I wipe my palms together to erase the past. “Speaking of driving fast, the best way to prevent me from gunning it to Staten Island is to keep moving so we won’t be late. We’re due to pick up the rental in an hour.”
Troi extracts his six foot four frame from the compact rental car and rests his forearms on the roof. “You sure this is the place? I’d hardly expect to view a post-gender art exhibit in a shack with no chance of surviving the next hurricane. The beer posters with the boobies spilling out of bikini tops in the windows don’t help, either.”
“The scene is so Wilma.”
“It positively reeks of her.” He gives me a peck on my cheek. “Thank you for getting me here in one piece.”
“See? I’m not a bad driver.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Keep it up, and I’ll put you in charge of making sure Wilma’s glass stays full tonight.”
“I stand corrected. You are a perfect—” Troi winks at me, “—ly adequate driver.”
“Thank you, I think. Let’s go see about some art.”
Country (or is it Western?) music seeps through the closed door into the parking lot, forming a repellent barrier. We’re close to the shoreline, but the location fails to put me in the mood to wander toward the harbor. In a nervous reflex, I suck in a deep breath of salty air tinged with a soupçon of motor oil.
Troi opens the door for me, sending forth a wave of noise and cigarette smoke. I guess there are still places in New York City where people can smoke. The bar holds an above-capacity crowd dressed in denim and T-shirts. Perhaps this isn’t the crowd I’d expect at an art exhibit. But the energy level far exceeds your average opening. Not bad for a Tuesday night in late August.
I yell to Troi, “We need a plan. We’ll view the paintings on the left wall first and then search for Wilma. No. Paintings first, bar second, Wilma third.”
“I approve the agenda changes. Let me go ahead of you to part the sea.”
We scoot between the bar patrons. I say a prayer no one will tilt their longneck bottle in my direction, drenching me in cheap beer. Poking between two people with my elbow, I squeeze into a pocket of space in front of a painting lying flush against the wall.
Troi furrows his brow. “I thought you said she was going to display her art on boxes.”
“That’s what I had advised her to do. I also told her not to include this piece.” I scowl at the painting of a naked person without genitalia or nipples sprawled atop a pile of bras and jockstraps. The concept is rudimentary at best. Even for Wilma.
I inch along the length of the wall. Not a single piece hangs from a box. And the lighting is all wrong. Half of the paintings are works I had told her to leave out of the exhibit. The order makes zero sense. Only people with Cirque du Soleil-style moves will come within spitting distance of the art. I’m not far off with the choice of the word spitting, as proven by the gentleman next to me hocking a loogie into the beer can that doubles as his ashtray.
A voice behind me pierces the air. “Oh, there you are!”
I turn. A woman sporting a severe neon-green bob with jet-black bangs gives her lips a hostile purse upon catching my eye. Thank goodness we only exchange air kisses. I hate to imagine the lacerations she’d inflict on my cheeks were her lips to graze my skin.
The dull stab of hurt from having my advice ignored converts into an acidic burn. Fixing a tense smile on my face, I say, “Wilma, you’ve really done it, haven’t you?”
Troi conceals a devious smile behind his hand.
Wilma appears not to have registered my intended meaning. “Emma, you should have told me exhibiting in a bar was a terrible idea.”
Um, I believe I did. Several times.
I ball my fists and press them into my thighs. Wilma’s nose climbs through the air, dragging her clenched jaw with it. She sighs, “Three-quarters of my guest list declined the invitation. Five friends texted me from the parking lot to say they were heading home without coming in. And if anyone besides the two of you dared to walk through the door, I’ve yet to locate them.”
I pat her on the shoulder. “It’s early. Don’t give up hope”
Or your day job. My snarky alter ego laces her fingers together, stretches her arms in front of her, and curls her lips, ready for her comeback. Down girl. Be nice.
Wilma hangs her head. “And I’m second guessing the choices I made about which pieces to hang.”
After second guessing every bit of advice I gave you. I juggle a few responses in my head, not wanting to say something unkind.
Troi interrupts my inner battle. “Emma, didn’t you mention a pair of drawings you absolutely adored? I remember you describing a person with two faces: one male, one female.”
Wilma tilts her head with strained sympathy. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t include any of the drawings. In the end, tonight’s exhibit is my vision, not yours. My message is so strong, and what you were saying to me, well...” Wilma reaches for my hands. With pseudo concern spilling from her eyes, she says, “You are so Upper East Side. You don’t have the sharp edges and the inner hurt to curate works by an artist like me. This very topic came up among a few of our art world friends last week.”
I roll my lips, inhaling sharply through my nose and mentally searching for a sharp edge to inflict an outer hurt on her.
Wilma drops my hands. “Unless I sell a piece tonight — and I truly doubt I will — I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to pay you. Frankly, since I did things my way in the end, I see no reason for me to pay you. I hope you don’t mind.”
I hope you don’t mind licking beer off the floor, because when I’m through with you—
Troi glances from me to his phone. “Oh, Wilma. I hate to abandon you, but a dear friend of ours just texted. He’s been mugged and is terrified of being alone. Emma and I must go comfort our friend right away. Please forgive us.”
He catches my eye, telegraphing that there is no such friend.
Wilma grabs Troi by the elbows and shakes him. “How awful! Go. Go to your friend. I’ll hold up the fort.”
I blow her a kiss. “Once again, Wilma, let me express that you’ve really done something with your opening. Ciao.”
Troi wraps his arm around my shoulders and steers us toward the door. I have never been more eager to breathe in the scent of a fish-infused auto parts store as I am when we reach the parking lot.
Who is Wilma to tell me I don’t have an edge? I plotted my escape from a boring neighborhood in Queens throughout my teens, scrapped and scraped my way into a coveted job at an important art gallery, and married a man who swept me into the rarified life of my dreams.
But my achievements are in the past. What have I fought for recently?
Wilma has good reasons to ignore my advice and refuse to pay me for it. I’m just the ex-wife of a billionaire. Brandon’s access to the art world and its wealthy patrons doesn’t extend to me anymore. Whatever success I had as a freelance curator might have had more to do with who the clients saw me as. Specifically, who would disparage suggestions made by someone with access to power and money? No one. And who will take the advice of a woman jettisoned from a life of privilege? Again, no one.