’m around him isn’t purely one-sided.

  I shake my head, trying to jolt that idea out of it. It certainly doesn’t serve my interests to hope that one day he’ll sweep me up in his arms. He may never be capable of the kind of emotional intimacy I crave.

  Then, to further complicate my life, there’s Jonathan and his obvious admiration of me. Doesn’t every young woman at one point have a handsome teacher or boss she fantasizes about? And if they show her special attention, the allure can be hard to resist.

  Two hours into our work, Jonathan and I are already through more than half the folders. I’m impressed with his ability to cut to the quick of the issue and make snap, decisive judgments. The exercise showcases his brilliance as a publisher and I’m in awe, happy just to keep up.

  He makes notes on the border of one of the pages. “See, Ava, just taking out this phrase pulls it together in a much more cohesive way.”

  He peers over the tops of his glasses. “Did I lose you, Ms. Jacobs?”

  “Actually, would you mind if I got some more coffee?”

  “No, go ahead. I need to make a phone call anyway.”

  When I return to the office, he’s on the phone, speaking Italian. From what I can tell, he’s fluent. The conversation goes on for another minute before he ends the call.

  “You speak Italian beautifully. Have you lived in Italy?”

  “Yes, Florence. I attended a special graduate program there. And I often take vacations in Tuscany, so it comes in handy to speak the language.”

  As he checks his watch, I marvel at his sophistication and accomplishments. He’s a man of the world, someone to admire and learn from. I’m flattered he feels I’m worth his time and attention. He seems to see something special in me and it makes me want to prove myself that
much more.

  He gives me a warm smile. “Shall we?” He motions to our work.

  As he reviews the next page, he shakes his head. “Apparently, Phoebe isn’t a fan of Caswell in any regard. You were right. This is unflattering in a gratuitous way.”

  I’m inwardly relieved. “I’m glad you agree. Whatever one can say about his personal life, Max’s work is powerful and uniquely his. She made him sound a few steps away from a theme park portrait artist.”

  Jonathan chuckles quietly. “Well, he definitely isn’t that. Besides, I think you handled your portrayal of his public persona well. Brevity is key. No reason to reveal too much, yes?” He taps his pen on the folder. “We’ve both seen Max at his best and his very worst, but that doesn’t mean the public needs to.”

  As the day wears on, Jonathan has a Japanese lunch brought in with sushi and sashimi, and we continue to work while we eat. This stage of the project has taken a huge amount of his valuable time, and I feel guilty. But he’s focused and determined to get it done.

  I enter the changes as we make them to the actual document on my laptop. But I’m not used to editing for so many hours at once, and I gradually lose my focus.

  I study him. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing his powerful forearms. The sexy tortoise-shell glasses are pushed back on his head, and his jaw is tight as he goes over a passage. I lose what’s left of my concentration, and I fixate on the shape of his lips, the sharp edge of his cheekbones and the weathered crinkles around his eyes that narrow when he reads. How it would feel to be kissed by this man?

  Jonathan looks up and notices that I’m watching him. My cheeks redden and I grab the last folder. He smiles with a knowing look in his eyes.

  “Am I that interesting to watch, Ava?”

  “Very interesting,” I reply quietly.

  “Good. Because you’re fascinating.” His gaze lingers on mine before he winks at me.

  I shake my head and refocus on the page. There’s nothing more seductive than a man who makes it clear that he wants you. As much as the feminist in me hates to admit it, his admiration is confidence boosting.