Chapter Nineteen
Elliot was not in the office. Juno was busy spreading tarot cards on her desk, but was insistent he hadn’t come in. And he wasn’t answering his phone or replying to texts. What had that phone call been about? Had something happened?
I sat down at my laptop, but I was logged out of the server. RJ had gone straight home after the junket and so there was no one to ask for the password. I couldn’t even work solo.
I dialed his phone again, fuming, deciding to leave a voicemail.
“Elliot,” I said. “I don’t know what’s more important than getting the script ready for the Melroy meeting, but can you please call me back?
” I stabbed the ‘hang up’ button more viciously than perhaps I needed to.
I pulled out my notebook and glanced down the notes I’d made to see if there was any research I could do, but nothing. I needed Elliot.
After several minutes of pointless waiting, I went to the kitchen to get a drink and when I opened the fridge my eyes were drawn to its top shelf, laden with beer. Although it would have been counterproductive to drown my anxiety in alcohol, it sure was tempting.
Ralf steamed into the kitchen, uncharacteristically stormy.
“Everything okay?” I asked as he slung his coffee cup into the dishwasher with a little more force than needed.
“Lucie.” He started. “Sorry, didn’t see you.”
“What did the dishwasher ever do to you?” I joked.
“Ha.” He rubbed his face. “Well, it’s … ah, I don’t want to bother you.”
“I’ve got time,” I said. “Elliot’s done a vanishing act and I can’t do any work.”
“Oh, you can’t access the server, huh?” Ralf said sympathetically.
“Exactly,” I said. “I’ve asked Elliot to share the password countless times in case this happened and look where we are now.”
“It’s not okay,” Ralf said. “To not let you in. Sometimes people need to be let in!”
I looked at him sharply; a degree of vehemence had crept into his tone. “What’s going on?”
His smile was forced. “Nothing,” he said. Then, “Hey, you want to go to a gallery opening?”
“Like an art gallery?” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “I know the owner.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Look, you want a quintessential New York experience? Fine art, fine champagne and some of the most influential people in the city? Come on.”
“Hmm.” Ralf had a point. Although my and Ralf’s last excursion had left me wondering how his mind worked, I couldn’t deny the appeal of free champagne.
And so it was that I found myself in Soho, crowded into a room that resembled a white cube, champagne coupe in hand.
Ralf had almost instantly disappeared to make a call and I’d been left to navigate the crowded room of elegantly dressed people who were ostensibly here to appreciate the art but seemed more interested in one another.
After trying unsuccessfully to catch anyone’s eye and start conversation, I decided to inspect the paintings and I shuffled my way to the nearest one.
It was a long, rectangular canvas, covered in thick blobs of purple paint, with what looked like nails and bottle caps mixed in.
The label told me this was Tea with Verity/ c.
2023. I stared at the piece for at least a full minute but failed to establish which bit was Verity and which bit was the tea.
I sighed. I very much missed having an audio guide.
I edged down to the next artwork, another big canvas, this time coated in murky green with a streak of brown across the bottom.
Lest I Forget You, You’re Always Here, the neat little label next to it announced.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I muttered. If Elliot were here, he’d tell me to find the symbolism in the work, that the journey to do so was part of the experience. But what could be gleaned from a canvas of block color, and not even a nice color at that?
“I’m told it’s about the descent to the underworld,” a low voice murmured in my ear.
I turned to see an impeccably dressed woman in black, relieved to have found an interpreter. “Thanks,” I said. “I was struggling to under—”
“So, who are you here with?” the woman asked, her eyes flickering over my shirt and trousers.
“My friend,” I said. “Ralf.”
“Oh.” She took a sip of champagne. “You’re not here to buy?”
I reddened. Even if I had a few quid to rub together, it wouldn’t go on art I didn’t understand. “No, just a big fan.”
“Nice to meet you.” The woman was gone before she’d even finished the sentence.
“Thanks, I’m Lucie,” I called after her, but she was already engrossed in conversation with a man dangling a Hermès bag from the crook of his elbow.
Where was Ralf? He’d brought me to this place, promising a proper New York evening, but had promptly ditched me.
Was that a New York thing to do? It didn’t feel like it.
My mind wandered back to the ball game, the Met and Brekdogs.
They’d all felt like proper New York experiences, except they’d all featured Elliot.
I had no doubt that Elliot, for all his artistic leanings, would probably hate this place.
My mind wandered to his wellbeing, yet again.
Where was he? I checked my phone. Still no messages.
Ooh, canapés. A tray of mini quiches swooped by and I trailed the waiter like a lovesick puppy until he stopped in a quiet corner and I could grab a handful. I was starving and thanked him profusely.
“Cute accent,” the waiter said. “English?”
“Yup.” I said. “And I don’t know anything about art. I’m Lucie.”
“Oh, me neither,” the waiter said with a giggle. “Cal. I just do these gigs to pay the rent in between modeling jobs.”
“Seriously?” I could believe it. Cal was waifishly pretty, with cheekbones to die for and a glorious thatch of red hair.
“Uh-huh.” He sneaked a quiche, nibbled it. “This place is the worst. Everyone acts like I don’t exist, even though my face is literally on a billboard down the street.”
“Oh my God, really?”
“Nike ad,” he said with a proud smile.
“Wow, that’s impressive. See, I think I’d rather look at that than whatever all this is.” I gestured around me. “I don’t get art; my colleague Elliot tells me I’m a philistine.”
“Oh, this isn’t art,” Cal assured me. “It’s bullshit.” He leaned in. “I’m told the artist is the son of some social big shot. Trust me, no one is here to appreciate the paintings, they’re here because of who else is here.”
“Who?”
“Rich people,” he said with a snort.
I looked around the room. Not a single person was stopping to take in the paintings. In fact, a lot of people seemed to be either deep in conversation with other people or looking around the room at who else was there. Cal and I may as well have been invisible.
Ralf then appeared, grinning from ear to ear. “What a party, huh? Everyone is here.”
“Seems like it,” I said, shooting Cal a knowing grin.
Ralf clocked it. “Wow, I leave you alone for a second and you’re fraternizing with staff.”
Cal rolled his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Lucie.” And, with that, the most interesting person in the room loped off to work.
“That was pretty rude,” I told Ralf. “He was the first person to talk to me.”
“I’m sure he’s very nice,” Ralf said dismissively, eyes scanning the crowd. “But you have to ask yourself, is it the best use of your time, talking to a waiter?”
“He’s a model too. On a billboard and everything, if anyone bothered to ask.” I downed the rest of my champagne, irritated. “Look, I think I’m going to go.”
Ralf snapped his attention away from the party. “What? Why?”
“Jetlag,” I lied. “Still feeling kind of rough.” I just wanted to be out of this claustrophobic room. I didn’t care what these people thought of me and if Ralf did, then more fool him.
“Okay.” He could tell I was lying, but he escorted me outside to wait for an Uber. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “Maybe when your jetlag is finally done with, we can try this again.”
“Sure.” Although I wasn’t clear on what this was, I knew I didn’t want a repeat of it. Did Ralf think this was a date? As if reading my mind, he leaned in, eyes fluttering shut as his cool lips pressed against mine. I froze in shock.
Ralf stopped, pulled back. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “You just look so cute, I couldn’t—”
“No.” I shook my head. “It’s fine.”
Ralf lifted a shoulder, dropped it. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“I’m flattered.” His muted reaction surprised me. He wasn’t embarrassed or hurt, just … accepting. Which was a relief. “You’ve been really nice to me, but I don’t date, especially colleagues.”
“You’re right,” he said with a soft smile.
“It is a no-no.” His eyes tracked to something behind me, and I followed his gaze.
The gallery had a huge front window that showed its interior and in the crowd was Vivian.
Had she seen us? Next to her was a wiry old man, hunched over a cane.
Just then she caught my eye and whipped around, back ramrod straight.
“I didn’t know she’d be here,” I said, turning back to Ralf. “Do you two frequently attend the same events?”
Ralf blinked, seemingly caught off guard and again I had to wonder about his and Vivian’s dynamic.
They’d both been heading to the same concert on my first week at RJF and now here they were at this random art show.
And the sight of her with her fiancé had definitely thrown him off kilter.
Was I imagining the indignation that had flickered across his face?
At the office she treated him no better than anyone else but then, come to think of it, she did seem to save her most vicious barbs for him. “Come on,” I said. “You can tell me.”
“Tell you what?” he said, with a faint sneer. “We move in the same circles, that’s all.”
“Okay, okay.” I lifted my hands in defeat.
“Coincidence, I assure you,” he said airily. Just then, my Uber arrived, and Ralf gallantly opened the door for me. “Have a lovely evening.” As the car pulled away, I watched as Ralf drew himself up to march right back into the gallery.
When I arrived back at my flat, I slid straight into my pajamas and made a hot chocolate.
I decided I wanted to watch a movie, but perusing the TV guide, there was nothing that appealed.
It was then I caught sight of my laptop and had an idea.
It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for; Elliot’s movie was the top hit on YouTube when I searched for The Song of You.
Wrapping myself in blankets, I settled down and clicked play.
Simple, sweet guitar music accompanied a slow wide shot of a cute little cottage on a suburban street, zooming in through a window to reveal a couple dancing in their kitchen.
They didn’t need to speak for me to feel the love blazing between them, the way their eyes fastened upon each other.
For the next forty minutes, I didn’t move, could barely breathe.
I was hooked, lost in a haze, as Elliot’s short yet elegant movie reached down my throat and squeezed my heart.
It felt as if he’d slashed himself open to show the tender and most secret parts of himself, and those parts were sheer poetry.
By the time the movie had finished, tears tracked down my cheeks as I ached for the love I’d glimpsed, the type I’d never experienced, filling me with joy and despair all at once.
Dazed, I closed my laptop and sat in the dark, my thudding, lonely heart matched by the pulse of New York City.