“No problem,” he said smoothly. Anna’s guts twisted.
Anna had agreed to meet Adrian for dinner at a Pakistani hole-in-the-wall spot, right by Food Blast and a favorite with taxi drivers. They claimed two out of five stools at the short counter to eat their samosas and goat curry. As they sipped hot sweet tea, Adrian told her about his second-round interview. “I think this could work out,” he said, knocking his knuckles on the particleboard counter. “Have you heard anything?” he asked.
As much as she wanted to continue pretending, Anna could not bring herself to lie to him. “Miranda Chung passed,” Anna said, the tears right there already. Adrian hugged her, and she nuzzled into the scratchy wool of his coat.
“Oh, babe,” he whispered into her hair. Even though they sat on stools, squashed into a tiny corner reeking of curry, snot pooling on Adrian’s collar, Anna felt the teensiest bit better for a second. “What did she say?” he asked, breaking away to look at her.
“No, I didn’t . . . I spoke to . . .” Anna realized she wasn’t even sure whom she’d spoken to.
“So you don’t even know if she saw your work!”
“Yeah, but . . .” Anna didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Come with me.”
Adrian pulled Anna outside and around the corner. A long line of people in their twenties, faces lit up by iPhone screens, waited outside the Food Blast pop-up store. Peppered among them, a few homeless people looked uncomfortable in the spotlight all the extra space around them created. “Food Blast is not helping the right people,” Adrian said.
“But . . .” Anna instinctively resisted the LVMH job, and not just because it made her feel like a failure. With his app, Adrian had carried the ethical weight for both of them. Anna could feel OK at her frivolous job because her partner was actually doing something good for the city’s poorest residents. Even more deeply, Anna dimly realized that she had been clinging to the belief that neither of them ever really had to compromise on their dreams and ideals. “You’re still fighting food waste.”
Adrian scrunched up his face. “I don’t know if that’s enough for me. Or for us. Don’t you want to have a normal, rodent-free life?”
“We have a normal life!” Anna insisted; the word normal rankled. “Rodents are normal.”
“But, Anna, what about, you know, adult things?”
There it was. That word: adult.
“Buying an apartment, having a baby . . .”
A tiny part of her jumped to hear the word baby coming from Adrian’s mouth. But she couldn’t help worrying about what it would mean to have a child. The way things were shaping up, she would inevitably end up giving up on art to change diapers and wipe boogers. And Adrian—what about his meaningful work?
“Look, Anna, this new job means you can use this space to do your own show!” He gestured at the Food Blast storefront, a twenty-by-twenty-foot box with a broad plate-glass window. Just enough space to display all thirteen pieces in her “Taken From” series. Adrian watched her eyes travel over the three blank walls where her work could hang. He was as eager and excited as if it were his art that would show there.
But . . . this was just not a part of Anna’s plans. Showing your work in a gallery meant the endorsement of the gallerist; putting on your own exhibition was like publicly admitting you had failed to interest such an entity. Plus, Anna would have to do all the work. Adrian sensed her hesitation. “If I get the LVMH job, I’m closing Food Blast, effective immediately. You just have to get the show together before January fifteenth, when the lease here runs out.” Only two weeks to plan the whole thing, but she had accomplished more in far less time. “Screw Miranda Chung!” he said, and Anna winced. “Or get Miranda Chung or whoever to come and really see your work, hung and lit and the way it’s meant to be.”
She hadn’t thought of it like that—like another bite at the apple. “But can I really pull it off? By myself?” she asked.
Adrian draped his arm over Anna’s shoulders, and she leaned into him. “Who said you had to do it by yourself?”
THREE
December 29
When they arrived at the Castle, Bambi felt none the happier. Peter had driven grim faced and distracted the whole while: a forced march. They never went out East off season, but after having her vacation so unceremoniously snatched away, then an unpleasant round of legal rejiggering with that stickler Avi, Bambi felt entitled to some sort of reparation. And how could Peter deny her a trip to their very own country home? An unusually simple request, for Bambi.
But as they approached the gatehouse, she could not help but notice that no one had put on the dramatic lights that illuminated each two-hundred-year-old tree trunk along the drive, which made approaching Coolwater feel quite grand. Rather than looking festive and inviting, the darkened tree-lined road snaked ominously up to the stone residence. The bare branches in silhouette against the gray sky conjured in Bambi a series of wailing women, arms outstretched. Coolwater itself blended into the monotone clouds overhead and the gravel underneath. The flower beds were covered in burlap, the fountain shut off . . .
“Looks like no one’s home,” Peter said grimly, parking the car directly in front of the front door for someone else to move later. “Phil does know we’re coming, right?”
“I’m sure Anna called him,” Bambi responded. But had she? The place seemed abandoned. Peter and Bambi climbed the stairs to the never-locked front entrance and found it would not budge. Neither she nor Peter had a key; why would they need such a thing? Bambi felt her sadness sharpen into annoyance. She tugged fruitlessly on the iron handle, then began jabbing at the doorbell, the stentorian gong reverberating through the metal entry. Bambi leaned in to peer through the glass and was momentarily distracted by a sheen of dirt. And inside: Was that a sheet? On a couch? They stepped back out into the spacious grand drive. Bambi saw the silhouette of a blanket sailing through the air like a giant manta ray upstairs, where all the lights were on. Yet no one was answering the door. Annoyance blossomed into frustration.
Bambi and Peter stood there for a moment, stymied. Peter glared at Bambi, blaming her of course for this shocking delay. How ludicrous, to be shut out of their own home. Then Bambi remembered there were other points of ingress (in fact, there were six additional doors into the building). Bambi and Peter traveled around the side of the house to the kitchen, an entry they had not been through since Coolwater was under construction. The surprises kept coming as they found Phil himself unloading Bambi’s fresh green juices into the fridge.
“Mr. and Mrs. Von Bizmark, hello!” Phil said, tossing the last juice in a little roughly, in Bambi’s opinion, while upstairs there was this tremendous pounding noise. A light bulb needed replacing over the sink. The room was hardly any warmer than the temperature outside. No flowers? It looked so . . . stark in the grand kitchen. Only the overhead lights glared at full power. The light pained her eyes. Inattention to detail depressed her. And what was that racket upstairs? “Happy New Year!” Phil continued, coming toward them with an outstretched hand to shake Peter’s. Bambi eyed their house manager, tufts of white hair sticking out at odd angles underneath his watchman’s cap. She kissed him on both cheeks—he smelled like alcohol.