51. Henry
51
HENRY
After Liz got ahold of Amelie, I went back to my apartment and tried to bask in the calm before the storm. It resulted in very little relaxation and lots of anxious pacing, for most of which Betty clawed at the hem of my pants.
Now, it’s exactly fifteen minutes until the auction begins. I’m one block away from the event hall, checking the time every three seconds while I wait for Amelie to show. She called an hour ago and told me she’d meet me here, and I don’t like it. I wanted to walk here together, if only to calm my nerves. I know Amelie can hold her own; that’s not the problem. But the circumstances of today have me on edge. What if she runs into my dad? What if it’s one of his workers? Can they get her in trouble?
I don’t know, but it was no use arguing. She and Liz spent the entire afternoon getting ready at Liz’s place, so Amelie never even went home. I didn’t realize that it could take seven hours to get ready, but who am I to judge? I wear the same black suit to these events every single time.
I exhale and check my watch again. 7:49. I don’t want to be late. Causing more of a scene than necessary is really something I’d like to avoid, but the longer we wait, the more difficult that becomes. Walking into this thing even a minute late is enough to get eyes on us. I just can’t afford?—
“You look nervous,” a voice says from behind me. “You’re tapping your foot like a wind-up toy.”
I grin and turn around, taking a sharp breath when my eyes land on her.
Staying focused on the task at hand is going to be a chore, to say the least.
“Hi,” Amelie says, sounding almost shy. She’s wringing her hands in front of her, twisting at the bracelet on her wrist.
“Hi,” I say quietly, pocketing my own hands so I don’t reach out and touch her. I let my eyes run over her pinned up hair, her silky red dress. Her lipstick—as always, I’ve noticed, when she’s wearing something red—matches the shade of fabric perfectly. The necklace I gifted her hangs around her neck, and I can’t help but grin at the sight of it. “You’re breathtaking,” I tell her. “But I’m sure you know that already.”
Amelie laughs, and the sound fills me with warmth. She steps forward and straightens my tie, and I hold my breath, solely at our proximity. “I do,” she says, looking me over again. She doesn’t seem to mind the general blandness of my attire; her eyes are glued to me, as are mine to her. “But you’re giving me a run for my money.”
Grinning, I run my palm down her arm, and she grabs my hand before I can move it. I want to pull her closer. To take the pins out of her hair and run my fingers through it. But we’re on a street corner, and we have other things to attend to, so that’ll have to wait.
“Are we ready?” She asks, tightening her grip on my hand.
I nod, starting down the sidewalk. “I guess so. Is everything ready on your end?”
“Yes. Jensen just called me; they’ve been here for a while.”
“Good.” I let out another sigh, and again, she squeezes my hand. I have no doubt that she’s picking up on my discomfort. This situation isn’t good. It isn’t even moderately good; it’s just bad, all around. The only positive I’ll get out of this is being free from my dad, and that isn’t even a guarantee. It’s a vague end goal.
“It’ll be okay,” Amelie says softly, looking up at me. “I promise.”
I don’t respond, because my initial response is to argue.
It’s not that I don’t trust her . It’s more that I trust my dad to make this night chaos.
But I don’t have time to worry. Within minutes, we’re standing at the entrance to the auction hall. Amelie manages to move closer to me, somehow; she loops her arm through mine and leans lightly against my shoulder. If I were smart, I’d take a step away from her so I can focus, but I can’t bring myself to do that.
The security guard standing near the door gives each of us a nod as we pass him. I hold my breath as we enter, as if he’d somehow know what we’re here for, but he doesn’t give us a second glance. Just nods at the next person as they file in behind us.
I’ve got to calm down.
“This place is beautiful,” Amelie says, looking around as we walk through the lobby. She’s right—I love this place. It’s always been a favorite of mine when my dad holds events. He doesn’t own it, but he’s rented it out more times than I can count. He and the owner are old friends.
The room is lit with scattered candelabras on the walls, as well as a dim chandelier that does absolutely nothing. Every inch of the ceiling is covered with paintings, and the style is a play on the Sistine Chapel’s. It’s much worse, execution wise, but no one could replicate such a thing. I’d be scared to even try.
“Should we go in?” I ask Amelie. “What’s your plan?”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I say yes. I think it’d be a lot more subtle that way. We take a table, act like we care, and then I’ll sneak out. Is that stupid?”
I shake my head. “Just do it discreetly.”
“I will.” She starts walking toward the doors, hand still in mine. Right before we step into the bidding area, a man gives us a paddle with the number 19 on it. Amelie thanks him before taking a seat at a table in the very back. I slide into the chair next to her, thankful that there are only two other people at this table. They’re both preoccupied, busy with their drinks, so I’m hoping they’ll keep to themselves.
As soon as I scan the room, I see my dad on the front row. He’s talking with a few other men, wearing the stiff, fake smile I’ve come to notice from a mile away.
I exhale and focus on the candle on the table instead of the tightness in my chest.
“How does this thing go?” Amelie whispers to me. “The order of it?”
“If it’s anything like others I’ve attended—and I’m sure it will be—the museum owners will be introduced, and the artists will get brief shoutouts. Then the bidding will start. My dad’s segment is rumored to be second, so…”
“I’ll go during the first, then,” she says with a shrug. “It’ll be funnier if he has no paintings to bid off, instead of stealing them from buyers.”
I grin, and the pain in my chest seems to melt away. It calms me a little, to admit to myself that I need her here. I didn’t expect to be so nervous about this, but her voice is the only thing keeping me somewhat grounded.
“Drinks?”
A waitress materializes in front of us, holding a tray of various drinks. I don’t know what any of them are, save for the wine and champagne, but Amelie is scouring the choices.
“Champagne, please,” she says sweetly, chin rested on her hands. “You, Henry?”
“No, thank you,” I say, giving the woman a tense smile.
She nods to me, then hands Amelie a flute. After telling us to find her if we need anything else, she goes to the next table.
“I’ve never had champagne,” she says, looking at the fizzy liquid. “It looks…odd.”
“It makes Liz sneeze.”
“Really?” She looks stunned. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“I hadn’t either. Though I’m not convinced it’s a common thing.”
Amelie hums and lifts the glass to her lips. After a few sips of the drink, she sets it down, looking mildly disappointed.
“Well?” I ask.
She opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, she lets out the daintiest sneeze I’ve ever heard. I laugh quietly as she frowns. “Ew,” she says simply. “That wasn’t pleasant.”
“I believe it’s the carbonation,” a man at our table says. His back is facing us, and he hasn’t paid us any mind this whole time, so him acknowledging this is a bit random. “Have you—have you ever had a soda that made you sneeze? Same concept.”
“I have,” Amelie says, sort of wistfully. “Long ago.”
“I did, just today.” The man sighs and turns to face us. When he does, both Amelie’s and my face drop.
“ Dave ?” She laughs. I’m glad she addressed him by name because I didn’t remember it. I simply deemed him ‘ Man from the patisserie’. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m an art lover, what can I say?” Dave says, and it becomes glaringly obvious that he’s drunk, even though there are only three drained glasses at this table. He must be a lightweight. “Got a little extra to spend. Might as well scope out some décor, no?”
Amelie sighs. “You tease !”
“I don’t!” He laughs heartily. “Don’t bid against me, though, Amelie. It would truly hurt me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says solemnly. “In fact, the second you grab your paddle, I’ll chuck mine across the room.”
Dave laughs again, then hiccups. “You flatter.”
“I jest,” she corrects, then takes another sip of champagne. She makes the same wrinkled face before setting the glass back down. “I really don’t like that.”
Dave responds to her, saying something about a drink she should try instead, but I don’t catch the details. I’m distracted by my phone buzzing in my pocket, one notification after the other. I pull it out and find a string of texts from my sister.
Lizzy
okay i’m here (ew). where are you
WAIT I JUST SAW YOUR HEAD CAN I PLEASE SIT WITH YOU
PLEASE
“Can Liz sit over here?” I ask Amelie. “Or will that throw a bump in things?”
She shakes her head. “It’s fine. Tell her to come over.”
I nod and send the text back.
Yes. Bring two waters. Amelie fell under the champagne trap.
Lizzy
poor girl. she’ll be sneezing all evening
As if on cue, Amelie sneezes.
Liz arrives moments later with three glasses in only one hand. I have no idea how she does that, but Amelie doesn’t seem fazed by it in the slightest. She accepts a glass and pats the seat next to her, signaling for Liz to sit there. My sister drops into the seat with a sigh, sloshing water into her lap but not caring.
“Why hasn’t this started yet?” She asks, her expression annoyed.
I check the time on my watch and realize that I have the same question. It’s five past eight, which isn’t much, but these things are punctual. Time is not a suggestion. Last year, Liz and I watched the clock to the second, and the lights turned on at eight on the dot.
I really hope nothing is going on in the back.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, more to myself than anyone else. “Dad is likely fixing his combover.”
Liz rolls her eyes. “That thing will kill me, I’m sure of it.”
Amelie laughs, probably about to interject a jab of her own, but the lights finally brighten the room. I check my watch again—8:07. It’s about time.
“It’s starting?” Amelie asks quietly.
Lizzy nods. “Should be.”
It does. A few older men walk up on stage and begin talking, introducing people I recognize only by name. Rounds of applause are raised, artists are named—me included—and my dad’s name is mentioned last.
He rises to the stage at that moment, and every nerve in my body is screaming that this is going to go poorly.
Amelie looks too relaxed.
“Good evening,” he says into the microphone, a grating voice booming over the speakers. “Who’s ready to lose some money?”
Everyone in the room gives a hollow laugh.
“Good, good,” he mutters. “Well, I won’t say much. Nobody wants to hear me talk. My section is later in the night, so I’ll be on the front row, shooting dirty looks at Greg.” Another round of laughter, followed by glances at the man beside him. “Let’s get it started. You take it, Greg.”
The man takes the microphone and starts talking. My dad, along with the few other men on stage, walk back down to the seating area. He nearly trips on the bottom step, and I hear Lizzy snort very indiscreetly. It’s loud enough to gain a few looks our way, but she tries to play it off by coughing into her elbow.
“Sorry,” she mutters, taking a long drink of water. “Allergies.”
It’s enough of an explanation for the people around us, but not for my dad, who somehow heard the entire thing.
He’s staring right at us.
Right at Amelie.
“I’ll take that as my cue,” she mutters, standing slowly from the table. She’s holding eye contact with him, keeping her face completely neutral. He makes no move to turn away until one of the other men usher him into his seat. “Wish me luck.”
“Please be careful,” I say quietly.
She puts a hand on my shoulder. Kisses my cheek. “I’ll try.”
And she walks away, out the back door with her dress trailing behind her.