While she stops and chats with someone, I play back in my mind what I know from googling her. A quick search. Age 29. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her father, Stanton Phillips, billionaire film financier. Her mother, Esme Rawlings, Hollywood royalty, the daughter of one of Hollywood’s legendary studio chiefs. Kayla . . . an only child. Highly educated. Fluent in five languages. Swiss boarding school, followed by Yale undergrad and the prestigious Sotheby’s Institute of Art master’s degree program in London. Quickly hired by their competitor Christie’s, where she became head of the Contemporary Art Department, bringing in record revenues. Followed by a daring solo entry into the art world where she brokered major deals and privately curated major collections. Revered by all. A regular on the A-List party scene from international art fairs to Hollywood bashes. The epitome of brains and beauty. Catching my eyes on her, she shoots me a knowing smile as she saunters my way.
“Finn?”
“Yeah.” Nodding, I rise from my chair as she extends her slender, manicured hand. I take it in mine and we shake. Just like the rest of her, her firm shake is one of confidence and power.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says as I help her into the chair opposite mine. Her voice is breathy, laced with a slight British accent. It hints at wealth and culture.
“Not a problem. I haven’t been waiting long.”
“Thank you for meeting me here. I have a meeting afterward with one of my clients, who owns an art gallery on Melrose. Perhaps you’ve heard of him . . . Jaime Zander.”
“The son of the late painter PAZ?” Payton Anthony Zander.
“Yes.”
“I’m a big fan of his father’s work.”
“I am, too, and have sold several pieces to art collectors all over the world. The average price for one of his paintings has shot up from a few hundred dollars to over one hundred thousand in just a few years.”
I register the dollar amounts. Wow! They’re in the stratosphere.
“That’s amazing.”
“Of course, I’ve been instrumental. I represent the estate.”
Before I can respond, the waiter comes by again. At the sight of Kayla, his expression warms. His eyes light up. Fucking kiss-up.
“So good to see you again, Ms. Phillips. Will you be having your regular?”
“Yes, and please Chad, bring my Bellini with the salad.”
“Of course,” says the server as I peruse the menu. Everything sounds delicious and I ultimately decide on a gourmet cheeseburger with fries. Nothing to drink. I’ll stick to water.
As soon as the waiter dashes off with our orders, Kayla resumes our conversation. She obviously doesn’t like to waste time.
“So, Finn, I must say I was very impressed by what I saw. And you are very prolific.”
“Thanks,” I say humbly.
“How long have you been painting?”
“I think I was born holding a paintbrush.” I actually have no memories of my early years. I’m grateful she doesn’t pursue them.
Instead, my attractive companion laughs. Her laugh is throaty. And sexy.
“And what about professionally?”
I do the math in my head. I sold my first painting at twelve. I peddled it outside the Midtown Tunnel. Manhattan. I’m thirty-two now. I quickly do the math and answer, “About twenty years.”
“That’s quite a long time. Have you ever exhibited?”
“I sell on Etsy and have had friends come down to my studio. I also sell at the Fairfax Flea Market every Sunday.”
“Seriously?” There’s contempt in her voice. Haughtiness. Nervously, I take a sip of my water while she continues.
“Andy Warhol once said, ‘Making money is art.’ He’s right. You’re totally wasting your time. You need to think big.”
As I ponder her words, our waiter returns with our orders. A roasted beet and goat cheese salad along with a flute of peachy champagne for my companion and a cheeseburger with parsley fries for me. Kayla immediately takes a sip of her tinted bubbly.
“Are you sure you don’t want one? The Fig makes the best Bellinis in Los Angeles.”
I’m tempted but decline and instead take a couple more gulps of my water.
“Bon appétit,” she chimes.
“Bon appétit,” I repeat before biting into my burger. It’s delicious. Perfectly grilled, medium rare the way I like it.
Kayla picks at her salad, her acid green eyes on my hands.
“Finn, you have extraordinary hands. I bet your long fingers are talented in more ways than one.”
I almost choke on my next bite. Did she just hit on me? I falter for a response.
“I play the guitar and I’m very handy. I can fix just about anything.”
A smug smile lifts the corners of her full red lips. “Oh, I bet you can.”
Her eyes don’t move. She notices the gold band on my ring finger.
“So, I see you’re married.”
“Yeah.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
She’s clearly not done a lot of digging about me. The truth is, not much comes up when you google me. Google my wife, however, and there are hundreds of entries and I’m mentioned in some.
“What does your wife do?”
“She’s a news reporter . . . an investigative journalist for Conquest Broadcasting News.”
She cocks her head. “Interesting. What’s her name?”
“Skye Collins. She uses her maiden name.”
“Well, I must say that was a wise decision. No one would take anyone with the last name Hooker seriously. Especially a newscaster.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen her on TV. Quite the in-your-face one.”
I let the digs go. “Yeah, she’s really passionate about what she does. And is really good at it.”
“Like you.” She pauses to take another sip of her sparkling beverage. “So, any children?”
“Yeah. One. We had a baby nine months ago . . . a girl.”
Another eye roll. “Shame on me. I should have known better. I thought your wife was getting fat when she was in fact pregnant.”
I’m taken aback by her words. They border on another insult, but I bite my tongue and say, “She carried very small. Hardly anyone knew she was pregnant. Plus, she never mentioned it on the air or took a maternity leave. She purposely low-keyed it.”
“Whatever.” To my relief, she changes the subject, refocusing on me. “So, Finn, have you ever had representation?”
“You mean like an agent or manager?”
Another pick at her greens. “Yes, exactly.”
“No.”
“Well, you should. You have untapped talent and I would like to be the one to see you reach your potential.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know many collectors who will pay top dollar for your work. The marketplace right now supports emerging artists. Everyone wants to be the first to own someone new and fresh. Art on the edge. A gifted artist who will one day become legendary.”
I put down my burger and digest her words. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? On my next rapid heartbeat, my hunch is confirmed.
“Finn, I’d like to represent you.”
“Holy shit!” I spit out the words.
“However, you must be open to reinvention.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll be honest with you. And you should know I never hold back.”
My heart thuds in anticipation while she takes another sip of her Bellini.
“Your name . . . it’s got to go. It will never sell paintings. You need something new . . . a memorable one with an artistic ring.”
“What’s wrong with Finn?”
“Ugh! Seriously? The first thing that comes to mind is that Huckleberry douche from that god awful book my sixth grade teacher forced on me.”
I don’t tell her that Huckleberry Finn was my childhood hero. A dreamer like me. And that coincidentally, Hooker was the last name of a wealthy woman he fabricated
to save his slave friend Jim. Instead I say, “It’s short for Phineas.”
“Phineas. I love it. It’s so breathy and sexy!” She flashes another seductive smile. “Who is your favorite artist?”
So many names whirl around my head. Picasso . . . Chagall . . . Matisse . . . O’Keefe. Finally, I blurt out one: Jackson Pollack.
Back to her drink, she scrunches her face in deep thought. Then, she sets the flute down and breaks into a triumphant smile. Her next words sail off her lips. “Phineas Jackson. It’s perfect!”
I say the name to myself. Phineas Jackson. It does have a ring.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Wonderful. Now, with that little issue out of the way, let’s talk business.”
I let her talk away. I don’t know the first thing about business. Maybe that’s why I’ve never succeeded.
“It’s a straight forward deal. I take a commission of twenty-five percent. I know it’s a little higher than the standard, but I am not your standard agent.” Narrowing her eyes, she shoots me a wry smile. “And may I add, not in any way. Daddy taught me you get what you pay for in life.”
My pulse in overdrive, I’m still processing my incredible good fortune to be repped by the best in the art world—wait till I tell Skye!—when a thickset, greasy-haired man swaggers up to us. Dressed like so many here, he sports a navy gabardine jacket over an open-collar white shirt and jeans. His paunch hangs over his belt, the shirt buttons straining. As he gets closer, his cloying cologne wafts up my nose, nauseating me a bit. I feel like I’ve met him before, but where? Kayla’s eyes instantly light up at the sight of him. Leaping up from her seat, she gives him an effusive kiss on both jowly cheeks.
“Sheldon! How wonderful to see you. I missed you at Art Basel in Miami.”
“Yeah, I had to fucking miss it. Network shit.” His voice is loud and gruff with a thick New York accent. “You see anything good?”
“To be honest, darling, same old, same old. No one set the world on fire though the parties were divine.” She turns to me. “Oh, forgive me, darling. Let me introduce you to one of the foremost collectors of contemporary art in the world . . . Sheldon Greenberg.”
Sheldon Greenberg? The Sheldon Greenberg? The producer of all those crime shows I’ve watched on TV?
“Sheldon, I’d like you to meet Phineas Jackson. My newest client.”
The meaty man doesn’t offer his hand. He doesn’t smile. Just a jut of his stubbly double chin and one throaty throwaway word: “Hey.”
Kayla ignores his prickish behavior as I study him. His face is vaguely familiar. Again, I wonder—have I met him before? Seen his photo somewhere? Before I can search my mind, my companion pipes in.
“Sheldon, you’re going to cream your pants when you see his work. There’s absolutely nothing like it out there anywhere.”
“I’m ready, sweetheart. Call me anytime.”
“Trust me, Sheldon, Phineas is going to set the art world on fire.”
I suddenly want a Bellini to quench the burn in my chest. One of my favorite Springsteen songs spins in my head.
“I’m on Fire.”
CHAPTER 5
Though I didn’t consume any alcohol, I’m on a high when I depart the still hopping restaurant. Kayla insisted on paying the bill, despite my protests, and we set up a time when she could come down to the studio and see my work. She also told me her attorney would be sending me a contract to review and sign. Thank God, Skye has a good one whom she trusts to negotiate her employment contract at Conquest. I’m not sure if he’s ever had experience in the art world, but it doesn’t seem like my agreement will be hard to handle. It’s a basic five-year deal with a set commission rate.
Heading back to my vehicle with a big smile on my face, I punch the air. “Yes!” Finally. I have a chance to show the art world who I am. Make a mark. Make a name.
I can’t wait to share the great news with Skye. Out of fear of letting her down, I didn’t tell her anything about my meeting with Kayla Phillips. But now I want to shout out everything. My life is about to change. Our lives are about to change. Tonight, we’ll go out to celebrate. Both her birthday and my deal. Surprise her with the red dress I bought. Go to our favorite sushi joint. Come home and fuck our brains out. Almost at my truck, I pluck my phone from my pocket and speed-dial her number. She picks up on the third ring.
“Finn?”
A siren blasts my ear. A fire engine. It’s turning from La Cienega onto the side street I’m walking down.
The bright red truck zooms down the pavement past me. “Baby, hold on . . . Can you hear me?”
“Yes, I can now, but I can only talk for a minute. I’m about to go into a meeting.”
I huff with frustration. She’s always about to go into a meeting, or is in the middle of one, or out in the field.
“What’s up?”
“I have some exciting news.”
“Hold on. Charlene is calling me.”
Charlene is our British nanny. We hired her through some fancy agency and are paying her big bucks. She probably makes more money than me. We’ve, however, been less than thrilled with her performance. Constant emergencies and prior obligations. A lot of drama. We’ve thought of firing her, but neither of us has had the time to come up with a replacement. Skye is in the middle of some big story, which she won’t share with me, and I’ve been focused on my latest work.
Skye returns. “Oh my God.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, alarm rising in my voice, thinking something has happened to our baby.
“Charlene . . . she just quit.”
“What!?” Though I’m relieved our child isn’t in any danger, my thoughts are already miles away from the good news I wanted to share.
“Her boyfriend proposed and they’re eloping tonight. Flying to Mexico.”
Processing her words, I curse under my breath. Skye’s voice is in a panic.
“This is the worst possible timing.”
Tell me. Our celebratory romantic dinner has just gone down the drain.
“Finn, I’m fucked. I need to go out tonight . . . Business.”
Again? “What about your birthday?”
“We’ll celebrate it tomorrow.” She pauses. “Can you stay home and take care of Maddie?”
Our beautiful baby. Though I love her to death, disappointment threads through me. Reluctantly, I murmur, “Sure.”
“Great. I’ve got to go. My meeting is starting.”
The phone goes dead. And I wonder—what’s happened to “I love you” before saying goodbye.
CHAPTER 6
Six p.m. I’m slouched on my favorite chair in our family room, my legs stretched out on the coffee table. A heated-up Indian concoction from Trader Joe’s on my lap. A Heineken in my hand. Yup, my romantic dinner; pity party for one. The big screen TV’s on. Some rerun of Criminal Justice, Las Vegas with Nicole Farrell guest-starring. I swear there could be a whole 24/7 Criminal Justice network, a series that my wife, for some reason, won’t watch. That Greenberg guy I met today must be worth a fortune. No wonder he’s one of the world’s foremost art collectors. I can only begin to imagine what’s in his collection. Maybe later I’ll google him and find out. That one of my paintings may one day be among them is still hard for me to believe. I take a glug of my chilled beer, and as the frothy beverage shoots down my throat, I hear a car pull into the driveway. It must be Skye. Sure enough, the front door unlocks and the clickety-clack-clack of her heels reverberates in my ears, getting louder and faster as they near me. I’m eager to tell her about my exciting news. But instead of popping in to say hello to me, she whisks upstairs.
My heart sinks a bit and I take comfort in my beer, my eyes glued to the TV. I don’t think I’ve seen this episode before. A missing wife. A suspect husband. As the show goes into a commercial break, heels sound again, clambering down the stairs. My head swerves toward the hallway and I catch sight of Skye scurrying my way. She looks hot as sin.
In a tight black mini-dress that accentuates her curves, and strappy metallic heels. Her honey-brown hair pulled back, she’s wearing more makeup than usual, her lips painted Russian red, and her lashes thickened with black mascara. My spirit brightens, and I feel my dick twitch beneath my sweats. Maybe she’s had a change of heart and decided to go out for a romantic dinner with me. Arranged for a babysitter for Maddie. It’s not too late. I’ve eaten only half of my frozen dinner and am more than willing to scrap the rest. To be honest, it tastes like crap.
“Hey, baby,” I say as she swoops into the room. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks,” she mutters, fiddling with the gold locket that hangs from her neck and draws attention to her cleavage. I gave it to her when Maddie was born. It cost a bloody fortune, and I had to finally barter with the jeweler, giving him three of my paintings to afford it. Inside is a small photo of the three of us taken on the day we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital.
Skye has a tendency to toy with it when she’s thinking or stressing. Close-up, she looks on edge. Maybe she had a rough day.
“How was your day?” I silently wish she’d asked me first, and I could share my great news. My type-A wife is not one for small talk.
“Fine.” Her voice is clipped. “What time is it?”
I glance down at my watch. “Six-thirty.”
“Shit. I’m late.”
Late? “Late for what?” All dolled up, is she going to some kind of cocktail party? Or awards event? My fantasy of a romantic dinner out has just evaporated into thin air.
Nervously, she snaps open her small beaded purse and checks inside it. “I’m about to break a story.”
What story? This is not the first time she’s gone out this week, looking like this. Wearing sexy dresses I’ve never seen before. Same excuse. Breaking a story. Since when does she need fuck-me shoes to do her job? My mind wanders. Maybe, she’s hiding something. Then, as she snaps her bag shut, I notice she’s not wearing her wedding band. A shudder rolls through me. Maybe she’s seeing someone. Had enough of me. I’ll be the first to admit that since Maddie was born our marriage has been strained, juggling our careers with parenthood and trying to make ends meet. Life in LA is expensive. And stressful.
Remember Me Page 3