“Uh-huh.” I barely glance at the picture, which is a riot of color. The plate below it says that it’s named Latent Vainglory.
Of course it is.
The woman presses her bountiful tits against my arm, but I’m not really feeling it. I’m trying to imagine being in bed with somebody who fakes an understanding of the abstract art around us. If my libido had eyes, it would be rolling them hard right now. Besides, she’s so breathless, she probably needs a ventilator more than sex.
A mild sense of regret weighs me down. I could be rolling around with that hot brunette I met backstage yesterday right now…
Max definitely owes me one.
“Just look at that portrait,” the blonde continues, pointing at another piece.
That’s a portrait? I grab a bubbling flute of champagne and down it, praying alcohol improves her appeal. But I’ll probably need something stronger. Like a case of vodka, topped with LSD.
“Genius, right?” she says.
“Uh-huh.”
Her hold on me grows tighter. Should I tell her that I like non-abstract art by old, dead Europeans? They drew a lot of nude women. Even Liberty in Liberty Leading the People is topless as she leads the mobs to topple Charles X. And her tits are perfect in the painting, round, pert and just big enough to fit into a man’s hands. Plastic surgeons should study them before inserting silicone into hopeful women’s chests.
“Look just how exquisite the woman’s features are,” the blonde says.
What the fuck? The subject of the portrait has the most amorphous features ever. They’re so ordinary I find it hard to even pretend that they’re holding my attention. She could be naked and begging to have my babies and my gaze would still skim right past her.
But the blonde is acting like there’s a fist-sized diamond glued to the center of the canvas. I shake my head. She’s totally faking it to look “cultured.”
“The title is perfect, too. Rapturegaze: Self-Portrait. I feel rapturous just looking at the girl,” the blonde adds.
It’s not the girl making you feel that way. It’s the coke you probably snorted before coming here.
The subject in the portrait has no discernible expression. The only sense of joy or elation comes from the colors and the placement of everything around the female model.
“Just the sort of thing everyone would want to hang in their home,” I say.
“Oh yeah. I would absolutely have it in my room. I want to buy it, but apparently it isn’t on sale.” She sighs dramatically.
“Heartbreaking.”
“I know,” she says.
A couple drifts nearer. The woman is sallow and wispy looking. The man is fleshy, balding and sporting a goatee. Neither one looks like they’ve seen direct sunlight in a month. “And so I said, ‘Reading Chomsky and Lacan? Hardly. More like you’ve been reading Chomsky in the can.’” They both titter.
I unloop the blonde’s arm from mine. “That reminds me. I really need to use the bathroom.”
“You know where it is?” Her eyes are crazy bright, like she’s a starved dog spotting a helpless T-bone.
I’m not doing you in the bathroom, lady. You just don’t inspire that kind of lust. “I do, thanks.”
And I make my escape.
I go into the quiet hall outside the gallery and inhale deeply. So much better. Peaceful, and without that suffocating pretension. Think I’ll hang out here for a bit. The reception or party or whatever they call this boring, fancy-schmancy shindig should be winding down soon.
Chapter Three
Becca
Faces move around me, as indistinguishable and interchangeable as plastic bags bobbing in the sea. The people attached are all wearing formal suits and dresses, making it even more difficult to tell them apart. Catherine Fairchild Davis, the woman running this show, likes her events fancy.
My hands grow damp with nerves and anxiety, but I don’t dare wipe them on my skirt. The red Dior with a sexy side slit was ridiculously expensive and deserves better treatment.