Mansplainer Page 5

  Shannon turns to me. “Lend me your mirror, madame.”

  I open my purse and hand it to him. “Here you go, vain one.”

  “Vain?” He lets out a laugh as he checks his reflection. “Just making super-duper sure I look the part. After all, I am your date for the evening. And one never knows when one might have to throw over their date for something more enticing.”

  “Date?” I smile as he blows himself a kiss into my compact. “More like my plus one.”

  He finger combs his hair. “Well, I still need to look my best. There’s no telling who I might run into tonight.”

  “Please, whatever you do, refrain from flirting with the bartenders. It’s beneath you.”

  Shannon clucks his tongue and snaps the compact shut with a loud click of protest. “What’s wrong with that? I have to stay close to the booze. Besides, bartenders look best beneath me.”

  I snuggle deeper into the stained leather seats, every sequin on this damn dress cutting into my sensitive skin. The price we women pay to look good. I won’t even get started about my stilettos and the way they squeeze my toes like a vice. “You’d better not get drunk tonight, Shannon.”

  “If I do, look at the bright side. My behavior will be for a good cause.”

  A few minutes later, the taxi pulls up to an Upper East Side brownstone. I pay the driver and Shannon gets out and opens the door for me. “After you, my lady.”

  I smile and take his hand. “Why, thank you, kind sir. Even though knight in shining armor, you’re not.”

  We walk up to the steps to the gorgeous three-story home. Shannon rings the doorbell, looking straight up at the elegant building. “The Bennetts must be loaded. Just look at this place.” He sniffs the air. “Sure smells like old money to me.”

  A man dressed in a butler’s uniform answers the door and says, “Welcome, please come in.”

  As Shannon and I walk inside, I glance around the home in awe. Polished hardwood floors gleam underneath my Jimmy Choos, and antique paintings hang on many of the walls. The hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, stand in the living room surrounded by guests, sipping champagne and laughing.

  Anne Bennett smiles at us and gives a quick flick of her wrist in greeting. “Meadow! I’m so glad you made it.”

  I approach and place two air kisses in the vicinity of her cheeks, NYC style. “I couldn’t miss this.”

  “And who is this handsome gentleman?” She points to Shannon with a warm gaze.

  “See there, Meadow? I’m a handsome gentleman. I love you already, you gorgeous woman.” His grin is more Cheshire Cat than modest mouse. I want to tell him that it’s always better when others discover your value without your help.

  “More like a handsome devil,” I say under my breath, turning toward Anne. Her perfectly groomed brows arch the unspoken question. “This is my gallery assistant and best friend, Shannon Burch.”

  Shannon makes a show of bowing over her hand and brushing his full lips against her porcelain skin. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bennett. You have a lovely home.”

  She giggles like a schoolgirl much to her stodgy husband’s dismay. Shan has that effect on women, and significant others often get huffy until they realize his door doesn’t swing that way. “Thank you. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  He charms her with another grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  She snaps her fingers, and a tall, handsome man carrying a tray of champagne glasses walks over to us. It’s hard to mask my frown. I hate to see rich people treat the help like they’re subhuman.

  Shannon flashes a nervous smile and grabs two glasses of champagne off the tray. He hands one to me before turning his handsome gaze to the server and says, “Thank you.”

  The server nods and wanders away.

  I sip from my glass, allowing the fruity flavor to explode across my tongue. For a second, I wish I had a magic wand stowed away in this tight contraption so I could turn my champagne into gin. I’ve never seen Anne’s superior side before, but I’m sure she probably hides it in plain sight. Since I don’t normally run in her circles, I only have a surface level relationship with her.

  She smiles at us. “I hope you enjoy the champagne, we’ll be getting started shortly.”

  “Sounds great.” I nod.

  She walks across the room to chat with a couple standing by the fireplace. Shannon nudges me. “That was awkward.”

  “I know.”

  “For a second, I started to actually like her, think she was a good egg wrapped in Donna Karan. But now I think she’s such a–”

  I hold a hand up before he says something that could be overheard that will make us both regret the action. “Don’t go there. This is all for a good cause, remember?”

  A crowd of people enter the house. As my gaze washes over them, I hiss in a breath. If I could make myself smaller to disappear from view, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I’m already annoyed by Anne, and the unwanted newcomer could try the patience of a Buddhist monk.

  Greg Silverman’s beady eyes scan the room, looking for the most important and powerful people over the bulky frames of his bifocals. Due to his short stature, he has to stand on his tiptoes to get a good view. Sometimes, I wonder how certain people who seem to be sans any good qualities make it to the top of their chosen profession. Greg’s probably the most well-known art critic in the city. People fear his wrath. His reviews can make careers or close down galleries.

  I take a long sip from my glass, praying he doesn’t confront me before I have a chance to entice my inner calm to make an appearance.

  “Don’t look now,” Shannon says without moving his lips.

  I turn around, but I already know what he’s talking about. “Let’s just pretend he’s not here.”

  Shannon’s lips form a perfect pout. “And if that doesn’t work, just follow my number one rule of the art world. Kiss ass like a motha fucker.”

  “Why did they have to invite him?”

  Anne and her rigid husband walk across the room to greet Greg like the pope himself has flown off his bulletproof popemobile to grace the party with his reverent presence. Unfortunately, a less pious prick doesn’t exist. I overhear bits and pieces of their conversation. Then, I hear Anne snap her finger and watch as the server hustles across the room with the champagne tray.

  Poor guy, he probably thinks all of us are just arrogant assholes.

  After he serves Greg, he walks past me and Shannon. I tap his shoulder.

  He turns around. “More champagne, miss?”

  “I’m good.” I slide a Benjamin into his jacket pocket.

  He smiles his gratitude and walks away.

  Anne moves to the middle of the room. With a few graceful claps of her elegant hands, she gets the attention of the entire guest list. “I want to personally welcome all of you. As you know, funding for the arts is under siege, even here in New York. That’s why James and I started a foundation to fund after-school arts programs for middle school students.

  A light spattering of applause follows her words before she continues.

  “Numerous studies have shown that exposure to the arts help students improve in other academic subjects. It is also a vital form of self-expression. So, tonight, I kindly ask all of you to donate as much as you can. James and I have plans to expand our after-school program to reach fifty schools.”

  The applause becomes louder as the guests nod and smile at each other. Even if Anne leads with her snobbery, I’m impressed and inspired by the work she does with her husband. Regardless of their belief in their own grandeur, they’re still making a difference in the city. And I care deeply about exposing kids to the arts. So, I take a deep breath and get my checkbook out of my purse.

  Shannon looks over my shoulder as I write. “Hey, Mr. Nosy.”

  “What?” He smacks his lips together.

  I turn away because I don’t want him to see that I’m writing a check for a thousand dollars. If he sees, he’s going to berate me and say tha
t it’s too much money. And he would be right. There have been a lot of ups and downs at the gallery lately. But I believe in Karma, and maybe if my donation makes a good impression on the Bennetts, my financial problems will be over. They’re rich enough to buy every piece hanging or standing at Pathways.

  I rip off the check and place it inside of the donor envelope. Shannon shakes his head. “It would be a shame if it bounced.”

  My eyes narrow and I sock him on the bicep. “Come on, don’t be ridiculous. Things aren’t that tight.”

  Shannon waves at a handsome man with red hair across the room. “Huh? Forgive me, I was distracted by that delectable creature over there.”

  “You know him?”

  “I think I’ve seen him around before, at least that could be my pick-up line. Excuse me for a sec.” Shannon walks over to the man. Immediately, they start chatting. I’m amazed at how easy it is for Shannon to flirt. I’m great at being with people and talking about art, but I’ve never been that great at conversing about anything else. Small talk gives me the dry heaves.

  Ease around men wasn’t something I was blessed with. Every time I like a guy, I usually come on too strong, or even worse, I just freeze up like a cabbage head… not sure exactly what to say and come across like a smiling bimbo. I guzzle down the rest of my champagne, wondering when my luck will change.

  Is my luck ever going to change?

  Henry’s chiseled visage pops into my mind, but I sweep it away before I can acknowledge it. Not even for a moment. Not even for a breath. The price is too high.

  “Meadow,” a man’s voice says, lancing fear into every crevice of my body.

  I turn around and flash Greg my best smile. “Good evening, Greg.”

  He takes a second to pat his bald pate with a handkerchief. “Good turn out tonight.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful? Such a great cause.”

  He nods, causing his glasses to slide down his thin nose. Before he speaks again, he shoves them back up with a stubby finger. “You said it. I think it’s critical to expose youth to the arts so that they can appreciate quality art, and who knows? Maybe they’ll grow up to open galleries with quality exhibits.”

  I stare at him, and I know my eyes flash with rancor in direct contradiction to the smile I keep plastered on my face. I don’t appreciate his snide remark, but I know I have to play it cool. A cloud of arrogance follows the man wherever he goes, but his power can’t be ignored or denied. He holds a prominent place in the industry. He has the ability to crush me with one veiled threat or innuendo in his blog.

  He flashes a smile that’s more like a baring of yellowed teeth. “I heard about the Sparx Birdmann exhibit. How did it go?”

  I have to tread carefully, lest I step in a pile of white bird excrement much like Sparx would paint. “Since you already heard about it, what exactly did you hear?”

  “Meadow, tonight is a time for positive affirmations, don’t you agree? We’re both here together in support of something good for the community. Let’s leave it at that.”

  So basically, Sparx Birdmann is a dud. A bird in the hand is usually dead. Does this trashbin fire ever stop burning?

  The server passes by me with the tray of champagne. I tap his shoulder. “Excuse me, can I please have another one.”

  “Of course,” the server says, stopping.

  I grab a glass off the tray, wishing I could ingest it in one hearty gulp without letting Greg know that he got to me right in my sore spot. Picking artists used to be my forte. With one deep inhale, I know a show of Henry’s work could right the ship before it becomes the Titanic. “Thank you.”

  Greg snatches one without saying a word to the server. “No offense, but I’m pretty sure they bought this in bulk at Costco. If you really want me to open my wallet, at least you can break out the good stuff, right?”

  This time, I can’t stop a tiny frown from creasing my forehead. “But it isn’t about that. It’s all about the kids, right?”

  He scoffs and smirks at me. “You’re one of those bleeding heart-types, aren’t you, Meadow?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He stares at me for a few seconds as if I’m addled. “Well, it’s obvious that charities supporting the arts really matter to you.”

  I refuse to be baited. I’m not going to implode my career no matter how good it would feel to tell this prick to go get bent. “Thanks.”

  Scanning the length of my body, his eyes flash pity. “It shows in everything you do, especially in the pieces you select for your gallery.”

  “I’m not sure I have the pleasure of understanding you.”

  He snorts, and I’m afraid champagne is going to come out his nose. “Come on, Meadow. Sparx Birdmann is a charity case. A fucking joke. Along with all of the other indie artists you showcase. You claim it’s your brand, but it’s really because you can’t book a decent artist in your little boutique gallery. You’re nothing. A nobody.”

  I bristle, but I can’t let him see how true his verbal arrow landed. “Greg, I’m not sure–”

  “Pathways is not a place for real artists. I look at it as more like a community center. Next, you’ll be featuring all these little wastes of space this charity is supporting. Just think of it now, little Johnny and Susie’s names in lights on your bullshit marquee.”

  One, two, three, four. As I inhale and count, I’m trying my best not to slap him across his stupid face.

  “Real art is layered… it has deep meaning. That’s what separates the truly talented from the hobbyist.”

  “Sparx Birdmann is not a hobbyist. He’s known throughout the US, and he’s had hundreds of shows across the country. We sold several of his pieces internationally!” I cringe, scared of my voice’s escalation in pitch. He’s backed me into a corner, and he’s going in for the kill. A couple of people milling around have stopped to stare like we’re about to become the next episode of Cops.

  “It’s sweet how you stand by your artist like a betrayed woman standing by her man–”

  I can’t just let him get away with this. I can’t. I won’t. “Greg, that was way out of line.”

  He sips his champagne. “Was it? I apologize. I’m not being sexist. I’m only being honest. Meadow. The stuff you have at Pathways just doesn’t light the fire of the true art world, especially for the sophisticated NYC buyer. No offense.”

  Before I can stop it, something outrageous pops out of my mouth. “That’s what you think but wait until you see our new exhibit.”

  He chuckles and takes another sip of his Costco champagne. “Who is the lucky artist?”

  Words keep bursting from my mouth. “Henry Garrison.”

  A surprised expression spreads across his ruddy face. “The potter?”

  In for a penny, in for a pound. If you’re about to step aboard the Titanic, you may as well go down with the ship.

  “Yes.”

  His laugh sounds more like a maniacal cackle, but his eyes are hard in comparison. “Henry, the potter. Sounds like a scammer trying to copy a J. K. Rowling book.”

  “So, you’re familiar with his work?”

  He nods while his lips tug upward in a sadistic smirk. “Yes.”

  “And?” It pisses me off to no end that I even ask the question, giving him yet another opportunity to kick me in the face. I keep going back to be abused by this man. He’s like a bad boyfriend negging me to raise his own stock.

  He nods and appears to be lost in thought. “Some of it is quite good, but I don’t think it merits a full exhibit. If you give Henry a show, you’ll be heading in the wrong direction.”

  My petulant child kicks in. “You might not realize it, but he has a very big fan base.”

  “There’s much more to art than popularity. It doesn’t follow that because it’s popular, it has merit.”

  He’s preaching to the converted, but that isn’t going to stop the insults from flying out of his mouth to circle my throbbing head. “That’s not news to me. I’ve been in thi
s business a long time–”

  “Well, some of your decision making still comes across as amateur–”

  I take a deep breath. This man has succeeded at totally pissing me off because when I clamp my eyes shut, all I can see is red. I can’t stand it for one more minute. Like a tall, dark miracle sent to save me, I feel an arm around my shoulder. Then Shannon appears, standing at my side.

  “Darling, are you ready to retire for the evening? You’re looking a little peaked.”

  Although I feel more piqued than peaked, I lean into the strength of his support. “Actually, yes.”

  “Then let’s get you home.” He looks at Greg. “Have a wonderful evening.”

  I place my check in the donor gift box before Shannon and I walk outside. The cool night air nips at my exposed shoulders, causing gooseflesh to break out across my skin. He takes off his jacket and gives it to me. Always such a gentleman. Smart. Funny. I need to find the straight version of my bestie. “Thanks.”

  “Of course.”

  Feeling the sudden need for physical comfort, I snuggle into the crook of his arm. He pulls me closer and busses a kiss to the top of my head. “Do you realize that you just saved me from making a complete ass of myself?”

  “Just another day at the office.”

  Chapter 6

  Henry

  Mozart plays in the background as I shape a lump of clay into a cone. I feel great since I’m in a creative groove. It’s been a good week so far. One of my vases sold from my online store and now I have enough money to treat myself to a little something… not enough for a vacation, but maybe I’ll go to a movie or a poetry reading.

  It will most likely be a movie because I’m not big on crowds. In the darkness of a theater, I can just eat popcorn and look up at the actors on the screen… escape to another world. The realization comes on a thread of honesty that frustrates and frees me at the same time. I guess I could use a break from the monotony of life right now.

  I glance through the open door at Verdi, taking a nap. She looks so peaceful as her kitty tummy rises and falls under the effort of her breath. I envy her sometimes. It’s not so easy for me to relax. Allowing my pain to drift away has always been complicated, like most of the aspects in my life.