The Last Little Blue Envelope

by Maureen Johnson

  “It was one kiss,” she said, a challenge rising in her voice. “I mean, why do you care who I kiss? You have someone. You didn’t even tell me you had a girlfriend. . . .”

  And, there it was. That wasn’t the way she meant to say it. This wasn’t how she wanted this to go. It was out. It could never be put back.

  “Do what you want,” he said, throwing up his hands. He returned to the other car, back to his girlfriend. The glass door of the car shut behind him with a decisive hiss.

  Reality Comes to Visit

  That had gone very, very badly. That was like training for the Olympics, working up to one big moment that would matter for the rest of your life, and then just being careless and falling off the diving board or forgetting to correctly attach your skis. Poor form. No points. She began to sob, silently and pathetically, and completely unable to stop. She didn’t hear Oliver return—she was only vaguely aware that someone had sat down next to her, and it definitely wasn’t going to be Keith. He put a few napkins in her hand.

  She shoved them up against her face. They stuck.

  “I’m okay,” she said. The words were barely understandable.

  Oliver didn’t point out how absurd this statement was, or try to talk her down. He just sat with her, first stiffly putting a hand on her shoulder, then extending his arm. At some point, she just gave up and leaned against him a little.

  It took a few minutes for her to gather herself together again.

  “It’s fine,” she said, her voice thick. “I just . . . we weren’t a thing. Not a real thing. I just, really liked him. We said we were ‘kind of something.’ He wasn’t supposed to like other people. Isn’t that how it works? You just like the one person, forever, and then you stay together?” She tried to make it come off as a joke, but it didn’t really work.

  “I don’t have a lot of personal experience in the matter,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure that’s not how it usually goes.”

  She looked out of the window at the gray morning. There was some beautiful landscape going by, but it was hard to appreciate. Her head was thrumming and her eyes were still leaking and dribbling. This wasn’t how she was supposed to end this journey.

  “I don’t blame you for wanting to get back at him,” Oliver said. “Did it work?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” she said, hiccupping. Oh, good. The post-crying hiccups.

  “Last night.”

  He stared at her as if she were very, very stupid. Oh. The kiss.

  “What do you mean did it work?” she asked.

  “You did that to get to him. Did it work?”

  Is that why she had done it? That wasn’t how she remembered it. She remembered the bells, the rain . . . she remembered the kiss. She didn’t remember any motive. She just remembered that it had happened, and that it had been . . . nice. It had been good.

  She was going to leave that alone. “Anyway, he didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “He just should have told me. But now he probably hates me.”

  “So what if he does?” he replied.

  That was too much for her to even contemplate.

  * * *

  They stayed in their separate compartments for the rest of the journey. Ginny saw Keith and Ellis again when they got off the train at Euston Station. Ellis looked a little better, but her face was still ashen. She raised a weak hand in greeting.

  “I made it!” she said, her voice hoarse and scratchy. “I rode from Wales to London in a toilet. I should get a prize. I think . . . I think I have to go home now.”

  She leaned against Keith’s shoulder. He put an arm around her waist.

  “I’ll let you know when the auction is tomorrow,” Ginny said. “If you can come . . .”

  Ellis was nodding, but Keith said nothing. He picked up his bag, hoisted it over his free shoulder. They went one way, and Ginny and Oliver went another.

  In the end, it was Ginny and Oliver who returned to the house. Oliver stayed outside for a moment, waggling his cigarettes in explanation, but Ginny wondered if he stayed outside for another reason. She had to complete the piece, and perhaps, like at the graveyard, he thought she should be alone. Ginny went in and knelt down in front of the tabletop and glass, and removed the paper from her bag.

  The order seemed obvious. The paper went between the glass and the wood. That made sense. The paper was so fine that it practically vanished against the yellow background. The wine rings and stains on the table came through, shading the picture. She moved the glass back over and sandwiched the paper in place. The two dancing figures materialized from behind the ferns and plants and animals on the outside. She could see where the paint on the window had been affected by the rain and the elements, streaking and dotting lightly. There was a light layer of grime all over the picture as well, but it only seemed to add to the overall effect. The viewer was put into this strange jungle and was looking into some other reality entirely, with one of the figures beckoning the viewer inside. Beautiful wasn’t the right word for it. It wasn’t beautiful. It was rough and strange and bright. It was like a tangible dream.

  Oliver knocked lightly and came inside.

  “It’s amazing,” he said. “I would never in a million years have guessed that it would turn out that way.”

  “She was good like that,” Ginny said. She stood up and sat on the sofa to look at it from a distance. He sat next to her.

  “It needs a name,” she said.

  “What did your aunt name her other paintings?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “So why name this one?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “The others were in a group. They called them the Harrods paintings. This one is on its own. It needs to be called something.”

  She sat back and stared for a long time, until her eyes went blurry. One good thing about Oliver—he could take long silences.

  “When my aunt lived in New York,” she finally said, “she took me to a pool one summer. Except, no one has a pool in New York. It was a cleaned-out Dumpster. It was a pool, but it wasn’t a pool, you know?”

  “Not . . . exactly.”

  “I mean . . .” It was annoying when other people couldn’t get in your head and automatically catch up with your conversations. “I mean . . . people tell you what to expect. What things are supposed to be like. A pool is supposed to be this nice, clean thing in the backyard that’s painted blue on the bottom, but anything with water in it can be a pool, even a Dumpster. She called it the triumph of imagination. It was how she did things. It’s like, a fancy way of saying flaky. That’s what I want to call it. The Triumph of Imagination.”

  “It’s a good title.”

  Weirdly, her impulse was to put her arms around him. She wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t crying. Still, the impulse was there.

  Before she could do that, she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. There was a white van pulling up across the street . . . just like the ones that seemed to disturb Keith so much. Two men in coveralls got out and started walking toward the house.

  Oliver stared down at the coffee table. It was still littered with Christmas crackers and Ginny’s silver elephant.

  “I called them,” he said.

  The reminder was like a slap in the face. He wasn’t here to be her support system—he was here to collect. He had stayed outside to call the delivery truck. Why was this a surprise? This was always how it was going to end. She backed away from him and went to the door.

  “Miss Blackstone?” one of the men said. “We’re here from Jerrlyn and Wise. May we come in?”

  Ginny opened the door wider, and they stepped inside politely.

  “Is this the piece?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “We’ll just get started then,” he said.

  They took over. Ginny and Oliver were relegated to the side of the room. The pieces, which had been manhandled and shoved into cars and bags and thrown around were now treated like crown jewels. The men set down a pack
ing quilt on the floor and lifted it gingerly. One held it upright while the other measured its dimensions, examined its construction, and took some initial photographs. They had a long discussion on exactly how to pad it and box it and put it into the van. Ginny thought about asking them to let the piece stay long enough for Richard to see it, but it was all so official and efficient, there seemed to be no stopping them.

  Oliver sat on the sofa, looking at Ginny’s silver elephant. This was the reality of their relationship, Ginny reminded herself. It was all about finding this one piece of art and selling it off. The kiss, the trip on the train . . . it all faded away.

  “We’re finished now, miss,” the first man said, presenting her with a clipboard. Ginny filled it out automatically, ticking boxes and signing on lines, not even reading. She stopped only in the box marked TITLE OF WORK and wrote in The Triumph of Imagination. When she was finished, they carried The Triumph of Imagination out the door, snugly wrapped in gray quilting and tape.

  “There was a message from Cecil as well,” Oliver said quietly. “The auction is at two tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” she said.

  “I suppose I should go.”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  She watched him from the window as he left. He never turned back, just made his way down the street, tossing his lighter in his palm. Like nothing had happened at all. She felt a strangely familiar pang in her heart, but she couldn’t quite place it and didn’t feel like trying.

  The Dotted Line

  The next morning was the first clear day since Ginny’s arrival. The sky was bright and vividly blue with big, puffy clouds. Ginny stood in front of the white chalk steps that lead to the front door of Jerrlyn and Wise. Occasionally, someone in a suit would pass by her and go up the steps. One or two of them glanced at her, perhaps knowing that she was the eighteen-year-old selling the artwork on show today, but the others passed without a look.

  Ten minutes until the auction. Ten minutes, and no Keith. No Oliver either, for that matter, unless he was inside. She hadn’t truly believed that Keith wouldn’t come, but with every passing second, the reality set in.

  She considered just going back to Richard’s, then she hurried up and pressed the button before she could entertain this thought for very long. Cecil’s assistant, James, opened the door, greeted her by name, and escorted over to Cecil. The hallway was packed with people—easily double the amount that had been there for the last auction.

  “It’s so crowded,” Ginny said, rocking on her heels nervously.

  “Yes, a good turnout, especially considering the short notice,” Cecil replied. “The last collection got a good deal of press in the industry, so we had a lot of interest.”

  Ginny scanned the hall, but Oliver was nowhere in sight. In the middle of this crowd, over by the table of coffee and strawberries, was a figure she instantly recognized. It was impossible to miss the massive crown of wiry, long, black and orange hair, the mix of gold Spandex leggings, the black mohair sweater that came down to her knees, and the face with the tattooed stars around the eyes. Ginny wasn’t sure why she was here, but she definitely knew who it was. The woman gave a gasp and a wave, and set down a plate filled almost entirely filled with cream and waved.

  “Hello, darling!” she called in her booming Scottish brogue.

  “I think you know Mari,” Cecil said.

  “Cecil told me about the auction,” Mari said, answering the unasked question. “He’s my art dealer down here in London. I put him together with Peg. I’ve know Cecil since he was just a pup. He didn’t look like this when I first met him. You were pure poor art student then, weren’t you, love?”

  “I was indeed,” Cecil said.

  “You’re going to take good care of this piece, aren’t you?” Mari pinched Cecil’s cheek. It looked like a hard pinch too. One that might leave a mark. Ginny couldn’t help but be impressed at the way he took it without wincing.

  “We certainly hope to,” he replied. “Do you have everything you need? Glass of champagne?”

  “Maybe just a small one, love. Virginia, you remember my Chloe, don’t you?”

  Mari indicated a girl leaning casually against the flocked wallpaper, next to a painting of a tiny boy in blue velvet with a bug-eyed dog. Chloe was Mari’s assistant: part artist, part butler, part bouncer. She was dressed in biker boots, rolled jeans, and a shredded T-shirt that revealed a right arm tattooed from shoulder to fingertips in one large image of a mermaid splashing around in a purple and green ocean. The bleach blond mullet had been replaced by a shaved head with just a hint of peach fuzz.

  An assistant stealthily put a glass of champagne in Mari’s hand. It was in one of those wide and flat old-fashioned glasses that sort of looked like bowls.

  “Let’s go have a look at it,” Mari said.

  She guided Ginny over to the door of the auction room. The auction room was such a strange place, so heavily carpeted, so padded. There were a handful of upholstered chairs and four long tables. A dozen people sat in front of computers, talking quietly into phones. The piece sat on an easel at the end of the room, clamps along the edges holding it all together. In this light, Ginny could see just how dirty the window was. They’d made no attempt to clean it. The layer of grime and the runny paint . . . it was all part of the piece.

  “It’s always very strange to see them when they get here,” Mari said, taking a long, loud sip of the champagne. “A bit like an operating theater. Have a bit of champagne.”

  Ginny felt a presence behind her—the hairs at the back of her neck tingled a bit. She didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

  “Oh, hello,” Mari said. “Are you a friend?”

  Once again, Oliver was formally dressed. He fit right in at Jerrlyn and Wise. Maybe the hair was a little too dark, the coat still a little strange fitting. “I’ll be outside,” he said to Ginny. “Just wanted you to know I was here.”

  “Aren’t you going to stay for the auction?” Mari asked.

  Oliver looked at Mari warily—processing the facial tattoos, the names on her hands and feet, the unnatural sunburst orange streaks emanating from her head. She saw him complete his analysis and decide that the best course of action was to walk away from both of them as quickly as possible.

  “Oh, he’s shy,” Mari said. “He’s different from the last one. Where do you find them all?”

  It took Ginny a second to realize that Mari thought Oliver was with Ginny—in much the same way that she thought Keith was with Ginny. She was about to issue a denial, but then decided against it. For one thing, it was nice to have someone who thought she was such a collector of boyfriends. For another, Oliver’s abrupt exit made her nervous.

  People started to trickle past them into the room, taking their places at the tables, opening the computers and taking out their phones. Cecil put a hand delicately on Ginny’s shoulder.

  “Forgive us,” he said. “Virginia and I just have a bit of business to complete. Please have a seat, Mari.”

  “I think I’ll stand, darling. I like to think on my feet.”

  “Of course. This way, Virginia?”

  He escorted Ginny over to his office and quietly shut the door. He didn’t sit down, though. “Perhaps it’s best if I speak directly,” he said. “I don’t know who Mr. Davies is, but I don’t think he had anything to do with the creation of the work in the saleroom today. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I want you to know that that contract you signed does not bind you to selling this piece today. If you do not want to proceed, you can and should say so. We’ve pulled things from the block before. I don’t want to go ahead with this sale if there’s something irregular going on. . . .”

  Before Ginny could react, there was a rapid knock on the door, and James poked his head in.

  “I found him,” he said, ushering Oliver into the room. James shut the door behind them. Now they were all crowded into the tiny space by Cecil’s door. Cec
il tapped his fist against his lips for a moment. Oliver pressed himself into the corner

  “Virginia and I were just having a conversation about the contract,” he said. “I was explaining to her that it wasn’t necessary for us to—”

  “It’s hers,” Oliver said, cutting him off.

  “Pardon?”

  Oliver had gone completely pale, and was pulling his coat tight around himself, as if trying to disappear.

  “I’m withdrawing from the sale. All the money’s hers. Just sell it and leave me out of it.”

  “What?” Ginny said.

  Cecil moved over to his desk and produced a piece of paper.

  “I thought something like this might come up,” he said. “I’ll just need your signature on this rider, which supersedes the contract, directing all profits minus commission to Virginia Blackstone. You forfeit any claim.”

  “Good,” Oliver said. He squeezed between the two wingback chairs to lean against the desk and sign his name.

  “We’re done here, right?” he asked.

  “I won’t need anything further from you,” Cecil said. “If that’s what you are asking.”

  “That’s what I’m asking.”

  Cecil’s office was so small that it was impossible for him to exit without squeezing past Ginny. As he did so, he shoved something into her hands. She looked down. It was the last blue envelope.

  “Now,” Cecil said. “We can proceed, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Go ahead,” Ginny said, running out of the office after Oliver. He was moving quickly. He had already left the building, and when Ginny got outside, he was halfway down the street.

  “Wait!” Ginny said, jogging after him. “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “Okay,” Ginny said, running around to get in front of him and stop his progress for a second. “You need to tell me what’s going on.”