Love at First Château
Chapter 1
Navy or Green? I hold up the two suit jackets in the mirror, before throwing them both on the half-made bed. Ugh, they both look wrong. Pear and fig sticks, I wish Dad were here to give me advice. He would know which jacket to wear to my interview today. Being the daughter of “a famous artist who died too young,” as the New York Times put it, only shut more doors in this incredibly competitive industry than opened them.
“No, to the jacket. It’s too cold for a dress. And the only tights I own have a nice run through them.” Biting my bottom lip, I open my sparse wardrobe and scrounge around for something else to wear. The amount of pressure I’m putting on my outfit choice is ridiculous. It’s not like Flora, the commissioning editor, is going to reject me based off the color of lipstick I choose. Or is she?
Good job, Rory. It’s not like your anxiety is already peaking; let’s now overthink lipstick color too. Cue the nerves.
I’m not just representing Aurora Allard—artist. I’m representing élliot Allard and his legacy. The Tyson Gallery held a special place in his heart and, therefore, mine too. My dad’s paintings were favored by the crème de la crème of society. Collectors would flock in droves. Opening nights of his newest collections were always sellouts. It’s goals, honestly.
Even though the memory is a blur most days, I’ll never forget seeing my dad’s smiling face when Flora would whisper in his ear, Sold out, after only an hour of his paintings being displayed. Dream big, Starlight. A shiver goes down my spine. His phrase that always manages to create a sheen of tears in my eyes. Lightly, I run my finger over the phrase tattooed on my inner wrist in his own handwriting. It’s my grounder when everything else in my world seems tilted on its axis. Colorectal cancer, the silent killer—the words are a bitter taste on my tongue—took my dad at the height of his career, shortly before my fifteenth birthday, and ever since, I’ve made it my mission to continue his legacy. Starting with having my paintings line the Tyson Gallery.
My phone beeps with a message from my friend and college roommate, Briar.
Briar
Good luck today.
Ah, Briar can help me with my outfit dilemma. I quickly type back.
Rory
Should I go for the pantsuit or?
Briar
Defo pantsuit
Well, I guess that settles it.
Whether a pen, paintbrush, or epoxy resin, art is the only thing I’ve ever cared about…well, art and donating my time at the ASPCA Adoption Center. Nothing can turn my sour mood happy like puppy kisses. Period.
Dressing in my pantsuit, like Briar suggested, I stare at myself in the mirror. Interview outfit secured. I close the door to my dingy apartment with my portfolio tucked under my arm and make my way to the mother of all interviews, quietly confident today is the day I achieve my dream of being displayed in the same art gallery as my dad.
My phone rings as I make my way down the hall. “Hello?” I answer without checking the caller ID. Big mistake.
“Miss. Allard?” a man with a thick French accent asks.
I really should’ve checked the caller ID. “Speaking?” I reply, resting my phone between my ear and shoulder while juggling my portfolio, making sure all the documents I need are safely tucked inside. The prints don’t really do my artwork justice. Watercolors are my muse and preferred medium of choice; as such they’re more of an in-person effect. But it’s not like I can lug fifteen canvases across Upper Manhattan. My dad was more of an oil paint aficionado; it’s something I’m sure if he were alive today, we would disagree on. But isn’t that the whole point of learning from a master—carving your own path?
The man on the phone continues to talk, and I miss every single word he says. “Sorry, can you repeat that?” There’s so much static, his voice sounds incredibly far away.
“My name is Timothé Gauthier. I’m calling about your inheritance—” Pulling the phone away from my ear, I end the call. I’m not falling for one of those scam calls, where the next words out of his mouth would’ve been something along the lines of wire this money and I can release your fictitious inheritance—only nothing shows up. I have way too much to focus on today, and my bank account is one withdrawal away from laughing at me.
“Do you think I have ‘gullible’ tattooed on my forehead?” I mumble, tucking my phone into my pocket.
“No, but you do have ‘late on rent,’” Gus, the super, mentions as he walks past me. From this angle I can see the E printed on the sign tucked under his arm. Oh shit. I know that sign, and it means bad things for me. Way to add more pressure to my already tense day, Gus. My dismal bank account is another reason my interview today has a lot riding on it. If I don’t get into the gallery, my current diet of ramen noodles is going to be reduced to every other day.
“I’ll get you this month’s rent,” I tell Gus. Rent is really killing my vibe. In a few hours, I’m hoping everything will change. I just need to get to the meeting with the Tyson Gallery, and bingo bango mango—Gus problem solved.
“You still owe two months.”
“Well shit.” I forgot about that part. I hurry past Gus; I can’t stand here and dwell on my back-due rent. I have an important meeting to get to.
I calm the bundle of nerves that have ignited in me by rubbing my thumb along my tattoo. Dream big, Starlight. I snort, how wrong he was. All dreaming big has ever got me is an addiction to hiding under the covers and an unhealthy obsession with hot cocoa. Chocolate is the ideal serotonin booster, after all, or so my late-night google searches have told me, but I need the extra courage booster today. The subway doors open and I hop inside, sitting down in an empty seat. My phone buzzes in my pocket again.
Briar
Babe, you’re going to kill it today.
I may have sprinkled a bit of nepotism into my email to Flora, but I mean, it’s not like the Allard name shouldn’t get used every now and then. And the added bonus: Briar works at the gallery as an assistant.
I type back to her.
Rory
I hope so.
Since my father passed, my mom went from being less than supportive of a career in art to downright dissing it like it isn’t even a real job. She thinks anything I put a brush to is the equivalent of a preschooler’s finger painting, only to be outdone by my college professor laughing in my face when I told him I was going to take my “budding hobby” and make it my full-time job after he gave me a failing grade. It doesn’t matter how many times my mother refers to my father as merely being “the sperm donor,” because the great élliot Allard didn’t want a relationship with her past their failed one-night stand. Being the daughter of a famous artist has been difficult, to say the least. But none of these things are going to ruin today.
My phone rings again, and when the unknown caller ID pops up, I go to cancel the call. A gnawing feeling in my gut makes me second-guess it might be Flora. “Hello?” I answer, silently crossing my fingers in my pocket that Flora isn’t going to tell me I’m twenty minutes late to our meeting or that she has to postpone it.
“Hello, Aurora Allard, this is Timothé Gauthier. I’m calling about your inheritance—” I hang up the phone. When will this guy get the hint?
Stepping off the subway, I make my way to the Tyson Gallery. I don’t know what I thought would happen the moment I walked into the gallery—the one place my dad knew he was a shoo-in, and by default, me too. A warm welcome, a round of applause, because an Allard is in the house once again? A few of the employees pulling out old photos with my dad being like, I remember him? Okay, maybe the last one is a bit much. But I surely didn’t expect to be sitting in front of the commissioning editor, sweating bullets as I watch the clock on the wall tick away stretched-out silence. Slowly, my eyes follow a drop of condensation as it slides down the chalice, swallowing the lump in my throat as it disappears on the felt-lined tray below. The quiet room is thick with a mixture of perspiration and desperation. I discretely shift my elbow, trying to catch a whiff of my all-too-sweet perfume I had sprayed in my haste before leaving. I really hope my deodorant doesn’t fail me today. I knew I should have sprayed an extra squirt of perfume, just in case.
Flora purses her lips as she slowly surveys each of my portraits in my portfolio. Her well-manicured fingers squeak on the plastic protector as she flicks through each page with disinterest, only making my muscles tense more with each page. A stone forms in the pit of my stomach as a seed of doubt takes root that maybe this gallery I had thought was a perfect fit…maybe isn’t. As the meeting continues to drag, the silence only becomes thicker, and still no one brings in a bottle of champagne or contracts to sign. This isn’t a good sign. Right? My back-due rent sitting squarely in the recesses of my mind as I stare at Briar, sitting next to Flora, hoping her poker face will give anything away. Though Briar was low on the proverbial corporate ladder, as Flora’s assistant she gets to sit in on these meetings. I only wish today she could be a little less professional.
“I’m sorry, Aurora, I just don’t think there is a collector market for your kind of artwork, and if there is no collector market, there is no point having your work here,” Flora announces, slamming my portfolio shut, making me jump in the chair with the finality of a decision made.
“But my dad—” I sputter, staring at my portfolio like it’s about to explode.
Flora holds a hand up, stopping me in my tracks. “You are no élliot Allard, and while we love everything your father did, that doesn’t mean we will spend time and money displaying your works. We conducted this interview as a favor to your father and his legacy, but that is all this was. A favor.”
I stare, dazed, at the woman. I’m used to receiving the standard “Sorry, this isn’t the right fit for us,” but this? This cuts deep.
No collector market? I repeat in my head. Those words were going to haunt me for a long time, as I watch all my hard work evaporate into a puff of mint-flavored breath.
“Oh,” I mumble, the air deflated from my lungs, shrinking back in the chair, as if the words had physically wounded me.
Briar mouths, Sorry, but it feels hollow, like the hole that has just been opened in my chest.
Of all the rejections, this one stung the most. Not that I thought I was a shoo-in because Briar has raved about me, but because I’m an Allard, damn it. And an Allard should have their works displayed in the Tyson Gallery. It’s like putting chocolate powder on top of a cappuccino. It wouldn’t be the same without it.
I flick my gaze to my friend sitting to Flora’s left, Briar’s face an impassive wall, not letting on whether she secretly knew Flora was going to reject my work before I even walked in through the door. Flora releases the portfolio and picks up the letter of referral I’d obtained from the Moody Gallery in Houston after I won the rising star competition a few months ago, courtesy of one of my dad’s friends down there. At least the Allard name holds strong somewhere.
I wring my clasped hands together in my lap, hoping that there is a small sliver of hope from that letter. My eyes dart between Briar and Flora in a silent plea to reconsider my work. Flora releases a breath and drops the paper, pushing her thick-framed glasses onto the crown of her head. She holds up the letter I’d received from the judge of the rising star competition. “While I congratulate you on winning this competition. This isn’t enough. If the judge loved your work so much, why isn’t he putting it in his own gallery?” Flora squints at the piece of paper and looks back at me.
Flora purses her lips and stares at me as though I’m a wall made of drying paint. Boring. “Please,” I plead, my voice barely above a whisper. “Just give me a chance. Briar loves my work,” I beg. I’m not above begging at this point. Blinking rapidly, I try to stop the tears from overflowing. I need this. I can’t call my mother with another failed interview. I can’t walk back to my empty apartment with another rejection in hand. Not even volunteering my time with the ASPCA is going to help me get out of this slump.
“Briar,” Flora retorts, “is also an associate, and her artistic opinion is not yet proven. She is way too early in her career to be commissioning anything. Let alone unnamed artists.” Flora’s words are like well-honed archer’s arrows, straight and true they hit their mark, callous with their impact, and harsh with their delivery.
Flora closes my portfolio and my dreams with a dull thud. “The Tyson Gallery thanks you for your time and consideration,” she announces, and hands it back to me like it’s a dirty, used tissue.