Chapter One

Evelyn

 

 

It was the sort of party I’d never imagined myself attending, particularly not on the arm of a young man from the upper classes. But Gavin was different. He certainly didn’t act like he’d been born into that sickeningly affluent realm of butlers and luxury vehicles. Heir to the Drinkwater family fortune, Gavin was just my type: his smiles were sometimes painfully shy and his style bashfully bacheloresque. Despite his personal wealth and his family’s infamy, it struck me right away how modest he was, and how easy to talk to… not to mention cute as the button on a church mouse’s cap.

Gavin first came to me in the spring. His father had sent him to commission artwork for their family’s newest boutique hotel right here in Ottawa. Even after leaving me a wish list of size and style specifications, he kept showing up on my doorstep to “check my progress,” or so he said. At first it was once a week, then as time went on he’d stay for an hour or two, claiming he liked hanging out with me. My garage-turned-art-studio helped him escape the pressures of the business world, he claimed.

I sincerely hoped there was more to his visits than he let on. Either Gavin enjoyed a serious penchant for paint remover fumes, or he was actually stopping by to see me. Surely a rich kid like Gavin had better places to escape to than my drafty cement box of a studio.

Despite all the sketchy visits, his party invitation came completely out of the blue. One day, as he sat in my ratty lawn chair watching me work, I offered him a cup of Earl Grey. His dimpled cheeks glowed all rosy pink. When I passed him a stoneware mug, he passed me a card. On gorgeous embossed cardstock, gold lettering spelled out: You are cordially invited…

“I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than come to some lame festival of the elite and listen to my father blather on all night,” Gavin stammered. “But I really hope you will. It’s the hotel’s Gala Celebration, so your art will be on display everywhere. You can think of it like a gallery opening if that makes you feel any better.”

Like he had to make excuses for me! Of course I would go to the Gala with him. How long had it been since I’d shed my paint-splattered jogging pants and put on a formal dress? Ages. Ice ages.

My stomach went queasy with nervous excitement every time I thought about the big day. I was actually kind of afraid I’d lost the ability to mingle in a room full of strangers. Working alone in my studio didn’t allow for much interaction with the outside world, and when I did get out it was more often to pick up supplies than to hobnob with the upper crust. I would have to cling to Gavin’s coat tails at this party. He was raised a sybarite; he knew how to behave.

Oh well. If the gala turned out to be overwhelming, or tedious, or in any other way unbearable, at least I could get my fill of free hors d’oeuvres. A starving artist is always on the look-out for a free meal.

On the afternoon of the event, I hopped in the shower to scrub a splotch of dark blue oil paint from the back of my arm. I must have brushed against the night sky painting I was working on. Damn it! It wouldn’t come off. The pigment had stained my skin so it looked like a nasty bruise.

Well, wasn’t that just perfect? Invited to a posh party by a sweet and sexy industrialist and I wound up looking like I’d been bounced from some sleazy club the night before.

I dug through my accessories in search of some kind of wrap or shawl to mask the stain, but that was a bust. I would just have to tell everybody, “I am Evelyn Fon, artiste extraordinaire, and the blotch on my arm is the mark of my craft.”

When did I become such a klutz? Fifth grade. Most people overcome that awkward phase. Mine never ended.

It didn’t take long to dress, since I owned only one item of formal attire. The sleeveless satin gown in a rich shade of burgundy belonged to my sister Sharon, the uber-successful concert violinist. According to her, burgundy was passé and the dress should go to Goodwill. When you have a closet full of formal gowns, I guess you can say things like that.

After six failed attempts at pinning up my hair, I threw in the towel. Curls would have been lovely, but they took forever to set and were gone without a trace ten minutes later. Chinese hair was a curse. How did Sharon always manage to look so good?

Grabbing the clutch purse my sister had loaned me, I slipped on a scarcely worn pair of heels. When I finally got out the door, a black town car was just pulling up. Nobody had ever sent a car for me before. How did I ever manage to convince Gavin I was fine enough to be his date? I felt like royalty in a second-hand dress.

“Mr Drinkwater is making preparations for tonight’s event,” the middle-aged driver informed me as he opened the car door. “He’ll meet you in the hotel ballroom.”

“I don’t usually go to events like this,” I told the kindly driver, like I had to qualify my attendance. “I’m not really sure how to act around rich people. I mean, my sister is one of them and I don’t even really know how to act around her.”

“You’ll be fine. Just laugh at their jokes,” the driver offered by way of advice. He let out a slow, reverberating chuckle. “And no matter what kind of stupid or ignorant things people say, pretend you’re not offended. I’m Edmond, by the way.”

“Evelyn. Pleased to meet you,” I introduced myself. “I have a sneaking suspicion this’ll be the only time tonight I say that and actually mean it.”

“You may be surprised,” Edmond replied. “After all, people are people. We all put on our pants one leg at a time.”

Quite right, Edmond. People are people. We only differ in the ways we treat each other.

As Edmond drove through the posh area of the city where my sister and her husband lived, that quote from Animal Farm kept narrowly escaping my grasp. Something about everyone being equal, but some more equal than others…?

 

* * * *

 

When I arrived at the Drinkwater Luxury Hotel to find my paintings adorning the walls of the lobby, my chest swelled with pride. My lungs were a pair of helium balloons; I might have floated up to the ceiling if I’d held my breath!

All those months of intense work really paid off. My art looked fantastic. I had to tell Gavin how happy I was with the result. But where was he? Tingles ran through my body at the thought of spending a whole evening with Gavin Drinkwater. Falling for a rich man…how typical was that? Oh, what difference did it make? I didn’t like him for his money.

A lithe brunette with a clipboard stood at attention in the foyer. In that headset and black outfit, I figured she must be someone official. Maybe she could bring me one step closer to finding my date.

“Can I get your name?” she inquired with an air of focused apathy.

“Evelyn Fon.”

The girl’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Ms. Fon, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. Mr Drinkwater is already in the ballroom. I can take you there if you like.”

“Super,” I replied, enthusiastically enough that she gave me a pity smile. Anybody who attended gala affairs on a regular basis wouldn’t be so excited to be there.

As she guided me down the expansive marble hallway, I wondered why this girl seemed to think she should have recognized me. My name wasn’t exactly up there with Picasso. Until I received my advance from Gavin, I was well on my way to being a starving artist. I was something of a mac and cheese artist. Or a tomato soup artist. A big bowl of white rice artist.

“This is pretty majestic for a boutique hotel,” I said, simply to break the silence. “Aren’t they usually small and quaint, like little country inns? I mean, this place has a ballroom!”

“Yes, you’re right,” she replied. “It’s a bit of an oddity. But, you see, this way the hotel takes on a second revenue stream. The Versailles ballroom is now the most luxurious banquet hall in the city. Its décor is absolutely lovely, and it showcases some gorgeous artwork.”

Again, I swelled with pride. Headset girl thought my art was gorgeous!

Pointing me toward of a set of dark wooden double doors, she said, “You’ll find Mr Drinkwater in there.”

The girl all in black whispered something into her microphone and the ceiling-high doors swung open in unison. I figured they must be controlled by some kind of electronic switch—like everything else these days—until a pair of stewards stepped out from behind them.

I felt like I’d stepped back in time. The stewards were made up with white face-paint, beauty spots above their lips, and a dab of blush on each cheek. White wigs sat gingerly atop their real hair, with three horizontal curls on each side and tresses tied in black ribbons at the back.

As I entered the sumptuous ballroom, I felt like a princess. An adroit server wouldn’t let me pass without taking a flute of champagne. Curtsying, I thanked the costumed man. I’m sure I looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care. It was all so exciting.

Gazing across the bustling ballroom, I was transported to another place, another era. France of the eighteenth century, perhaps? History never was my strong suit.

Velvet drapery adorned windows running floor to ceiling—same colour as my dress, I noticed. Where guests were dancing, the marble floors were bare, but there were patterned carpets in dark red, navy blue and gold tones on the floor near the giant windows. Each carpet seemed to demarcate a seating area, and every seating area was crowned with lavish French furnishings. The ceiling supported a pair of crystal chandeliers glinting with every colour of the rainbow, and the splendour of the surroundings had me feeling drunk before taking my first sip of champagne.

The giant canvases hanging on the salon-red walls were not my work, but I could hardly feel slighted about that. After all, my paintings were barely figural at the best of times, and abstraction didn’t correspond with the elegance of this environment. No, the art on these walls could easily have arrived straight from Versailles. There were portraits of stern monarchs and mythic allegories, and even a copy of the well-known Marie Antoinette and her Children by Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun, one of the many uncelebrated female artists of her time. Women’s contributions to the world of art had gone so unacknowledged over time. Hopefully that would change, and my own name would live on even after I was gone.

As I shifted my gaze to the organic aspect of my surroundings, it dawned on me that the ladies in my midst wore the most decadently lavish gowns. They made my sister’s satin look like a housedress, to be honest.

Rather than feeling embarrassed by the relative simplicity of my attire, I felt content to observe the scene around me without being part of it. In the nooks by the windows, women waved lace fans about their faces and teased their partners. Ladies in extensive crinolines showed off some intricate footwork on the ballroom floor.

“What sort of dance are they doing?” I asked one of the wig-wearing servers.

“They are dancing a quadrille, Madame,” he informed me in a sober voice that reminded me of Stephen Fry’s Jeeves.

Where would they have learned such an outdated dance?

“The rich are very different from you and me,” I accidentally said out loud.

“Quite so,” replied the server as he bowed and took his leave.

Tracing the outskirts of the ballroom, I soon found myself standing behind a man wearing a yellow and blue silk brocade suit and a tall white wig. He looked just like a portrait of the King of France. I wasn’t sure which King of France, but in my mind they all look the same. At first I wondered if he was one of the servers, since none of the other male guests seemed to be wearing wigs, but his manner of addressing the group suggested he was very much more than a mere server.

“It came to me in a dream,” said the King of France, who spoke with an English accent. “I saw this ballroom just as it is now and I thought, Eureka! I knew this would be the perfect hook for my little hotel. The Versailles Ballroom, I call it. Our banquets will be catered with French haute cuisine by servers in period costume. There will be live baroque music, fancy dress and dancing. Have you ever before seen a sight such as this? Ladies in the finest garments dancing a formal quadrille! It is simply exquisite.”

That’s when I retrieved a piece of information that must have fallen behind my filing cabinet of memories. On the inside of my invitation, I remembered seeing the words, fancy dress ball. Fancy dress was a British term. It meant “costume party.” I don’t how I managed not to pick up on that. I wasn’t supposed to wear a fancy dress to the ball, I was supposed a costume! A French period costume, by the looks of it. Why didn’t I read my invitation more carefully? Stupid, stupid, stupid…

“So, if I understand you correctly, this ballroom is to be a sort of costumed amusement park for the dangerously wealthy. Is that it?” A balding man held a voice recorder toward the king.

“No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong, man! I am single-handedly reviving capital-C Culture in this country. Many would agree culture—the right sort of culture—has been lost for some time, replaced by that bastard child, multiculture, and by naïve artists with neither training nor talent. I, of course, would argue that High Culture never existed in this country in the first place.”

My head pounded as I listened to that snob extol the virtues of fine European art. He was a bizarre mix of the worst of two stereotypes: English classism and French arrogance. It was a brave blend in Ottawa—a city split unofficially along language lines. The English would view his adoption of all things French as abandonment. The French would see it as cultural appropriation. Only someone with money and connections could get away with the stance this privileged man took.

When nobody within the circle of listeners spoke up, I couldn’t keep myself from voicing my opinions. Stepping through the crowd, I sneered, “Are you kidding me? Canada has a thriving high arts community. I’m what you might call a naïve painter and my background is obviously not European, but you know what? My art is hanging on the walls of this very hotel. My sister Sharon performs with the Ottawa Sinfonietta, and a lot of groups like theirs offer free or pay-what-you-can concerts. That way it’s not just the uber-rich who can attend.”

“I’ve been to those concerts,” someone behind me said. “They’re wonderful.”

“It’s the only way I could ever afford to see live classical music,” I went on. “Plus, the international press is calling the Canadian Opera’s new house one of the best in the world. Not just that, but when they opened the new opera house, they simulcast the gala performance right in front of City Hall so everybody could watch it for free.”

A fight or flight reaction raced through my veins as the king turned to face me. I thought I was going to have a heart attack. After my tirade, I couldn’t even bring myself to look the man in the eye. Instead, I stared at the ruffle of lace around his neck.

He spoke self-righteously, like his word was final. “That’s precisely the problem I’m talking about, young lady. Is nothing sacred? Everybody has access to all levels of culture nowadays. Even homeless people can see the Opera!”

Edmond the driver had advised me to pretend not to be offended by the ignorant things rich people said. I guess I wasn’t very good at following instructions. I replied, “Yes, but those homeless people would still have had to pay upwards of, what, $100 per ticket to actually set foot inside the Opera House? Plenty of peasants attended performances of Shakespeare’s plays back in his day. I think they had to stand, but at least tickets were cheap enough for everyone to go.”

I wasn’t certain my argument was on firm footing. High School English class was a long time ago, and I might have misremembered my facts.

“Anyway,” I went on. “That’s not even the point. The point is that capital-C Culture, as you call it, should not be relegated to the rich. The Opera and the Symphony and every other kind of art should be accessible to the masses.”

“And yet, Ms Fon,” the King replied, “the prices of your own artistic creations contradict everything you’ve just said.”

My jaw literally dropped as I stared dim-wittedly at the man’s silk brocade outfit. How did the King of France know me? Why did the girl with the headset recognize my name? Had I been posting nude photos online in my sleep or something? What was going on?

Finally, I looked up at his face for the first time. I’d hoped his features wouldn’t match his deep velvet voice, but no such luck. This horribly elitist person had wise old eyes, but youthful skin. If I ignored his ridiculous white wig, his noble face was really quite attractive. But who was he? Had I sold him a painting last summer from my booth on Sparks Street? He didn’t look all that familiar.

“My son has spoken kindly of you,” the King continued. When he shook my hand, a sinking feeling developed in the pit of my stomach, like its contents were swirling towards a drain. “Of course, it was my idea to commission your work in the first place. My dearest friends, Kip and Elsie, have one of your smaller works hanging in their powder room. Dandelion seeds blowing in the wind. Really quite lovely. I saw that painting and I said to myself, ‘you really must commission this artist for the hotel.’”

I tried to speak, but nothing came out.

The king kept going. “I did intend to come out to your studio myself—I’ve been anxious to meet you, I must admit—but setting up this establishment has been incredibly time-consuming. With every new project, I forget how hard I worked on the last one. I always think the next hotel will be easy. It never is. But then, nothing worth having is easily attained.”

Lost for words, I stood staring at the King of France. This raging snob was Gavin’s father, the real estate magnate who headed the Drinkwater Company.

God help me, I just picked a fight with the head of a multinational corporation!

My cheeks bristled and I wondered precisely which shade of red they’d gone. Crimson, I was willing to bet. Maybe even scarlet.

Was there anywhere to sit down? I felt faint. Oh, and I couldn’t even hide my embarrassment in anonymity; I was his son’s date. I should have headed home right then. But how did Mr Drinkwater recognize me when we’d never met? Perhaps Gavin was so taken with me, he described my looks in detail?

Wishful thinking…

A headset-wearing aide saved me by intruding on our conversation. “Excuse me, Mr Drinkwater, we’re ready to get started now.”

“Ms Fon, please don’t go far,” Drinkwater said as his aide dragged him away. “I have something for you.”

A cheque, I hoped. The advance Gavin provided only covered my materials. I needed payment in full as soon as possible. Despite my wishing and hoping, the fridge wouldn’t fill itself.

It occurred to me that, having become engrossed in the opulence of the gathering and then in my argument with Drinkwater, I’d forgotten to find my date. As it turned out, I didn’t have to look very far to find the younger of the Drinkwater men.

A fanfare flourished to announce a procession of moguls with delusions of grandeur. The echo of cornets sounded across the ballroom, underscored by the click clack of heels against marble as dancers in wide skirts cleared a path for the royal family.

A string quartet played La Marseilles as Drinkwater marched triumphantly into the Versailles Ballroom. My handsome Gavin, too proud for the silly garb his father wore, slunk in wearing a very sharp suit. Clinging to his arm was a gorgeous woman with legs to her armpits and blonde hair pinned up at the sides. Her red sequined dress was so skimpy it scarcely covered her enormous breasts, which threatened to burst out at every turn. Flashing her perfect white teeth at the crowd, she waved as the press corps snapped the Drinkwaters’ picture.

“That girl,” I said, addressing the bald reporter beside me. “She’s Gavin’s sister, right?”

The man issued a nasal laugh, which seemed more at me than with me. “I certainly hope not—not with the skankalicious evening she’ll have planned for that little hottie.”

I stared blankly at the man.

“That’s Coral Savage,” he went on. “And I mean the Coral Savage, Drinkwater’s publicist. She’s little Gavin’s date tonight.”

My blood ran cold with the terror of fulfilled expectation.

“Don’t you recognize her?” he asked.

I shook my head, feeling like my heart had been trampled by this girl. I had no idea who she was.

“What, do you live under a rock or something? That chick has the worst rep for being a party girl. Like mondo slut-o. If you called her for phone sex, you’d get an ear infection. Seriously! You need to start reading my column, honey.”

“I don’t read tabloids,” I replied without thinking. Was that rude?

“Well maybe you should start. You’re guaranteed to see yourself in the next edition, Missy Fon. I can’t believe you picked a fight with Gavin Drinkwater! I gotta say, I really enjoyed that. Top marks for performance.”

Hopelessly confused, I asked, “What are you talking about? I haven’t even spoken to Gavin tonight. I certainly haven’t fought with him.”

“Get a clue, Miss Magoo! You fought with Gavin Drinkwater Senior. Sheesh! Like, you are so not from my planet!”

“There are two Gavin Drinkwaters?”

“You know it, sister! Senior and Junior, father and son.”

The man kept talking, but I was too busy planning my escape. I could barely breathe. The room seemed to be spinning. Two Gavin Drinkwaters… and my date had a date… so, who was my date? I had to get out of the ballroom. Immediately. All eyes were on the royal family, which presented me the perfect opportunity to slip away.

Without waiting for a reply, I excused myself from the benign gossip and set off on a mad dash for the nearest unguarded exit. I burst through a set of swinging doors, only to find myself in a room full of hors d’oeuvres, wine, and champagne bottles. Obviously I’d let myself into the staff only serving area, but the servers were all watching the royal spectacle in the ballroom.

No way was I leaving without free food, so I grabbed a serving platter adorned with every conceivable appetizer. A gold-foiled bottle caught my eye, so I grabbed that too. Without a free hand, I had to kick open door number two with the sole of my shoe before escaping into relative darkness.

I found myself in a dimly lit corridor. A formal French sofa became the resting place for my food platter, and the darkened hallway my refuge. What the hell was Gavin playing at, inviting me and then bringing that blonde bimbo instead? He seemed so sweet, but wasn’t that always the way? The charming guys were all slime at heart.

My blood boiled—I could actually feel it sizzling in my veins, making brave attempts to bubble out through the surface of my skin. I pounded my heels against the marble floor, but that only hurt my feet. I kicked off my shoes, but that did nothing to relieve my anger. Picking them up off the ground, I flung those stiletto torture devices into the wall with such ferocity one of my heels lodged itself into the sheetrock.

A cathartic sweat broke across my brow. I didn’t want to cry, but the universe didn’t seem concerned about my wants. Thankfully, the French sofa was more comfortable than it looked, and it held me in cushioned arms when I fell into it.

I guess it was my own stupidity that bothered me more than anything. Why would I ever have imagined someone like Gavin might be interested in me?

Leaning back into the soft foam, I tried to remember Gavin’s exact words when he asked me to the ball. Champagne boosts memory power, right? I popped the cork on my ill-gotten bottle and poured myself a glass.

I thought he’d said something like, “I know it’ll be boring, but I hope I can convince you to attend.”

Was that a specific invitation, or just a general one? And hadn’t he mentioned his father in some capacity? “I know my father is boring,” or something like that? I couldn’t remember the specifics.

Not that semantics mattered at that point. I must have misinterpreted. But, then, why did Gavin hand-deliver my gold-lettered invite? He couldn’t possibly have done that for everyone.

All I wanted to know was if I was as special to him as he was to me. Obviously not. Why would anyone want to be seen in public with mousy little Evelyn Fon? He could obviously do much, much better, if Coral Savage was any indication. Rich young guys dated sexy blonde party girls, not bland Chinese-Canadian painters. That’s life.

The platter of stolen appetizers stared up at me, begging to be sampled from, so I popped something meaty in my mouth, realizing too late the straw wrapped around it was just for decoration. After a long sip of champagne, I followed that one up with what looked like a stuffed mushroom cap.

I’d polished off half the platter when there was a loud bang down the vacant hallway. My boiling blood ran cold. I clung to my platter and champagne flute as the door from the serving area swung open. Had Gavin come looking for me?

No such luck.

My heart fell flat on its face when a dowdy old woman burst into the hallway. Small in stature and large in every other regard, her paisley skirt and knitted shawl gave her a frumpy appearance. Around her mischievous eyes bobbed brassy ringlets, their childishness sharply contrasting with the crow’s-feet clawing across her face. Her expression brightened when she caught sight of me, but I couldn’t decide if I should be glad for the company or distressed by the intrusion. All I was really interested in was her tray of cheeses and olives, not to mention the bottle of champagne she carried.

“Well, look at this, then! A pretty young thing all on her own,” the woman exclaimed. Her tone sparkled, but her grin seemed sheepish enough to make me wonder what she was up to. “I wasn’t expecting to find anybody back here.”

“It looks like we had the same idea,” I replied, shifting the serving tray onto my lap to clear a space for her on the sofa. Honestly? I just wanted some of her olives.

“Actually, I came out here to be quite alone,” she told me. The very refined Englishness of her accent made it hard to assess whether her tone was sweet or condescending.

“We can be alone together,” I invited, eying her pitted kalamatas.

With what could either have been hesitancy or weariness, she plunked herself down at my side. The sofa sank under her weight and I nearly toppled into her, grabbing hold of the cushion just in time.

Straightening up, I took a sip of champagne. We picked appetizers from one another’s trays in silences interrupted by the occasional, Oh, that one’s very tasty or No, I don’t think I care for this.

“I’m hiding,” I finally said, preferring genuine conversation to shallow small talk. “I guess that’s pretty obvious, right?”

The woman daintily removed an olive pit from between rosebud lips. She reminded me of somebody. I just couldn’t figure out whether it was someone I knew or a celebrity or…

“Are you hiding from a person, place or thing?” she asked. The subtlety of her accent suggested she’d lived in this country for some time.

“A person,” I responded, taking a bite of her brie. “Gavin Drinkwater.”

“Not you as well!” the woman exclaimed with a smile of affinity.

As well? How many women had Gavin invited this shindig? And, no offence to the old lady, but why on earth would he have invited her?

“I’m such an idiot,” I sighed, watching the bubbles in my champagne rise from the bottom of my flute. “I could have sworn he invited me to be his date, but then he shows up with super-slut Barbie out there...”

The woman threw her head back in a burst of witchy cackling, but wound up choking on the pastry tart she’d just popped in her mouth. After a big swig of champagne, she said, “You’re talking about my son, little Gavin. No, I’m avoiding big Gavin, that right old bugger.”

“The one dressed like the King of France?” I asked. My stomach sunk as I remembered what a fool I’d made of myself not half an hour earlier.

“What a dozy knob that man has become!” she went on, shaking her head. “I assure you, he was quite sane when we were married.”

The brassy blonde’s gaze travelled the length of the hallway, finally coming to a rest on my stiletto heel lodged into the wall opposite us. Mary Pickford. It suddenly came to me why she seemed familiar. This woman looked like an aging Mary Pickford.

“So, you’re Gavin Junior’s mother and Gavin Senior’s wife?” I asked, piecing this puzzle together with moderate difficulty.

“Ex-wife,” she replied in a firm, flat voice. “The ex is a vital part of the equation. Yes, it is I, the infamous Imelda Drinkwater. They simply refer to me as the first wife now that Gavin’s been through so many of them. I like to humiliate old Gavin at every turn, showing up at his gatherings looking like a used tea bag. The gossip rags grab the story every time: Drinkwater First Wife Destitute.”

“You’re not!”

She giggled. “Not really, but negative publicity causes old Gavin such anguish. He always wanted to be loved by all—it’s the only quality he retained from our hippie days.”

How could that elitist jerk ever have been a hippy? As far as I knew, hippies had a bit of a communist perspective on things. It scared me to think that someone’s opinions could sway so far. I hoped I would never let myself think the way he did when I got older.

The Drinkwater maven gasped as I reached for the bottle to top up my glass. “Goodness gracious, child, what happened to you?”

“What happened to me when?” I asked. Until she pointed to my arm, I wasn’t sure what she was meant. “Oh, that. It’s just a big splotch of oil paint I couldn’t scrub off.”

“Artist, are we? Well, then, you’d better look out for my ex-husband.” She laughed as she got up to look at my paintings hanging throughout the corridor. “He has a thing for artists. Apparently his date tonight is one—a young slip called Evelyn Fon. I gather she’s the one who created these monstrosities.”

Her words stabbed me in the heart. I wasn’t used to such blatant and unrestrained criticism of my work. The pain was real, slicing through my chest with razor sharp claws. I would probably never get used to critics disparaging my work. It upset me every time, and every time I just kept smiling. What else could I do?

“I’m Evelyn Fon and, yes, I did create those monstrosities.”

Imelda gave me an exaggerated flash of her fake eyelashes along with a saccharine smile. “Yes, that fits. I hear my husband’s going through an Asian phase just now.”

My teeth locked and ground against each other. If they unlocked, it would only be to chew a strip off her. But, as always, my righteous anger morphed into shame until my throat burned.

I choked on my tears, finally biting back, “You mean your ex-husband, I’m sure.” I wasn’t going to let Imelda-the-first-wife insult me without a fight. “And whatever kind of a phase your ex-husband is going through, it doesn’t involve me. I don’t know who your sources are, but I’m not here as Drinkwater’s escort. I already told you, I thought your son invited me as his date, but I was mistaken.”

A mischievous spark illuminated Imelda’s eyes. “Perhaps you’re less mistaken than you think. Could it be that my son invited you not as his own date, but as a date for his father?”

Now it was my turn to choke on a phyllo tartlet. A date for his dad? What kind of corny 1980’s teen flick had my life been mixed up with? Imelda sat by while I wheezed and sputtered, until I took a large swig of champagne to dislodge the tart.

“Oftentimes we hear what we want to hear, and not what’s actually been said,” Imelda informed me.

Right. Like I didn’t already know that.

“How could I possibly be his date? I don’t think I could even pretend to like that elitist bastard.” Rising unsteadily from the sofa, I crossed the corridor to dislodge my shoe from the wall. “Heck, I’ve already argued with him in front of a hundred or more people, including the tabloid press. I think I’ll just go home before I embarrass myself any more. And anyway, what kind of a man sends his son to ask a girl out?”

“A rich man.” Imelda sighed. “Money is the greatest corruptor of humankind, you realize. We were hippies when we were young, but no matter the degree of an individual’s idealism at the start of life, the quest for money always wins out in the end. We are none of us immune to its devastating impact.”

I had to agree, though still bristling from her callous slur. “It seems like you’re still pretty obsessed with your ex-husband. I mean, if you weren’t, you would have moved on with your life by now. You wouldn’t try to humiliate him at every turn.”

“The abominably young never do understand these matters,” Imelda shot back. “You haven’t the slightest clue what pain is. Really, do you have any idea what it’s like to have your heart broken by the people you love most?”

My jaw tightened in defence, even though she was absolutely right. In the arena of love, I’d never experience anything more distressing than that evening’s misunderstanding or the terminus of a puppy love. Not once had I allowed myself to be put in a position where I could really get hurt.

All the same, I couldn’t help but argue. “What makes you think I’ve never had my heart broken?”

“I see it in your art, dear child.” She waved her hand in the direction of my works. “Your paintings are the epitome of mediocrity. Great art is produced out of pain.”

“Your pain is your gold,” I said, citing a proverb I’d read somewhere. “I never understood what that meant.”

“And you’ll never be a great artist until you do. Your paintings are lovely, I’ll give you that. They’re pleasant to look at. Yes, pretty pictures are saleable on the mass market, but they don’t rip your heart out and trample it as great art does. That’s what you should be striving for. If you are broken, use it in your art. Let us see your vulnerability. Not only will you produce work that is truly meaningful, but your art will also appeal to another level of distributors, vendors, and collectors. Otherwise you’ll be stuck producing pedestrian art for places like this and selling it for next to nothing.”

The tension in my jaw eased as Imelda spoke. Everything she said made sense. “How do you know so much about the market?”

“The first thing I did when I separated from my husband was open the Imelda Gallery. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure.”

Of course I’d heard of the Imelda Gallery. And visited it, and stood in awe of the work it housed which, quite frankly, put mine to shame. It was the most exclusive gallery in the city. I had no idea it shared any affiliation with the Drinkwater fortune, yet there I was in a dark hallway sharing appetizers with its director.

“Take my advice,” Imelda continued with a mouth full of Bouc Emissaire. “Work from your pain and one day I might consider exhibiting your art.”

Such simple advice, but so difficult to execute.

“Couldn’t I just get more training?” I asked. I hated to sound whiny, but where was I supposed to find pain to work from? If I had a car, I’d have to slam my fingers in the door a couple times to gather the kind of pain Imelda was talking about.

Shaking her head, she tsk’ed repeatedly. “Let me tell you a story—my story—of heartbreak and its impact on my own work. Now, this gets a tad personal. Will you find that terribly disturbing?”

With a potential exhibit at the Imelda gallery hanging in the balance, I would have let her strip me bare and string me up by the toenails. This was important. Pre-ordained, even. Perhaps I’d come to the party that evening not to amuse myself with Gavin, but rather to meet this Mary Pickford look-alike who could do more for my career than her son ever could: get my work into public galleries, market it on an international scale, set me up with private patrons, help me with those elusive government grants.

Imelda was a force of nature, or so I’d heard. Maybe if she found me charming, or if she felt sorry for me, she might consider exhibiting my art right away, pain or no pain. And all I had to do was drink champagne, share some hors d’oeuvres and listen to a story. Easy peasy!

So I sank into the sofa and listened as Imelda began the salacious tale of her torrid love affair with a ballerina named Ondine.