Some of the paintings are realistic, others include surreal elements.
One is called The Two Maras, a reference to Frida Kahlo’s famous portrait.
In mine, the first version of Mara stands before a large mirror. The “real” Mara is battered and bruised, with a wide-eyed expression of fear. Her reflection in the mirror looks ten years older: glossy-haired and dressed in a diaphanous black gown, her eyes dark and ferocious, her entire aura crackling with the terrible power of a sorceress.
I called the painting of the girl in the nightgown The Burial, as Cole suggested.
The next one along is the same girl in the same nightgown, sitting barefoot on a bus, her feet filthy and scratched, her head leaning exhausted against the window.
All the adults gaze blindly in her direction, their blank faces nothing but a smear of paint. Mind Your Business, the title card reads.
Seeing all my paintings together, properly hung and lighted, is the most thrilling thing I’ve ever experienced.
I’m looking into the window of my own future—a dream I had hoped for desperately, but only ever half-believed.
Here it is now in front of me, and I still can’t believe it.
“How do you feel?” Cole asks me.
“Drunk—and I haven’t had a sip of champagne.”
This time as Cole and I make the rounds, I’m starting to remember people’s names and faces, and they’re starting to remember me. I almost feel comfortable chatting with Jack Brisk, who has forgotten that he ever dumped a drink on my dress and is asking if I’d be interested in showing at his collective exhibition in the spring.
“It’s an all-female show,” Brisk says pompously. “Supporting women’s voices. Nobody loves women more than me.”
“Obviously,” Cole says. “That’s why you’ve been married four times.”
“Five, actually,” Brisk says, roaring with laughter. “I could fund the UN with all the alimony payments I’ve made.”
The pretty young thing on Brisk’s arm, sporting an engagement ring that looks quite new, does not seem as amused by this conversation. When she flounces off and Jack Brisk chases after her, Sonia sidles up to me and says, “She’s just mad ‘cause she’s the first one he’s making sign a prenup.”
As Cole gets pulled into a conversation with Betsy Voss, Sonia amuses me by whispering other bits of gossip about everyone else who passes.
“That’s Joshua Gross over there—he tried to throw a pop-up show this summer. Displaying paintings in posh houses all over the city. Mixing art with architectural porn.”
“Not a bad idea,” I say.
“It was a fucking disaster. July was blazing hot, and everybody with money had gone to Malibu or Aspen or the Hamptons. Those of us stupid enough to attend were stuck in traffic for six hours trying to drive between houses. It turned out that he never got the right permits to sell paintings out of houses. The city slapped him with so many fines that I doubt he made a dollar off the show.”
Poor Joshua still looks frazzled, with unshaven stubble and a haunted look on his face as he gulps down a glass of champagne, a second glass clutched in his other hand.
“And her over there—” Sonia gives a subtle nod toward a slim Asian girl with a long fall of shining dark hair. “That’s Gemma Zhang. She’s the newest writer for the Siren. Now this I don’t know for certain, but I have my suspicions …”
I lean in close so no one but Sonia and I can hear.
“The biggest art mag in Los Angeles is Artillery—they ran this gossip column written by a guy called Mitchell Mulholland. Mulholland was just a pseudonym, nobody knew who he really was. All they knew was that come Monday morning, this Mulholland seemed to have been everywhere and seen everything. He was writing about shit like he was hiding inside our houses, telling everybody’s secrets, stirring up all kinds of drama. Everybody was freaking out. He caused so much trouble that Artillery had to stop running the column. Mulholland disappeared. Now Gemma’s writing for Siren … and all I can say is, a couple of her articles sound pretty damn familiar to me … That biting voice reminds me of a certain someone.”
“You think Mulholland was actually Gemma?” I ask.
Sonia shrugs. “All I’m saying is be careful around her … she’s a fucking shark.”
Watching Gemma take a sip of her drink, her dark eyes flitting everywhere at once, clever and bright, I think Sonia might just be right.
Cole escapes Betsy Voss, who was tipsy enough to require support from his arm, batting her false eyelashes at him until one fell off and landed on Cole’s wrist. He flicked it away like a spider, shuddering.
“You owe me for that one,” Cole murmurs in my ear. “Betsy has a buyer lined up for The Burial. But I had to let her run her hands all over my chest for that entire conversation. I’m practically your gigolo these days.”
“Yeah, you want a commission?” I tease him. “Or you just want to run your hands over someone’s chest …”
Cole lets his eyes roam down the front of my jacket, slipping his arm around my waist and pulling me close.
“That might suffice …” he growls.
I’m wearing a velvet pantsuit in dark plum. I feel like a rockstar.
Cole undresses me with his eyes like the velvet can be pulled away with a glance. He’s charged up, maybe even more excited than I am. He gazes around the packed gallery, not bothering to hide his grin of triumph.
Cole wasn’t lying.
He really does love to see me succeed.
“Look who’s here,” Sonia says.
Shaw comes through the double doors, a stunning blonde on his arm. The girl looks pleased and excited, clinging to Shaw’s bicep.
Shaw bears no smile at all, sullen and abrupt as people try to greet him.
He locks eyes with me from across the room.
I feel Cole stiffen, drawing me even closer to him.
“He looks pissed,” I mutter to Cole.
“I told you, he’s salty about Corona Heights.”
Shaw stares at me, ignoring the girl at his side. Every second that passes, I can feel Cole getting more agitated, as if he’d like to sprint across the room and put out Shaw’s eyes.
When Shaw finally turns away, distracted by Betsy Voss, Cole says, “If he comes within ten feet of you, I’m going to tear out his throat.”
“He’s not gonna do anything here. You said so yourself.”
“I don’t want him here at all,” Cole hisses. “I don’t even want him looking at you.”
I can still feel a pair of eyes fixed on me. Not Shaw’s—it’s Gemma Zhang, glancing between Shaw, Cole, and myself. She watched the entire exchange. As brief and uneventful as it was, she seems to have found interest in it, as she’s now smiling slightly.
“I’ve got to pee,” I say to Cole.
I head back to the bathrooms, where I hear the distinctive sniff of someone taking a pick-me-up in the adjoining stall, and the crackle of a tampon wrapper from the other side.
I take my time, savoring the solitude of the stall after the hubbub of the party. It’s heady to be the center of attention, but also exhausting.
When I’ve finished and washed my hands, I almost collide with Gemma Zhang. I suspect she was waiting outside the bathroom to orchestrate just this sort of meeting.