So I don’t actually trust Monique—but it’s awful damn close. And anyway, it’s in her own best interest to keep me working. Because, like I said, she helps me, and I help to make her rich. She could even afford to take a job for the love of it now and then.
Like now, the thing on her easel. The idea of Monique working on this painting was so sad, it finally got me moving. Knowing it did not say anything good about my character, I stepped in and snuck up behind her, as close as I could get without touching. Hard not to touch—she smelled like patchouli oil mixed with cinnamon, and the curve of her bare neck was right there, inches away. And if I stood there any longer, I was going to bite it.
“You have to use a finer brush.” I spoke softly but almost in her ear, and Monique jumped a foot into the air. Very satisfying.
“Jesus fuck, Riley!” she said, turning on me with a raised brush, like she was going to stab me. “How the fuck did you get in here?”
I shrugged. “The window was open.”
“Of course it’s fucking open! Why shouldn’t the fucking window be open?! We’re on the twenty-fifth fucking floor!”
“A really pleasant climb, too,” I said. It was. No real challenges, so I could relax. Let my mind go.
“Jesus fuck,” Monique said again. “You and your fucking par-kay.”
“It’s par-kour,” I told her. Not for the first time.
“Whatever,” she snapped. “Just cut it out. Why do you have to
pull that shit on me anyhow?”
“Weeeellll,” I said with a shrug and a very small smile, “I like to surprise you.”
“So next time, surprise me and knock on the fucking door like everybody else, all right? I don’t paint naked anymore—thanks to you.”
“Tragic,” I said. “Your work loses that other dimension.”
“I wish you’d disappear into another dimension,” she said. “You’re going to give me a heart attack someday you go on like this.” She blew out a long breath, deliberately calming herself. “Well, shit. All right, so what is it this time? I’m kind of busy.”
I raised an eyebrow at that. “Busy, Monique? Really?” I tipped my head to the canvas. “With Mary Cassatt? I mean . . .”
“Fuck you twice, Riley,” she said. “You don’t know shit.”
“Sorry,” I said. But in fact, I DO know shit. A lot of it. For one thing, I know Cassatt was strictly second rank, and not worthy of Monique’s time.
“Anyway, I like her,” Monique said, still sounding defensive. “She was from Pittsburgh, same as me.” She glared at me, daring me to say that being from Pittsburgh never made anybody a great painter. And honestly, it was on the tip of my tongue, but I’m no fool. I bit down and didn’t say it.
“And what the hell, Riley, she’s a hell of a lot better than she gets credit for,” Monique said. “But because she’s a woman, nobody gives a shit about— I mean, look at the detail, the color!” she yelled at me, pointing to the monitor. “Every fucking bit as good as Degas!”
“Maybe,” I said. “But nobody else thinks so, and there’s no real money in doing a Cassatt.”
“Tough shit! I like doing it!” she said. “And it’s for a respectable decorator who pays up front!”
“Respectable? Really?” I said, and I couldn’t keep a little bit of smirk out of my voice. “A respectable interior decorator?”
“That’s right! Is there something wrong with that?”
I shrugged. “Not that I can think of,” I said. “Although I didn’t know you could be respectable and still sell them fakes.”
“My fakes are worth what they pay,” she said.
“And the rich assholes deserve it. I totally agree, you know that, Monique. And your work is fantastic, usually better than the original,” I said. Maybe laying it on a little thick, but it was true. “It’s just that as good as you are and as hard as you work, I just think you should be making more money.”
“I make plenty of money.”
I snorted. “With a Cassatt? Come on, Monique, Cassatt doesn’t bring top dollar.”
“Well, goddamn it, she should! Just because she was a woman—!”