As we made our way over to a private booth, the waitress instantly recognized me.
“The usual, Farrah?” she asked with a wink.
“You know it,” I coolly replied, and casually glanced over at Penny to gauge her reaction. She looked positively green with envy. The best part, though, was completely bypassing the line of hopefuls, all eagerly waiting to get in.
The DJ was spinning mashups of my two favorite songs of the moment, and the ground pulsated as strobe lights beat down on us with their full electric force. Drinks were headed right for our table before we could even sit down. We were right where we needed to be. Wearing a metallic colored V-neck dress, so silky and tight it felt like a second layer of skin, I couldn’t wait to hit the dance floor. Hair, makeup, and nails were all on point; the only rough patch I’d managed to hit were my high heeled strappy sandals that I hadn’t quite broken into. I kept wiggling my toes uncomfortably, quietly willing the stinging pain to go away.
“Farrah, you are too much,” remarked Kiera, a friend of Penny’s, whose wide eyes revealed absolute astonishment in the midst of it all. I decided to take her words as a compliment.
“I know.” Throwing down a shot, I popped right up from the booth. Last time I checked, no one ever had a good time just sitting around.
“Let’s get this party started!” I cheered, before heading straight for the dance floor.
*
“Oh my God… my head is killing me.”
“What’s wrong, Farrah? Too much party juice last night?” Manny, my co-worker and art-gallery partner in crime asked with a sly grin.
“No, I wasn’t that bad last night. Just stayed up till four in the morning—and danced in these really adorable new shoes that were plain murder on my feet. Such a bad idea,” I groaned, holding my head in my hands tenderly as if cradling a delicate flower. “Oh my God it hurrrrrrts. Manny, do something!”
“You need coffee. Black. The city never sleeps, so wake up. We need to set up; help me figure out where to hang these prints.”
“Wait. Hold on a sec.” I tilted my head slightly to the left, as I often did whenever I was on the brink of a curious idea or creative moment of any kind. “I think that print might go better in the far right corner. Do you notice how the subtle hints of cornflower blue shading complement the wall? Makes the print pop more to the viewer… it’s more inviting. Perhaps even a bit more sophisticated.”
“Over here?” Manny asked. He lifted the print off the hardwood floor and then walked over to the exact spot I had pointed out. “You know, I think you’re right,” he mused, holding the piece up against the wall. “Hints of cornflower blue, huh? I didn’t even notice that. Not bad for someone who was up all night on party juice.”
“Will you stop calling it that! I had, like, one drink. Two, maybe! Look at that print. Do I know what I’m doing, or do I know what I’m doing?” Running over to where he stood, I could barely contain my excitement. “Is it wrong of me to really, really want to impress Bennie on this one?”
“Impress the big, mighty lady boss that we all fear and yet wish to emulate all at once? Why would you ever dream of doing such a thing?”
Come to think of it, the island of Manhattan was bursting with mighty lady bosses, as Manny so aptly described Bennie—many even taking the outer boroughs by storm. Women that simultaneously evoked fear and admiration. Women who, by sheer force and determination, made you want to be your best self, and then some!
Bennie MacKenzie, our mighty boss lady, however, was the lady boss of the art world moment. Owner of Acceptance Unconditional, the art gallery Manny and I toiled many, many long hours for, Bennie demanded creativity, drive, and perfection from herself and anyone fortunate (or unfortunate, depending on your perspective) who crossed her path.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t envy everything about her. From creating a precious studio out of nothing, transforming the space from another basic hole-in-the-wall into the it-gallery for every young artist, dreamer, and big-time star under thirty. Right down to the way she had mastered creating a flawless DIY I’m-wearing-make-up-but-sure-don’t-appear-like-it look, to her perfected use of a straightening flatiron to transform her already gorgeous hair into cascades of endless waves that were purely magical.
“If I were to achieve half of what Bennie MacKenzie has, when I turn forty-five, I’ll leave this world one very happy lady,” I said affirmatively.
“You don’t have to tell me.” Manny motioned knowingly towards my hair which, admittedly, I had styled myself, trying to create the same wavy style. Only when I did it, the results hadn’t been quite as flawless. Pretty, yes. Magical? Certainly not.
“Samantha is envious of the new balayage, by the way,” he continued. “The caramel tones really compliment your natural hair color, not to mention your complexion.”
“And noticing all the small details like that is why your girlfriend, Samantha, loves you, and you need to put a ring on it, ASAP!” I replied teasingly, knowing just how much it would bug him.
Predictably, Manny rolled his eyes. “No thank you. Just because I can appreciate the work of a good hairdresser, doesn’t mean I’m ready to pack it all up for the whole two kids, one dog, wife in Scarsdale life sentence. Not yet, Farrah. Not yet.”
“Scardale? Really? I always saw you as more of a Fairfield County kind of guy.”
“Hmmm. Not bad, Farrah. Not bad.”
“You’ll get there soon enough. So, anyway, back to this crazy place. Do you think Bennie will go for my idea regarding next month’s sculpture exhibit?” We still had a month to go, but the sculpture exhibit, featuring some of the latest works from up and coming artists around the country, remained front and center in my mind. Paloma Castenella, one of my absolute favorite artists from Rome, was even rumored to make an appearance!
Every night, I made sure to carve out at least thirty minutes of quiet time to sketch and plan my personal vision for the show. Getting antsy just thinking about it, I shifted back and forth between my right and left foot, all the while fidgeting with the A-line hem of my dress that was just a tad bit short.
“Farrah, don’t even start, Bennie totally adores you and every idea you have to offer. If she can put up with you singing into a hairbrush while 90s boy band music blasts in the background, then as far as I can see, there’s really nothing you can do that will seem wrong in her eyes. She will love the project. You are a genius. I assure you,” he promised.
“You make singing along to 90s boy band tunes sound like it’s a bad thing!” Truthfully, I couldn’t recall the last time I partook in any activity—ate breakfast, got dressed, drove a car—without belting out 90s dance music on the top of my lungs. For the record, I couldn’t actually carry a single note that sounded more inviting than, say, unevenly manicured nails across a parochial school chalkboard, but my blatant lack of musical talent sure didn’t stop me from trying to sing my heart out!
Manny very carefully studied the prints we had hung up along the walls. His artist eye, I always felt, was far better than mine, and he had this uncanny way of conceptualizing the forest and trees all at once. Yet, Manny remained down to earth and never rubbed in his superior talent, which was nice to see in a world so endlessly competitive. It was hard enough being taken seriously when everyone, friends included, always assumed that everything I had ever accomplished was nothing more than the lucky benefit of being my father’s daughter. It could be so frustrating when every move I made always felt peppered with the anxiety of having to prove myself—my worth.
“Well,” he finally said, “I wouldn’t say it’s a bad thing. What I am saying is that it’s pretty obvious to me that you can do no wrong here. Not in Bennie’s eyes.”
“You think so?”
Manny nodded emphatically. “I’ve been here three years longer than you have. I know so. And with that, I’m seriously starving. This whole fasting/not eating breakfast diet is killing me. You have no idea how much I want to devour a monster-sized bread bow
l of pasta carbonara right now.”
I glanced up at the clock and noticed that it was noon. How did time manage to slip away from us so quickly?
“If you want, I can run down to Heart of Buddha and grab us some lunch. You don’t think Bennie will be back while I’m gone, do you? She has this way of making me feel guilty whenever I go to eat or use the bathroom, for that matter.”
“I know. She’s obviously judging me as less than a man whenever I eat a pastry in front of her… but it is Heart of Buddha, and their cinnamon dolce lattes are much more addictive than I would like to admit. They practically taste homemade.” Manny said wistfully, clearly envisioning one as he spoke. “You don’t mind going? I think we’re all set here and way ahead of schedule. We can afford to take an actual lunch break, with real food—for once. Some of my buddies think I’ve completely lost my mind when I tell them about how crazy this place can get.”
I grabbed my camel colored Italian stadium-cloth wool coat and wrapped it snuggly around my body. For what was supposed to be a regular September day, it felt like winter was just around the corner. After fumbling around in the dark abyss that was my oversized tote bag, I found my favorite peppermint flavored lip balm and applied generously. The cold was always brutal on my skin.
“Seriously, we deserve to eat! Should I get the turkey presto aioli wraps?”
“Def. With extra melted provolone.”
“Okay. If anything comes up, just text! If Bennie gets here before I do, tell her I’m on an errand for my father. It’s the only excuse she’ll be willing to buy!”
*
After an epic mouth-wateringly successful lunch/coffee run (I still couldn’t understand why Sage had been so dead set against Heart of Buddha—Manny and I loved it there!), I ran back toward the gallery, balancing a tray—made with 100% recycled cardboard—of two oversized cinnamon dolce lattes and a Heart of Buddha’s signature brown paper shopping bag—made with 100% recycled paper—bursting with goodies. Why just stop at lunch? I had thought to myself. Why not throw in some dessert, and maybe even tomorrow’s breakfast, too?”
Too consumed in deep thoughts of soon-to-be delightful carbo-loading sugar highs, and of course, the added pressure to get back to the gallery before Bennie, I failed to pay attention to my surroundings and was entirely caught off guard when a high-pitched, super obnoxious squeal several steps ahead of me stopped me in my tracks.
“O-M-G, FARRAH! Is that you? Your hair looks fabulous. As if it wasn’t enough that you look like you’ve dropped two dress sizes since I last saw you! You weren’t already skinny enough!”
It was Allison, one of those friends that I was supposed to adore but secretly couldn’t stand. She was always showing off about something—clothes, cars, brushes with A-list celebrities—ever since we met a few years back as college freshmen. It wasn’t that Allison was a bad person, per se, or even an annoying person. She simply embodied every single possible ideal a person could ever hope to live up to—in other words, a constant walking billboard of everywhere you fell short.
It was also slightly irritating that she acted as if she had just noticed my hair, considering it wasn’t that long since we’d last seen each other.
My mother would say that Allison was the girl you loved to hate. If you asked someone like Sage, she might say that Allison was a woman who always reminded you to shift your animosity toward the patriarchy that had created such unattainable standards, to begin with. Either way, you couldn’t win. Which, I had to admit, was somewhat hard for me, since I always tended to benefit from those unreasonable standards.
“Hi, Allison,” I said, dryly. “Yes, well, if I look smaller that’s because I’m fasting in the morning. Manny, who also works for the gallery, read a blog post a couple of weeks ago that went into all the nitty gritty scientific details about it. We’re trying the diet together.” I realized just how ridiculous I sounded explaining our morning fast ritual, while holding an oversized brown paper bag filled with carblicious treats in one hand, and precariously balancing a tray of mammoth-sized lattes in the other. The extra whip probably didn’t help my cause, either.
“Really?” Allison asked skeptically, and if I wasn’t mistaken, she let out a subtle snort of disapproval. “You’ve always been in such great physical shape. We all need to be a bit more cognizant of the dangers some of these fads can cause. I read a great blog post the other day, completely debunking the validity of those detox juice cleanses. Everyone thinks they’re getting closer to the perfect body, but all the detox does is make you shed water weight.” Allison shrugged. “Oh well. Your body, your choice.”
Your body, your choice. I knew that in her own Allison way, she had meant them to be encouraging words of empowerment, but somehow I was left feeling like a big letdown to enlightened women everywhere; not exactly the “girl power superhero” I had often encouraged my female friends to be whenever life let them down.
“Right,” I replied shortly. “Well, I’m going to see if it works. So, I must ask. What brings you here? When you texted the other day, you didn’t mention anything about being in the area for an extended time. I thought you were just in the city for your brother’s Bushwick thing.”
“Really? I live here now. Seriously, I didn’t tell you? It must have slipped my mind. Farrah, you wouldn’t believe it. I have been soooo incredibly busy these past few months. It’s simply impossible for me to keep up with every little change, let alone fill everyone else in! Well, let’s see, I did go down to D.C. for about a week. The women’s march—OMG, what an experience. It felt like true sisterhood. But I don’t have to tell you that, with your father running for Congress—his political signs are all over the place! Won’t you be living there soon enough?” Allison tenderly placed her hand over her heart and sighed. It was such a completely genuine, yet at the same time, incredibly irritating gesture.
“I don’t have much of an interest in politics, Al, you know that. I’m fine right here. But I will admit, D.C. is an exciting place. Was the march that inspiring?” I asked, trying to appear more validating than condescending. Maybe the problem was that I was just jealous—plain and simple.
“It was marvelous. You should have gone. Well, now I’m back!”
Fantastic.
“So where are you living? I always thought you’d stay in the Boston area.” I said.
“Boston? I did that for a little while but needed a change. I mean, I’ve lived in the area practically my whole life. I’m in SoHo! I’ve been living there since June,” Allison shared, her voice radiating with pride.
SoHo. Of course. Not that I could exactly balk over the grandiosity and excitement of it all, living in Tribeca myself. Still. Allison always managed to one-up me. “How amazing is that,” I replied.
“Oh, it is. You mentioned a coworker. You’re working down here too?”
“Yes. Manny. We work at Acceptance Unconditional. It’s an art shop down by—”
Allison’s jaw dropped so fast I thought I was going to have to help her pry it off the pavement. “Acceptance Unconditional!?!?! Oh, I know exactly where that is! So, you’re the competition?”
“Excuse me.”
Allison’s eyes seemed to grow larger and larger by the nanosecond. “Well, not really competition. I own Break Through Blocks. It’s an antique shop, technically, but we manage to find prints and all sorts of fun, artsy stuff all the time. You would be amazed by what treasures some people are willing to throw away! I know all about Acceptance Unconditional—that’s owned and run by Bennie MacKenzie. She’s simply genius. You do realize that you’re like our biggest competitor. How adorable is that?”
I felt like I was going to choke on the air itself. Did Allison seriously just say what I thought she did? She was the one behind Break Through Blocks—the very place that was blowing up social media by storm? The very place that Bennie would not shut up about? Was Allison right up there with Bennie, except half-a-century younger?
“Own?” was all I managed to say in r
esponse.
Allison nodded, her head excitedly bouncing like one of those obnoxiously creepy bobble head dolls. It was like every little nuanced movement she made was exaggerated and entirely over the top. “Yes! I’m a small business owner! Well to be fair, my father did give me an extension on the inheritance. He was completely reasonable about it, too. He totally understood that it was an investment that would only yield greater dividends in the long term. But yes, it’s amazing. I’ve been running the space since July, and we have really made a name for ourselves.”
Then she paused, and I could literally see the wheels turning in her head as she developed, what she thought, was the most fabulous idea known to humankind since the glazed donut met the butter croissant.
“O-M-G, Farrah! You could totally work for me!”
There it was. The backhanded compliment to end all backhanded compliments; that I was such a fantastic person, that even Allison could consider hiring me—under her. And I was livid! It felt like Sage had suddenly possessed my body as I fought every urge to come back with the snarkiest comeback to end all snarky comebacks. Maybe it was because I was too blind-sighted by the slight, or simply not as combative in nature, but either way, I stood there wordlessly like a complete and utter fool. All I could do was smile and hope that she would interpret my silence to mean whatever she wanted it to mean.
“How amazing would that be, Farrah? Aren’t you working toward an advanced degree in art history? I could use someone with your eye and talent. Not to mention style. You have just the right look for us—you wouldn’t believe the clientele we’re getting. I can’t really name drop, you know, but a certain someone from last summer’s certain blockbuster came in the other day and let me tell you. She bought an authentic 19th-century porcelain vase for two thousand dollars. Just like that.” Allison snapped her fingers for emphasis. “Meanwhile,” she lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper, “I discovered the thing in the back alley of some random apartment on Mott Street.”
Magnolia's Violet Page 5