Chapter 38 - Ed
Chapter thirty-eight
Ed
The weather gods are looking down on us as the evening begins. It is still and clear and warm and, coupled with the free prosecco, perfect for encouraging people to get generous with their art desires.
The turnout is so great, there really is literally standing room only, and despite the café being cleared and used to showcase some of the pieces of art, the overflow has spilled out on to the street.
The promise of a successful evening, and three ibuprofen, go someway to alleviating my headache, but given the bids on A Lettered Man have now reached one point five million and the last journalist count totalled three, all bets on the pain not staging a swift return are off.
Jeanette appears through a gap in the crowd dressed in butterfly wings covered in hand-painted flowers, and an ornate kimono. She is as much a work of art as the items up for auction.
She beams when she sees me. "Isn't this wonderful, Ed?"
I can't do anything but agree. Right now, it does indeed appear wonderful.
As she turns to sidle up next to me, one of her wings clips a hand holding a drink just as the drinker is about to take a sip. It sloshes up and over his nose and leaves the man blinking in surprise while prosecco drips from his chin onto the floor.
Her wings then fwap me in the face as she turns towards him with a gasp. "Oh my goodness. Sorry my love. Let me get you a serviette."
I grasp Jeanette's shoulders. "No. Stay where you are. You're too much of a liability. I'll get the serviette."
The man waves me off with a "No harm done" and pulls out a handkerchief to mop himself down.
I say, "Please don't go anywhere near the art up for auction, Jeanette. Not without taking your wings off first," but she's not listening. She's gazing across the heads of people, the broad smile back on her face. "You know, I never doubted her. Bess is afraid of nothing."
"No. Though perhaps she should be."
"Lovely Ed." She lays a hand on my forearm. "I understand your fear, but you know what they say. 'The higher the risk, the higher the reward'."
"Yes, and they also say 'The higher the risk, the harder the ground is when it comes rushing up to meet you'."
Jeanette laughs her tinkly laugh. "They do not." Her smile falters. "Do they?"
I sigh. "I don't know. All I know is that I'm bricking it right now and I just wish this whole thing was over."
"Well I don't. I'm making the most of being mindful in this moment, and enjoying it as it happens.
I mean, look at it." She sweeps a hand across the crowd.
"We did this. We brought dozens and dozens of friends and strangers together through our collective love of art. Isn't there something magical in that?"
Right now I do want to be that person who feels the magic in the air, but the pressure in my lower intestines and the fabric sticking to my spine won't let me. I'm what people of my generation have been known to call A Hot Mess.
"We don't know what the future will bring, so why waste time worrying about it?" With a squeeze of my arm, Jeanette moves away to brutalise other people with her lack of lateral awareness and leaves me to contemplate how on earth she can just turn off the worry switch.
If I had a super power, it wouldn't be anything remotely sexy like 'fly without wings', or 'super-human strength', it would be something mind-numbingly ordinary and much more practical, like 'not imagining worst-case scenarios'.
My attention is pulled to the biggest draw-card of the evening. People congregate around A Lettered Man, reading the letters, peering through the small holes in his frame to his dark insides.
Bess stands nearby, obliging people with selfies and autographs on the prints of her paintings, and keeping an eye on her soldier, making sure nobody touches the original letters, which sit nestled in his heart cavity.
She is wearing a pale blue, short-sleeved dress that clings to her curves and hot pink, high-heeled ankle boots.
She looks heart-arrestingly beautiful.
I am wearing a cream, open-necked, collarless shirt I haven't worn since my cousin, Parminder's, wedding. It's slim fit and I feel slightly self-conscious about the very little give between it and my skin.
I've never had a reason to dress up in Bess' presence before. She was in such a flurry of activity before people started arriving that she hadn't noticed. Not that I expect her to have any interest in what I'm wearing.
But she seems to notice now.
Her eyes sweep over me. Down and back up again.
Uneasy under her scrutiny, I swallow, and her eyes seem to catch on my Adam's apple. They stay there for longer than they really should and her bottom lip drops away from her top one ever so slightly.
And...
I feel like I'm in one of my dreams where Bess is available and looking. In that dream I know exactly how to interpret an expression like that.
It's desire. Because Dream Bess is a universe away from Real Bess and has the capacity and willingness to desire me.
Surely I've misinterpreted things.
She blinks rapidly, like she's pulling herself out of a daydream.
Colour rises in her cheeks and then she turns her head and the moment, which feels earth-shakingly momentous, because she has never ever looked remotely at me like that before, is lost.
It was so fleeting, I almost worry I imagined it. But...
I don't think I did.
Before I have time to dwell on what the significance of whatever just happened, a new, pervasive energy enters the space, matched by the overpowering aroma of expensive aftershave, which is so cloying, I can taste it.
Theodore Pinkerton has arrived.
His voice is the kind of deep rumble that can penetrate higher frequencies. It rushes through the hubbub, sweeping out the legs of any other conversation. "Where is she? La dame de l'heure?"
I move to head him off at the pass, knowing very well that Bess can handle him, but I can't help myself. I want her to enjoy this evening as much as she can. It might be the last genuinely good thing I can do for her if the house of cards comes tumbling down.
As Theodore's eyes land on her, I step in front of him, blocking his path.
Forcing a smile, I say, "Evening."
He looks at me quizzically, then his face clears in recognition. "Ah, Bess' buddy. Ted."
"Ed."
He holds out a hand for me to shake.
"I'm happy to talk to you, but I'm not shaking your hand."
His mouth quirks upwards in one corner in acknowledgement. "Okay, my brother. But know I'm not all bad guy."
"No, you're probably not. But when greed gets the better of you, it has a habit of pulling others down with you. You're not the only desperate person here, Theo. Though they are a hundred times more deserving than you."
He huffs out of laugh and looks down his nose at me? "Who says I'm desperate?"
"There can't be too many reasons why you changed your tune on a buyout and then insisted on an overinflated asking price."
The smile slips from his face.
"Let's just hope the evening goes to plan and A Lettered Man sells without any problems."
Theo's right eyelid twitches. "Why would there be any problems with the sale?"
I know I shouldn't say anything that even hints not all is as it appears, but fuck it. He deserves to sweat a bit. "Because you've backed people into a corner, Theo, and desperate people take drastic measures."
"What on earth does that mean?"
I look him in the eyes and will my own to remain sufficiently moistened to maintain a sufficiently knowing stare.
He glances over one shoulder and steps in close to me. "I need that money from Bess. There better not be anything that would prevent a sale, hombre."
"Yes, let's hope not. Every single artist here will be happy to see you scuttling off back to the land of the extremely privileged and taking your brand of plastic charity with you."
Stepping backwards, Theo looks me up and down. "Nice metaphor. You know, I respect your strut. You're a librarian, aren't you?"
I don't bother replying. I don't think I'll like what's about to come.
"Must be savage being surrounded by all those women. You'd be very popular."
And there it is. The old emasculation routine. I give a single, derisive laugh. "Nice try, my brother, but I'm honoured to be working in a field that is traditionally a female one. Promoting and fostering literacy? Surely you're not that much of an arsehole to belittle that kind of work."
"I'm merely playing you at your game, Ted.
You think Bess wants you fighting her battle for her, like you're her knight in shining armour and she's some damsel in distress incapable of confronting the big, scary dragon?
I can do metaphors, too, hombre. So, quit your chest beating and I'll quit mine. "
He steps around me and disappears into the throng.
I don't move for a few seconds.
He's right, of course. Bess doesn't need me. That's one of the things I love about her. Her potency, her fierce independence. And even though she is capable of rescuing herself – is in the process of rescuing herself – she could also do with all the help she can get.
I turn and watch Theo's progress.
He strategically ignores anyone who looks like they might be an artist, presumably so he doesn't have to deal with any further shit giving, and engages with people who look moneyed.
There's no doubt about it, the man can do charm. He might even prove to be an asset to tonight's proceedings. More than likely he's trying to hand shake a few more dollars out of the punters, because he stands to win if he can.
Bess has, meantime, extracted herself from the gaggle of selfie seekers and is edging her way out of Pinkerton's eyeline.
She disappears out the café door and starts talking to those drinking and eating canapés on the pavement.
Fifteen minutes later, the first auction edges towards closing and there's a drop in the volume of conversation as those observing or bidding watch proceedings on their phones or on the big screen TV that’s been set up for the evening.