I love LA, I reminded myself sternly. I just fucking love it.
It would be 80 and sunny all day, and then 80 and dark all night, so I really could wear whatever I wanted. I held up the sky-blue a-line dress and the white gauze halter side by side and stared at them both in the mirror.
That blue looks like their eyes, I sighed inwardly, then snapped that hanger back on the rod and took the white one into the shower.
When I walked in the front door, Bridget spotted me right away and waved over her head for me to come over. She wore a midnight blue, skin-tight satin gown with a deliriously plunging neckline. Her dark red curls were piled high on top of her head with some curling strands framing her cheekbones like ribbons of candy.
“You look like a mermaid,” I cooed as I walked up.
“A ha ha ha!” she laughed hugely for the benefit of the collectors nearby, then snatched at my upper arm and pulled me close so she could whisper in my ear.
“I need you to talk to that couple hovering over by Annie’s work,” she hissed rapidly in my ear.
“Oh please don’t make me sell!” I whisper-whined, opening my eyes as wide as I could.
“I have no interns! Go! Now!”
“Well…” I looked around, hoping an intern or gallery assistant would magically appear. While we were hanging the show, Bridget hollered mercilessly at Steve and Cliff, and I cringed every time she threatened to fire them or they threatened to quit.
“I have no interns!” she said again through her clenched teeth, a macabre not-smile stretched across her highly polished, blood red lips.
“Well maybe you should be nicer to people!”
“Margot,” she started menacingly, leaning toward me as far as her skirt would allow.
“You really shouldn’t lean like that. You’re gonna fall,” I warned her seriously.
“Get. Over. There.”
“Because those heels are, what… Eight inches? You’ll go over like a redwood in drag. Ow! Fine!” I snapped as she twisted the skin on the back of my arm.
Rubbing my sore arm, I strode across the huge, white gallery to the breezeway that led into the back warehouse. This show had used every square inch of floor space, from the front windows to the loading dock.
Fine time to alienate your staff, Bridget, I scolded her silently. At the same time I felt responsible. She really was pretty pissed at me.
As I walked into the breezeway, carefully not glancing at the installation of my own work that flanked the entrance, I saw the couple that were milling in front of Annie’s half-dozen 6-foot-high paintings of airborne women in bridal gowns. They each looked like they were falling from a height, their silken shifts clinging to them in sodden tatters, arms out in a gesture of finality.
I watched the couple for a few moments, trying to gauge their interest. The man held one arm across his middle while his other hand traced circles in the air in a gesture that said, “Holy cow, do I ever know a lot about deep meanings. Please listen.”
His date stood next to him, dowdy and bespectacled and at least 30 years younger than him. She laced her fingers in front of her dustbunny-colored long skirt in a gesture that said, “Golly he’s a deep one. What a stud.”
“Hiiiii,” I breathed as I came up behind them, singing that gallery assistant Song Of Just Wow that everyone seemed to love so much.
“Hiiii,” they both joined in, smiling openly.
Gotcha, I thought.
I stood between them and asked them what they thought about the piece, smiling and nodding avidly as the man gave a speech about Women’s Agency, whatever that’s supposed to mean, and the girl cooed and sighed like a dove. When he was done I added what few facts I knew about her, filling out the story of the piece for them. Collectors like to have a story to go with their art, something to tell other people. They like to feel connected, not like they just bought a context-free piece of ludicrously overpriced wallpaper.
He nodded through my sparse but complimentary smattering of facts, then turned back to the the pink-robed bride, and then back to me. He squinted at me keenly.
“But do you like it?” he asked.
“Me? Yes I like it very much,” I said pleasantly, feeling every one of my own paintings staring daggers into my back and also feeling guilty for being jealous and petty.
“Really!” he said as though this was a challenge I could win or lose. I glanced at his date. She looked at me expectantly.
“So would you buy it then?” he persisted.
I nodded earnestly. I actually did have a couple of Annie’s early pieces and I liked her work.
“I would,” I asserted with absolute confidence.
He nodded slowly as though weighing my statements for deeper meanings. I wished I’d said something more profound.