Eight seconds! He’s done it! Ladies and gentlemen, Will Finn is back!
25.
The number itself might seem harmless enough in any other context except the one where it meant that I’d now spent a quarter of an entire century inhabiting this strange, wildly imperfect cocktail I occasionally like to refer to as my soul. This is how I pitch it to myself: twenty-five years’ worth of life experience, customized knowledge and overpriced education are congregated usefully in my psyche. I’m now officially old enough to be entirely independent—not that I haven’t been for far too long—and young enough to still be in the prime of my youth. Or at least this is what I try to convince myself as walk the three blocks to work on a hot August morning in New York City.
I’m in a surly mood this morning. First, the quarter century thing. Also, my dreams were especially vivid last night, starring … cowboys, of all things, which I blame on a series of erotic romance novels I’ve developed a secret addiction for. Those rugged, fictional heroes with their big cocks and bad attitudes are just so wildly entertaining. I woke tangled in my sheets, soaked in sweat. It’s embarrassing to even think about.
Before I can entirely convince myself that a quarter-century’s worth of valuable and hard-won experience is about to infuse gigantic amounts of good fortune, mostly-wholesome fun and at least one intelligent bo-hunk with killer abs and a great sense of humor into my life, I arrive at work, where my boss, James, is waiting for me. I work at an upmarket art gallery. My boss is the owner of the gallery and is—how should I put this—a total prick.
“What do you want first, Ella?” James says. “The good news or the bad?”
“Good morning, James. Uh, let’s see. The good, I guess?”
James launches straight into it. “I’m sending you to the Fleur Jensen exhibition. In Bozeman.” This causes me to do a double-take. Did I hear that correctly? “Wherever Bozeman is. I’ve got to get ready for the Ransom show and I need Astrid here to help me. Her eye is impeccable.” And I have an all-access pass to her bed, too, which means she stays put. Jerk.
I know what he’s referring to, of course: River Ransom is the hottest new artist of the season. I somehow managed to secure him for a solo exhibition. Astrid and I are both assistant curators, both twenty-five. The difference between Astrid’s lowly status and mine is that Astrid happens to be getting down and dirty with the boss. A detail I do not envy her for, even if she does get to help set up the Ransom show, which will no doubt be spectacular.
“Bozeman?” I say, a ripple of something I can’t identify swirling through my gut. “Isn’t that in Montana?”
“Somewhere like that. Or Idaho. I can never keep those two straight. Normally I’d go myself but I’m obviously too busy right now. You’ll need to leave on Monday morning. The blond travel agent on the corner is organizing your tickets. If you want to finish early to go home and pack, that would be fine. Astrid and I can finish up here.”
Pack?
James is still talking. “What I want you to do is sign Fleur Jensen for the November exhibition. She’s had some big sales lately and her trajectory is impressive. Do you think you’re up to it?”
James is a condescending asshole, but the slant of the sunlight suddenly feels like it’s been infused with something hopeful.
I’m not entirely sure why.
There are cowboys in Montana.
Aren’t there?
Of course it’s idiotic to get even mildly excited about this. Now that I think about it, I read an article about Bozeman once, saying it was one of the wealthiest towns in the west. It’s probably full of turtleneck-wearing yuppies who drive Range Rovers that never get muddy. Maybe cowboys have all been phased out by now. Maybe they only exist in Brad Pitt movies and steamy romance novels.
“Probably,” I say. Then I remember my boss hasn’t finished doling out life-changing pronouncements, and I have a feeling I know what’s coming. “What’s the bad news?”
“I’m sure you realize your contract expires at the end of the month …” He looks almost genuinely remorseful for a milli-second, but then it’s gone. “Sorry, Ella, but we won’t be renewing it.” We. Him and Astrid, I can only assume. “Our turnover is still down and I can’t afford to keep both of you on.”
I glance at Astrid. She has shiny blond hair she wears short, like a seventies bowl cut. Styled, it looks hip and modern but now, tousled from a recent romp with James, possibly, it looks weird. Her round, hazel eyes are apologetic. We’re friends and I like her. We’ve worked together for two years and we’re close, as these things go. Occasionally we go for drinks after work, on the Friday nights when James is busy.
It’s not her fault I’m getting fired.
James is still talking, to the wall, where he adjusts a hook. “If you sign Fleur, I might be able to keep you on through October. But after that, I can’t make any guarantees.”
This is exceptionally bad news. I have gargantuan student loans to repay and can barely afford the taxes and maintenance on the two-bedroom apartment I inherited, in SoHo, which I share with my roommate Sadie. Since I’ve worked at Heights Gallery for almost two years, I might get a small redundancy pay-out, but it’ll cover one or two months of my bills, if that. And even though the market is insane right now, I’d rather be dragged out by repo men than even consider selling my apartment. I was born in that apartment. It belonged to my grandparents and then my parents, all of them now gone. There are far too many memories oozing out of those exposed brick walls to even consider selling. I’d sell my soul before I sell my apartment.
Sadie works for an independent film company and also has massive students loans to pay. We eat ramen noodles for dinner at least three times a week and buy our work clothes off strategically-scouted sale racks.
I really can’t afford to lose my job, is what it boils down to.
Maybe the ranches in Montana are hiring.
Sure. And maybe a phantom cowboy will sweep me off my feet and take me for a ride on his black stallion. He’ll have big, sweaty muscles and an enormous—
“Ella?”
“Oh. Sorry, what?”
“The travel agent down at the corner is expecting you,” James says, interrupting my mini-joy ride. “Your flights, hotel and rental car have already been booked. It won’t be overly deluxe, unfortunately. A Super 8 or some such. The ticket is for carry-on only and if you exceed the weight limit you’ll have to pay for the extra baggage yourself. Rent-a-Wreck was very reasonable. You’ll be picking your car up at the airport. I wouldn’t have bothered with it if it wasn’t completely necessary but apparently Montana is …” James pauses, taking a step back to assess the alignment of the hook he’s hanging.
“Big?” I venture.
“Yes,” James says, dismissively. Something occurs to him and he glances briefly in my direction. “You can drive, right?”
“Um … yes, I have a license.” I’ve only driven a couple of times. There’s no need to tell him about that small fender bender I got into (actually it wasn’t that small but no one was hurt, which is the main thing).