Like the pictures he hadn’t given to Damon Scott to share.
The play captures my attention from the first song, and I’m soon lost in the aching distance between Eliza and Henry. She’s brash and beautiful, her accent both foreign and endearing. Of course he strips her of it, attempting to turn her into a more desirable woman. And so comes to desire her. Except what remains of the woman that she had been? If you have to change to be loved, then how much is that love worth?
I don’t know who would be my Professor Higgins—Justin, who wanted the perfect society wife? Or Gabriel Miller, who wants a sexual slave?
In the end neither one of them fit the bill, because neither of them love me. They can want me, they can fuck me. But they don’t love me.
The curtain falls for intermission.
Gabriel stands and holds out his hand. “Come. I did have something to show you earlier.”
I bite back a hundred sarcastic comments—that I would just as soon not be strutted around like a trophy he’s won, that I have no interest in seeing what he’s packing. Instead I place my hand in his.
This time when he leads me into the atrium, he ignores the hands that rise in his direction as people try to speak to him. This time he doesn’t let me turn away to the window.
I gasp when I see it, only the top right corner of oil on canvas.
As we get closer I read the placard standing at the velvet rope. A painting by Jean-Leon Gerome of Pygmalion and Galatea, on loan from the Met for opening night only. I forget for a moment that I despise Gabriel Miller and his public ownership of me.
“Can we go in?”
Amusement dances in his eyes. “I thought you might refuse to come with me for intermission.”
Because I thought he wanted to do something dirty. Not this. “Please.”
He nods at the attendant, who unhooks the chain on the velvet rope. As we enter, the crowd clears out almost immediately. I’m not sure why we’re allowed to look at the painting almost exclusively, even for a moment, but I’m not going to question it.
There’s security on either side of the painting, no doubt required by the museum. But they’re standing at a distance, outside the ropes. Right beside the painting is a woman in chino slacks and a white button-down shirt. It’s a somewhat casual dress for the opening night, but it’s clear from her stance, her hands in her pockets, that she isn’t a guest. She’s here to speak about the painting, but she isn’t a docent.
“Hello,” she says kindly. “Please let me know if you have any questions.”
I want her to tell me everything. “Can you tell me about the provenance?”
Her eyes light up as she describes the creation of the painting by Gerome—a series of paintings, actually, each viewing Pygmalion and his statue embracing from a different angle. It was purchased from the artist in 1892 by a dealer who then sold it to a private entity in the United States, where it remained until 1905.
“Why did he make so many paintings?” I hadn’t known about the paintings, actually. I only knew about his sculptures.
“He believed it was a hackneyed subject, Pygmalion and Galatea. He wanted to revive them, to find something new about them. All of the paintings focus on the moment when she comes to life.”
“So he was painting his sculpture?”
She smiles. “You know he sculpted her too?”
I flush, because a year ago I would have mentioned that I’m majoring in ancient mythology. Now I’m just a girl who used to read a lot of books. “Mythology’s an interest of mine.”
From her pants pocket she produces a business card. “Mine as well. If you’d like to chat about it, you can always shoot me an e-mail.”
My eyes widen as I read the card. Professor of Classics at the state university. “Wow.”
Her shrug is somehow not modest at all, which is endearing. “My focus is more on the ancient history represented in the painting, rather than nineteenth century European art.”
I feel unbearably hungry for any knowledge she can give me. I went from a waterfall of intellectual stimulation in college to a veritable desert in a large empty house. “What are you working on now?”
“I just got back from Cyprus actually. Studying the moss in Nicosia for clues about diet and disease in ancient times. We’re still working through the samples in the lab.”
“You’re my new favorite person,” I say, clutching the card like it’s a lifeline. “I’m going to write you. And look you up and read every paper you’ve ever written.”
She laughs. “I have a few stacks of journals in my office I could give you if you’re interested.”
“I’d sell my soul for them,” I say, fairly seriously. I try not to think about the fact that I’ve already sold my soul—or at least, my body—for one million dollars. Or the fact that the buyer is standing two feet behind me, watching the entire exchange.