But he just shoved me out of the way and kept walking. I watched him go, slightly worried and deeply confused. What was he even doing here?
I wasn’t going to find an answer in the street. But before I really had a chance to get my head sorted out, George had spotted me, swooped over, and was dragging me into the gallery. The next thing I knew, I had a drink in one hand, George had claimed the other, and I was at the epicentre of a conversational tsunami. Questions, compliments, and introductions were boomeranging round my head, which was initially flattering, then about equal parts flattering and overwhelming, and finally just overwhelming. So I committed to an evening of forgetting everyone’s name, answering what I could, smiling a lot, and trusting George to steer me right.
It worked—not enough that I ever really got a handle on things, but just enough that I was having fun. It was a strange experience, existing as both subject and object, self and image, reflection and projection. I wouldn’t want to live that way, but for an evening it made me feel mysterious and interesting, like a character in an arty movie who the protagonist would fall for but never get close to, and who’d vanish one day in Prague with a few maddeningly cryptic parting words that would live forever in cinema history. Of course, I wasn’t like that at all—being about as aloof as a jam doughnut—but it was cool to pretend. And I got hit on a fair bit, which was good for my ego, even if I wasn’t actually about to bonk someone just because they liked a picture of me.
The pictures in question were even more, err,somethingnow they were massive and hung on cool white walls, the images given space to be their own context. It was a lot of Arden, put it that way. Though what was odd to me was that they all had little stickers on the corners of their frames. I was sure they couldn’t have been left there by accident, as George had a fanatical eye for detail, but I picked at one anyway.
“Don’t do that please.”
I turned to find Laine Matthäus zirself standing behind me and pulled my hand back guiltily. To be honest, ze wasn’t anything like I’d imagined a gallery owner would be, but since I’d assumed they were all posh rich blokes over the age of fifty, this was a good thing. Ze was a few years older than me, slight and willowy, with platinum blond hair that fell in blade-sharp locks almost to zir waist and looked absolutely bloody extraordinary against the black wrap-dress ze was wearing.
“Sorry,” I said. “I just didn’t know why it was there.”
Ze smiled, and I was relieved it was a warm smile, not awell, aren’t you cluelesssmile. “It means the piece has been sold.”
“Oh.Oh.Someone must have really liked it, huh?”
“As well they might.” Ze looked up at, well, me, as I lay draped over a sawhorse, sweaty, flushed, and smug as fuck. “It’s wonderful.”
I blushed, in spite of my attempt to be nonchalant and enigmatic. “Wait, does this meanallthe photos have been bought?”
Ze nodded.
“Every single one of them?”
Another nod.
“Is that normal?”
“Well”—Laine’s eyes slid back to the image—“Georgia is very talented and has very devoted admirers…”
“Is someone taking my name in vain?” That was George as she extricated herself expertly from the crowd. She was in skyscraper heels, tuxedo trousers, and a black-and-white plaid jacket with a shawl collar that fell just on the sexy side of aggressive.
“And here I thought,” murmured Laine, “vanity was your specialty.”
George just laughed and leaned in to kiss zir lightly on the cheek. “You really must let me shoot you one day,meine zuckermaus.”
“I love art. I have no desire to become it.” A pause. Then slightly too late, “And I’m not yourzuckermaus.”
“I suppose not. It’s one of the few things I dislike about you.”
Laine smiled serenely. “Then you should up your game. There are many things I dislike about you.”
“Um,” I said. “I’m finding this foe yay you’ve got going on really hot and everything but could one of you maybe tell me who bought the photos?”
“Does it matter, poppet?” George slid a comforting arm round my waist. “This has been a very successful show, both critically and financially.”
“Also,” added Laine, “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose the identity of my clients.”
I breathed. Did it matter? Even if…fuck. I was jumping to conclusions quicker than a mountain goat. “Can you at least tell me if, like, it was lots of people or…or not?”
Neither of them spoke. But their faces told me everything I needed to know.
“Arden…” George made a futile attempt to restrain me.
“Oh. My. God.” I was loud enough to turn a few heads, but I wasn’t in any state to care. “Where is he? Is he still here? I’m going to kill him. Actually fucking kill him.”
Laine looked genuinely perplexed—not that I could entirely blame zir. I’d gone from normal to literally homicidal in under a second. “He was here a moment ago. I think he stepped out for a cigarette.”
