Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
This is where even the fledgling fake boyfriending fails.
It was a fragile idea at best. I try to think of a quip but can’t find anything, and it’s a reasonable enough question to ask.
I don’t want to lie or mislead him into thinking I’m someone I’m not.
“Twenty-two. I took a gap year before uni. And I just finished and moved to London. Which is why I’m at Arran’s and not at my own place. And working at a bar.”
Florian considers me. “You have some excellent insights for someone so young.”
“Thanks, Grandpa. How old are you?” I counter, unable to help myself. He just managed to make himself sound like he’s well into his golden years.
He groans. “Twenty-seven.”
“Oh my God, I bet you’re on those Top Thirty Under Thirty Lists, aren’t you?” I exclaim in delight.
Florian looks dreadfully embarrassed, flushing and looking away. “Possibly. But it’s irrelevant. It’s not what drives me. Now. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Let’s go, then. See if I can pick up some tips about pouring drinks into glasses and not onto people.”
“Cute, but that’s not what happened,” he says drily as we join the queue for drinks. “Believe me, I had a front-row seat.”
“True story.”
We’re next up for drinks, where we both take the offered champagne, which he does with practiced ease, while I feel like I’m playing an escalating charade at being someone much posher than I am.
With our drinks, we do a circuit of the gallery, and I continue to be stunned at seeing so many incredible contemporary artists in one place.
Occasionally, we stop, and I tell him about the art.
And he listens, much to my surprise. Like, really listens, like I’m some kind of expert, which is hilarious, because I’m definitely not.
Florian asks my opinion on different pieces, and I give him what background I can about the artist and the movement (over there, that Hirst is from the Young British Artists of the ’90s, or holy shit, Lucien Freud’s figurative paintings are to die for, and so on).
And I pretty much lose my composure again when I see a David Hockney painting and the way he captures a mood and color that I can only aspire to one day.
Unexpectedly, tears come to my eyes, and then Florian surprises me with a moment of shocking emotional intelligence and squeezes my hand in an almost convincing non-fake-boyfriend sort of way.
“Sometimes things are so beautiful,” I whisper, “that it hurts to look at them. Even though they make me happy. I don’t know if you can understand that.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “I’m not sure that I do, but I know that you understand. That’s why I think it’s useful for me to know people like you who see things differently than I do. I wish I could.”
“We all see things differently, I think. And I can only dream to one day make work like that.” I sigh.
We take more champagne when it’s offered, graze on canapés that are works of art in themselves, on skewers, in bowls, impressive platters. It’s all going well, and we meet a couple of associates who Florian knows in passing to exchange greetings before we contemplate another piece.
“What do you think the point of art is?” Florian asks me finally.
I glance over at his long, dark eyelashes, the way his hair falls over his brow.
In my stomach, something twists because this is where everything turns.
Because I could paint him, like this, standing beside him to capture the feeling of this world well beyond mine, where Florian moves with ease, and he’s stunning like any of the works in here, and I don’t think he sees it.
“To move you, I think. Feeling or thinking or both,” I offer simply. “I don’t think there’s just one answer to that. It’s a trick question.”
“What about you, specifically?”
I shrug helplessly, gesturing widely with a hand at the room. “I want to feel something. In the simplest form. I want to see something I haven’t seen before. I want to be inspired. I want to be moved to act.”
He nods after a moment, gazing around.
“What do you see?” I ask curiously, knowing enough now about him to brace myself. But tonight, he’s not angry, and hopefully, his tongue isn’t as cutting, but he’s not one to hold back what he really thinks. Because there’s no one to challenge him, to have him consider their feelings.
“Investments.”
I groan. “Florian, seriously? Investments?”
“Well, at this level, yes. It’s also a great way to bankroll crime and launder money.”
Another groan. Of all the dark, cynical takes, I wasn’t prepared for this. “Don’t tell me you’re into shady deals too.”
“Absolutely not.” He looks offended at the very idea. “Everything I do is above board. But the art world is rife with politics and financiers and the elite buying status objects to impress other status people. In a way, people should frame a million pounds in a gold frame and hang it on a wall.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.” A feeling of dread rises.
“Only in part, to prove a point. That I bet the majority of the people in this room are here to diversify their investments, to impress others. Thinking about how much they will earn by selling their collection pieces or how much it will cost them, and then how much they can write off. And keep their art in ultra-secure underground vaults. Very few, if any, are like you in the way you see things.”
“That’s bleak, Florian.”
“I’m being pragmatic.”
I gulp some champagne. My cheeks burn. And I’m fighting down some unwelcome feeling or feelings that have me in their grip.
Mortification. Disappointment. Even… embarrassment?
I don’t know, but it’s quicksand, and I’m going down.
“Are you actually buying something or…? I mean, why come here tonight if that’s what you think? Why invite me?”
The alcohol’s loosened my tongue a little, letting me be a bit careless with my words and more direct than usual. Something in Florian pushes me to push back. I’m one to avoid confrontation, to be the people pleaser. Florian has no such worries.
“It’s useful to be seen at cultural events.
They’re good for business and for networking.
It gives you something to talk about at meetings or over a working lunch.
And yes, art makes for useful investments and a way to diversify your assets.
” Florian gazes at a neon landscape before us, cypress trees cutting the sky with purple slashes.
“Artworks are products, essentially. To be bought and sold like any other commodity. Books, music, paintings, whatever.”
“You make art sound so ugly.” Something rankles. There’s a subterranean feeling burrowing up to the surface, and I’d like to shove it back away. But it’s coming up faster than I can stop it.
“I’m not trying to do that. I’m trying to tell you the way it is.” Florian’s not frowning, not quite, but he’s definitely not smiling. Giving me a hundred percent classical Florian stare. Which, unfortunately, would make a brilliant sculpture.
I bristle. “Florian, I don’t need to be told the way things are. Like I’m naive. I’m not. I may be younger than you, but I know a thing or two. And, like you said, I know about art. And yes, maybe I’m an idealist, but people need to dream about something bigger than all of us.”
“You’re young still—”
“Hell, you’re not much older than I am.” I frown at him. Good luck with that line of argument. “Don’t pull that shit on me.”
Florian frowns right back, for real this time, the corners of his mouth tugging down. “Remember the objective of tonight. Perhaps it’s time for us to leave. I do not wish to quarrel with you here.”
“You wish to quarrel with me elsewhere? Where did you have in mind?” Feeling petulant, I eye him.
Maybe the third glass of champagne was a mistake, but I’m not going to admit it.
Like there are ideal locations for quarrels.
I prefer to skip the quarreling altogether, but he started this debate.
And I can’t just sit back when he’s so callous about art.
“I think we should go for a walk,” Florian says with a decisive air. “Let’s get our coats.”
So, we do, and a few minutes later, we’re walking outside past high-end shops as it starts to sprinkle rain on a cool July night.
The air feels refreshing, despite being in central London.
A stream of slow traffic creeps past us on New Bond Street, the wet road casting red reflections from taillights in puddles and onto parked cars and glass storefronts like a kaleidoscope.
And I wonder why I feel so angry all of a sudden. I give him a level look as we stop beneath a luxury clothing shop’s awning for shelter, a couple of doors over from Sotheby’s.
“I don’t understand why you’re so upset.” Florian gazes at me, his green eyes hard. “You’ve told me yourself that you’re not making art and instead work in a bar. You’re currently removed from art production.”
“Art production?” I squeak. “Florian—I’m a painter, for crying out loud. Not working in a factory making millions of identical widgets. Or bespoke widgets. I paint—or I did—because I have something to say.”
His lips sour. “How do you know that the people in the widget factory don’t have something to say too?”
“Oh. My. God.”
He’s totally lost his mind. We’re both technically speaking English, but even my parents are way more sympathetic about art despite not knowing a thing about it.
I’ve never met someone so calculating about art.
And maybe that’s how it is in elite circles.
I wouldn’t know, since they’re not my circles.
I’m trying to draw in a breath before I erupt.
Florian peers at me, like he’s completely at a loss as to why I’m having a meltdown in front of some fancy clothing shop with a mannequin in the window that’s probably worth more than all of my paintings put together.
“Why are you so angry? This seems disproportionate.” Florian eyes me.
“I’m angry because art matters more to me than anything else, and you’re just seeing dollar signs.
It’s like you’re totally tone-deaf. You’ve said nothing about human expression.
So, I’m upset, Florian. Because I have feelings.
” I gesture sharply at him, frustrated. “Maybe you don’t. Maybe that’s the problem.”
“I can see you’re upset. But I’m having a hard time following why.”
My eyes prickle, and I shut them for a moment.
I make myself breathe. “I don’t know what I’m even doing here,” I tell him hotly, flushing, throwing my hands up in the air.
That stung. Like I needed the reminder. Florian’s gone for the jugular again without missing a beat like an ace drummer. “You got your suit, right?”
“Yes. I did.”
“You see everyone as something to be used in order to have worth. In my world, the real world, there’s a lot more out there. And you can’t see it. And it makes me sad that you can’t see it. And… and I think that’s why you’re not with Billy, because I bet he can see and feel beauty, and you can’t—”
His eyes widen, and I know I went way too far. Definitely the third glass of champagne on a handful of canapés was a mistake, but I’m still furious. And I’m not sorry I said it. I want to see him as upset as I am. To prove he has feelings too and that he isn’t carved from marble.
“I—you—” Florian tries again, spluttering and stunned, looking like someone had just thrown more drinks at him. “Too far, Matty.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Maybe not. Look, you got what you needed from me tonight—a companion for an evening at your event. You have your suit. Let’s call this done. Whatever this is.”
Florian gazes at me, impassive. “If that’s what you wish.”
“It’s all fake, Florian. Remember? Every last bit of it. Everything’s for show, to impress someone else, right? I’m going home. You can go home to your secret art vault or whatever. Good night.”
We stare each other down on the pavement. His jaw’s tight, shoulders braced. Maybe he’s not even human for all I know. Maybe some alien species is missing one of their own tonight. I grit my teeth, not wanting to be the one who looks away first.
“Good night, Matty.”
He stands with his hands in the pockets in his fine wool coat, his gaze unwavering. Some fleeting expression crosses his face, something soft and sad, before it disappears again as he glances down.
I turn on my heel abruptly, heading home alone in the misty rain. More than anything, I’m angry with myself for letting Florian get under my skin so much and for why I even care about what he thinks in the first place.