Overlooked(2)(11)

“Is it her?” Julie asks.

“It’s her all right.”

“Sounds like there’s no point in you pursuing her, given she hates the rich and all.”

I snap the lid shut and set the laptop on the ottoman.

“You know I like a challenge.” I take another pull of my beer.

Julie unmutes the TV and we sit staring at the screen. I don’t know what she’s thinking about, but I’m figuring out a way to speak to Skye.

When I get home that night, I bring up the Piek Gallery website again for a closer look at her paintings. I don’t care if they are anti-me, they’re beautiful. And I haven’t even seen them in person.

I pull out my phone and type a message to my assistant:

First thing Monday morning, go to the Piek Gallery and buy all the paintings by the artist Skye. I also need you to get her contact details.

Now all I have to do is sit back and wait for my assistant to come through.



***



On Monday morning at one minute past nine, my phone beeps with a text.

Sorry Lawson, the gallery is closed on Mondays.

Okay, first thing tomorrow morning.

I didn’t like having to wait two days, I don’t exactly want to wait another.





Spread Eagle

(Skye)



On Monday morning, I switch off the engine of my rust bucket in the driveway of Kelso’s mansion. Mansion, ha. It’s big enough to house all the homeless people in a twenty-mile radius.

This is my first look at it. When I’d met Kelso to hash out our deal, it had been in Gordon’s gallery. Ava had suggested it, so that Gordon could overhear the arrangements and make sure Kelso wasn’t taking advantage of me.

I count eight massive three-story columns lining the front of the house, as if it’s some kind of Greek temple. It’s ugly and riles me. He’d better not expect my paintings to be so tacky.

I make my way to the door, with nothing but my purse over my shoulders. Gordon runs an art supply store beside his gallery and arranged for every supply I’d ever need to be sent to the house. All I have to do is show up. And try not to puke at the ostentatious display of wealth when there is such suffering in the world.

The front door is already open. I take a deep breath and step into the entrance. Or I should say lobby. Kelso and a workman are talking near the bottom of one of the two sets of staircases. Yes, the lobby is so big, two staircases start at either side of the lobby and wind their way up the three floors. Disgusting.

“Skye, welcome.”

Kelso stops talking to the workman and waddles over to me. Sweat droplets follow the line of his receding hairline, even though it’s cool in here. As he waddles, he wipes the sweat away with his hand, then offers the same hand to me to shake.

Feeling nausea, I take his offered hand in mine.

“Good morning, how are you?” I ask in my waitress voice.

“Let me give you a tour of the rooms I want pieces done in. The first one will be for here, right by the door. And make it nice and big so people notice it.” The rich bastard couldn’t even be bothered with an ‘I’m fine.’ Smile and nod, I remind myself.

“Do you have a subject matter in mind?”

“I’ll leave that up to you, after all, you’re the artist.” I’m surprised he doesn’t demand something in the Rococo style. As least I can choose what I want to paint.

“Great, I’m full of ideas already.” Though I doubt he’d appreciate them.

“Let me show you the rest of the rooms. Just watch out for the workmen. The house should’ve been finished by now, but the work got behind. I’ve already moved in so have a few rooms I’m living in, but the rest is still a work in progress.”

Kelso leads me through room after room on his ground floor. Most of the rooms are empty, but a few are furnished and appear to be fully finished.

On the ground floor, he wants paintings in the entrance, family room, dining room and office. Plus three in the hallway and two in the living room.

“That’s nine, did you say you wanted ten?”

“Yeah, another upstairs, but I don’t have time to show you now. Start the one in the entrance now,” he says, his voice stern. Okay, guess I’m just another employee here. That’s okay: for fifty grand and a gallery show, I can deal with him.

I spend the morning in the entrance, examining the space and light and generating ideas in my notebook. My plan was to knock out these paintings as fast as possible and never have to come to this shrine of wealth again.

At noon, I pull my sandwich from my purse and sit on the bottom step to eat my lunch. The workmen have all gone somewhere else for their lunch. The rich bastard probably doesn’t let them eat in his house.