Chapter Thirty-One Julia
Chapter Thirty-One
Julia
Julia walked into the gallery and flicked on the lights, relieved to be back in New York, in her real life.
It almost felt like she’d imagined the past week in London, like it had all been some kind of fever dream: Abby getting roofied at their spontaneous bachelorette, her confrontation with Valentine, that agonizing moment when she’d walked away from Harry, not knowing whether it was for the last time.
Somehow, in the wake of that night, she and Harry had grown closer than ever.
Perhaps that was a natural consequence of pushing your relationship to the brink of a breakup; you got every ugly thing out there on the table.
Or at least, almost everything. Harry did say that there were still some things he couldn’t share, not yet.
Julia told herself she didn’t mind. Those were likely family secrets, probably about a trust fund or company board structure, or maybe something illegal a family member had done, which his parents had covered up. She just had to trust that Harry would tell her as soon as he could.
The entire flight back to New York, they’d held tight to each other’s hands, their foreheads tipped together.
The flight attendant had finally come over with two flutes of champagne.
“Newlyweds?” she’d asked fondly, and Julia realized that was probably how they seemed: insatiable for each other, like a couple giddily headed to their honeymoon.
Now that they were back in the city, Julia had started to stand up for herself, little by little.
Just this morning, when the wedding planner had emailed a rundown of the ceremony, Julia had noticed that she was walking down the aisle to something called “Trumpet Voluntary.” I would like an acoustic version of “Here Comes the Sun” for my entrance music, Julia had responded.
She could practically hear the sniff of disdain in Tara’s reply. We can play the Beatles at the reception, but Ellene brides always process to “Trumpet Voluntary.” I’ve already hired six trumpeters.
Then cancel them, Julia insisted, and hire a guitar player. So what if Ellene brides had “always” done things a certain way? They were about to learn that she was a different sort of Ellene, one who wasn’t cowed by tradition or money.
The jangle of keys at the gallery’s back entrance interrupted her thoughts. “Julia?” Lucy called out, surprised. “I forgot what day you were coming back. How was London?”
“London was great.” Julia hurried to change the subject.
“Did I miss anything while I was gone?” When she’d asked Lucy for a week off, she hadn’t been completely forthcoming about the reason.
She’d said she was going abroad to visit her friend Abby, completely leaving out the engagement party.
Or the fact that she was getting married at all.
“It’s always slow in August. Everyone’s in the Hamptons, or Europe.” Lucy started to say more, only to pause at the jingle of a bell. They had a customer.
“I’ve got it,” Julia promised, but she felt Lucy following her into the gallery’s main space. Maybe she wanted to watch Julia at work, offer feedback on her sales techniques.
It took a moment for Julia to recognize the woman striding through the door, wearing a tailored skirt and silk blouse. Allison Gordon, the woman she’d met at the Met event.
“That’s Allison Gordon,” Lucy said under her breath. “Knock our prices down twenty-five percent for her.”
Lucy adjusted prices based on the buyer, which apparently was common practice.
So-called good clients, usually renowned collectors or famous people—“actually famous, not from reality TV or, God forbid, TikTok,” Lucy had explained—were given discounts to encourage a purchase.
Conversely, “undesirable” clients were saddled with sales premiums and freight fees meant to deter them from associating with the gallery.
Mrs. Gordon strolled along the wall of German expressionism, pausing before the painting of the naked woman with the white bow in her hair.
“Twenty-five percent, really? You only gave ten to Emilia Clarke when she came in,” Julia murmured in reply.
“That show isn’t on the air anymore. She’s no longer the Mother of Dragons; now she’s an out-of-work actress. The Gordons are tastemakers in high society, and worth billions.”
That was exactly the point, Julia thought. Someone worth billions didn’t need a discount. But she bit back her protests and started across the gallery.
“Good morning. Can I bring you an espresso or a Perrier while you browse?”
Allison ignored Julia’s offer. “Good, it’s you,” she said briskly. “You’re the one marrying Tara’s son, right?”
Julia was surprised that she’d left an impression. She hoped that Lucy wasn’t listening but didn’t dare glance over her shoulder to check.
“I’m Julia Dodds. Harry is my fiancé,” she replied, determined to mention her own name before his.
“Of course. As I said, I was sorry to miss your engagement party.” Allison moved past a series of mixed-media prints in bold colors.
“You were in Carmel, right?” Julia recalled. “How was it?”
“Rainy!” Allison exclaimed. “I hope you had better weather for your party in London. Though come to think of it, I’ve never seen it rain for a party of Tara’s. She has such luck when it comes to weather.”
Julia wasn’t sure what to say, so she nodded in agreement. Allison sighed and turned to face her. “Arthur was impressed by you at the Curator’s Circle event. His birthday is coming up, and I thought I might surprise him with a new piece for his home office. What can you show me?”
A home office for a billionaire. Julia scrambled to think.
“Perhaps an abstract piece? Emily Wilford is one of my favorites.” Julia gestured to an acrylic painting, composed of green and blue dots against a white background.
The woman sniffed. “It looks like something a toddler could make with a box of crayons.”
Okay, nothing abstract. Julia hesitated, then decided, why not? She crossed the gallery to the opposite side, and Allison followed.
“Have you heard of Lantern? He’s an American artist—well, everyone thinks he’s a man, but no one is certain. Lantern is a pseudonym,” Julia began.
“Like Banksy?”
“Lantern’s works are nothing like Banksy’s,” Julia assured her.
“They are poetic and thoughtful representations of nature. See this one? It could be perfect for an office.” She gestured toward her favorite work in the gallery, composed of muted greens and golds with rough crosshatched lines.
“It looks like it’s abstract, until you study it for a moment longer and realize that it’s a close-up study of tree bark. ”
The bark was actually that of a water oak, a tree that reminded Julia of her childhood in Georgia. Looking at this work always made her oddly nostalgic.
She watched as Allison studied the canvas. “What does the tree bark represent?”
“Strength, and survival in adversity, and the passage of time. But also…” Julia’s voice softened.
“I like to think that this tree bark somehow suggests magic. There’s a mystical feel to the celadon green, the way it swirls in this knot of the tree into a deeper color and becomes almost blue.
It’s not realistic, but it’s not supposed to be. ”
Allison stared at it another moment. “We don’t know anything about the artist?” she asked, still sounding skeptical.
“He prefers not to work under his own name, but it’s assumed that he lives somewhere on the East Coast. Vermont, maybe, given how beautiful the trees are?” Julia guessed.
To her surprise, Allison nodded. “Very well. I’ll have our banker wire over the funds this afternoon. You can coordinate with my assistant for delivery.”
Julia belatedly realized that they hadn’t discussed the most important detail. “We should—I mean, the price is—”
Allison made a hmph sound. “Oh, I don’t care about the cost. You’re practically an Ellene, and I’ve known Tara for years. I trust you to be fair.”
Was Julia being welcomed into the world of the Ellenes—or was she being warned?
Allison lifted her hand in a careless wave, then walked out with a brisk click of her heels. Julia took a deep breath before venturing to Lucy’s office. The door was open, but she still knocked.
“I made a sale,” she said tentatively. “A Lantern, in fact.”
“Yes, I was listening.” Lucy looked up from her computer screen, her expression unreadable. “You sold a painting to a friend of your mother-in-law.”
“We’re not—”
“Julia, you aren’t legally obligated to tell me anything about your personal life,” Lucy said stiffly.
“But I can’t imagine why you didn’t share that you’re getting married.
I thought you were single. I thought you went to London to visit a friend.
And it was actually for your engagement party?
” She shook her head. “Why did you feel the need to lie?”
“I really did see my friend! It wasn’t a lie,” Julia protested. “I just—I left out some of the truth.” The excuse sounded flimsy to her own ears, like something a kindergartner would use to avoid a time-out.
“What other truths have you left out?” Lucy asked, echoing Julia’s words.
“Nothing! I didn’t tell you about Harry because I was trying to get a job on my own.” Julia let out a breath. “The Ellenes have so much of everything. I wanted to prove that I didn’t need them to pull strings for me.”
“Julia,” Lucy said heavily. “I know you took this job for those moments of passionate connection to a work: when you see a painting and it makes you want to laugh, or cry, or fuck. It’s such a joy finding a work like that, getting to promote that artist and help them find an audience.
But let me tell you, those moments are few and far between. Most of this job is showmanship.”
Julia blinked. “What are you saying, you don’t believe in the art you represent?”
“Does it matter if I believe in it as long as the buyer does?” Lucy said, challenging her.
“Last year at Art Basel someone sold a banana for six figures. An actual banana, duct-taped to the wall, that rotted within days! Our job isn’t to judge the art.
It’s to make a sale.” Lucy paused, then added, “Like you just did, selling one of the Lanterns.”
Maybe Julia wasn’t in trouble after all.
“It helps, of course, that you had a personal connection. I hope more connections will find their way to the gallery soon.” Lucy leveled a stare at Julia.
“Believe me, I wish we didn’t have to think financially at all, but if we want our artists to get paid, if we want the bandwidth to support more artists, then we have to sell their pieces. ”
Julia nodded slowly. Everything came back to money in the end, didn’t it? Even something as elevated and cerebral as art.
Well, so what if it did? Money had almost come between her and Harry, but Julia had salvaged things. She wouldn’t let money ruin her love for her job, either.
Lucy started to turn back to her computer. She added, almost casually, “So, when is the wedding?”
Julia realized, then, what she would have to do. Perhaps some part of her had known all along.
“In October, on the coast of Georgia. We haven’t sent out the invitations yet, but I’m hoping you’ll be there.”
Interest flickered across Lucy’s face, though her voice was still stern. “I’ll have to check my calendar.”
“I’ll seat you near Scarlett Johannson. You know she’s a big modern art fan.”
Lucy’s lips were still pursed, but it was clear now that she was pursing them against a smile. “That is interesting,” she conceded. “Now go write up that paperwork for the Lantern sale. And make sure to bring your fiancé to the gallery soon. I’d like to meet him.”
It was a stinging reminder of the trade Julia was making, of the divide between her previous self and her future self. Once she married Harry, the world would see her only as his wife. As Mrs. Ellene.
Fine, then. If the world was going to consider her an Ellene, then she should start behaving like one. She would prove to all of them that she could, as Valentine had put it, make the cut.
She would beat them at their own game.
Julia walked back toward the front of the gallery, but she didn’t stop at her desk to draw up the sale paperwork. She pulled out her phone.
“Hey, Percy,” she said when Harry’s cousin picked up. “Are you free this weekend? I want to go shopping.”