Lucas is Charmed, He’s Sure
Lucas is Charmed, He’s Sure
The anniversary, according to anyone with eyeballs, was a raging success, even if Armand was too overwhelmed to appreciate it.
But I’d been schmoozing, joking, and networking for the past three hours, and no matter how much I’d wanted to wrap Armand in my arms and shower him with pride and affection, I’d been good and kept a professional distance.
I snapped photos and hung around Armand’s friends, not holding his hand or kissing him in public or any of the things I wanted to do.
Which sucked, but then again, it had been my idea.
I wanted Armand’s hard work to speak for itself without me around as The Boyfriend to pull focus.
This did mean, however, that as the lights dimmed and the music cranked a dancy pop song, that the only thing standing between me and making terrible dietary decisions at the buffet was a six-foot-four fortysomething with auburn hair and a crisp, crooked grin.
“Let me guess.” He leaned closer so I could hear. Even with the loud music, I could tell his voice bore a deep, very pretty French accent. “Would you happen to be the photographer who’s been taking such exquisite photos of Armand on FotoBom?”
For a second I was thrown that someone in his age range kept up with the youths on social media. But then I smiled back, gesturing to my camera that I’d laid to rest around my neck. “And here I thought I was being stealthy.” I held out my hand. “Lucas Barclay.”
He shook firmly. “Jean-Michel LaRoux,” he said with a straight face, though that was the most cartoonishly French name I’d ever heard.
“Enchante, Lucas.” He plucked one of the chocolate eclairs I’d been gluttonously envying from the pastry tray.
“A respectable turnout,” he remarked, glancing out at the packed room of now-dancing fans and art-world celebrities.
“Though I do believe I saw a few people simply wander in from the street and head right for the dessert and champagne.”
That would explain some of the casual dress I’d seen.
Everyone else, who I assumed were rich and famous artists, was in fairly formal attire, looking and smelling astonishingly expensive.
I took in Jean-Michel’s Gaultier herringbone overcoat.
“Can I assume then that you’re here on purpose?
Fellow artist? Press? Prime Minister or whatever they have in France? ”
Jean-Michel chuckled. “I’m a galeriste—art dealer. Previously an artiste myself. But, I’m afraid I must be completely upfront with you—it was not coincidence that we became acquainted.” He leaned closer again, a bashful twinkle in his blue eyes. “I am also LowRezMedici.”
“Oh my god.” The pretentiousness I’d been reading into those comments and DMs made way more sense now in a French accent.
“I feel like I’m meeting internet royalty.
” I toasted him with my flute of sparkling cider.
“I should thank you for all your commenting and reposting—it’s been a bit of an uphill battle trying to build Armand’s platform from basically nothing. You’ve been a huge help.”
He grinned, raising a dark eyebrow. “I can imagine. Now please, you must tell me—you and Armand, you are together, no?” He quickly held a hand to his chest. “I will say nothing; it’s just that there’s such a poignant intimacy in your photos.
It’s clear when the photographer is viewing his subject with great affection or desire.
As you must know, the camera does not lie. ”
Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I hoped it was too dark for him to notice.
“Well. There goes my plan to stay undercover.” More than ever I wished I hadn’t lost sight of Armand in the crowd.
“We’ve been together a few months, basically since the Drawn someone dropped out at the last minute. Tres terrible.” He pulled out his phone, tapping a few times before showing me the screen.
“She has launched the careers of hundreds of artists, one of which is Patricia Yang. You may be familiar.”
No way. Surely not the Patricia Yang. “Are you serious? She’s been one of my inspirations for years.
” And yet, on Jean-Michel’s phone, I was staring at her very familiar FotoBom page, and saw that she followed him.
If he was connected to the person who launched Patricia Yang’s career . . . “Wait. What are you saying?”
Jean-Michel swiped a champagne flute and took a dainty sip before lending me a charming smile. “I am saying, my American friend, that I owe Ichika a favor, and I should like to introduce her to you and your work.”
I coughed, like I was choking on the desserts I was still dying to eat.
“What?! You’re kidding— All I shoot are horses and occasionally nature scenes.
” I thought of Skyler, how easy it was to capture his earnest, youthful essence on camera.
“I only just started experimenting with human subjects. And Patricia Yang, her photography is . . .” Rich, varied, way more technically proficient than mine .
. . “Thought-provoking, profound. Nothing like what I do.”
“Perhaps you are not giving yourself enough credit. You would not be the first artist whose potential I could spot from a mile away.” Jean-Michel’s eyes fell to the Surrogate Goose anniversary flyers accordioned across the end of the bar.
The pieces started coming together. “Wait, were you one of Armand’s art teachers?” I’d already spoken to a handful of Armand’s mentors, but it was a thrill every time to get a fresh perspective on what Armand was like when he was young.
Jean-Michel smiled coyly. “I taught him everything he knows.” He gestured to the crowd, to the physical manifestation of Armand’s talent, hard work, and utterly absurdist art. “And look at what has come of it.”
“What was he like?” I was dying for gossip. “Was he a good student? Did you help with Surrogate Goose?”
Jean-Michel opened his mouth, then simply ran his hand through his hair.
“I would not wish to discuss Armand’s past without his consent, or bother him on the biggest night of his career, so far.
But he is an open book; I have no doubt he will tell you himself.
” He slipped his fingers under his jacket lapel and pulled out a business card.
“Do let me know if you decide to stay longer. I’d be very happy to meet for lunch to discuss the future of your own art. ”
Illuminated only by the multicolored strobe lights, his card bore his name in fancy gold calligraphy and a phone number below it. Nothing else. “Okay. Wow. Thank you, really. It means a lot to have someone take an interest in my work.”
Jean-Michel smiled, then dipped into a distinguished bow. “Lovely to meet you, Lucas. Look after our boy.”
“I will.”
He politely discarded his champagne flute with a passing waiter and disappeared between dancers.