On the following Wednesday, Amelia decided to take me along to Brent Cameron’s home visit to show me the ropes. Brent, the rich real-estate developer I’d suggested approaching at the ball the other night, had been thrilled to have us over and “Get some shit on my walls,” as he put it. He planned to have us over for some “Fancy chow,” for dinner, made, he told us, by his gourmet chef. Amelia and I had been in near-hysterics of laughter after she phoned him and told me about their conversation. I could tell she expected to take him to the cleaners.
All day Tuesday, I spent time researching him, his family, and his interests, hoping to have fodder for flattery for a two- to three-hour consultation. Except for the fact that he was ridiculously rich, I’d known men like Brent all my life, and I felt fairly confident I wouldn’t make an ass out of myself. That didn’t, however, negate the fact that this could potentially become my first sale. I also helped Amelia create a binder of potential artwork in a variety of styles for him to look at, all of which carefully avoided describing cost. We would make suggestions, but ultimately, she reminded me, he would choose what “shit” he wanted.
As we rode over to his house that evening, both of us dressed to the nines, Amelia exuded her usual calm confidence. “You’re going to be great,” she told me, patting my knee and sending tingles running up and down my spine.
“I hope so,” I said, my mouth dry.
“Remember—these first few outings are practice runs. If we can sell even one thing, you’ll be doing incredibly well. Most of my previous assistants have taken longer just to get the first potential client lined up.”
I was at this point dying of curiosity about her past assistants. I’d wanted to bring them up for a while now, but it seemed, somehow, intrusive and unprofessional. What could possibly motivate me, her new assistant, to ask about the old ones? I didn’t have any excuse except curiosity. Still, I decided to take a chance. “Oh?” I asked. “How long did it usually take them to make a sale?”
She didn’t take the bait and said only, “Much longer.”
Brent’s house was as ostentatious and ridiculous on the outside as I expected. Squatting like a toad among swans, its hyper-modern architecture stood out among the delicate Victorians in his neighborhood. All glass, angles, and stucco, it screamed new money and poor taste.
Ignoring his doorman, Brent pushed past him to open our car door for us, helping us both climb out of the Rolls. Once we were standing beside him, he whistled, long and low. “My goodness! Aren’t you two the prettiest things I ever saw?”
Amelia gave him a phony smile. “Thank you, Mister Cameron.”
“Call me Brent,” he said, turning to me. He took my hand and kissed the back of it, his eyes alive with mischief. “It’s an honor.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me.
Taking my cue from Amelia, I took his behavior in stride. “You flatter me, Mister Cameron.”
“It’s Brent, really. I hate that formal ‘Mister’ crap.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we, ladies?”
We followed him into a large, cathedral-like entry room. Light from the setting sun filtered in through the many windows, and the effect made the inside of his home far nicer than I’d expected from its ugly outer shell. The room, however, was nearly empty except for some incredibly uncomfortable-looking furniture scattered in strange arrangements around the room. He didn’t have a single picture or decoration anywhere. Even the floor was a solid, cold marble without a carpet to be seen. The whole place had the feel of an empty, clean warehouse.
“As you can see, I need some help,” Brent said, chuckling slightly. “I used to have a bunch of crap for the walls and the tables, but my ex-wife took it all. Luckily that’s all her blood-sucking lawyer got out of me, which means I can buy some new stuff. Stuff I like. She always liked all that modern shit. You know, like a big canvas with squares on it, crap like that. That’s just not my thing.”
We both agreed, but I felt a little overwhelmed. Given the modern layout and setup of the house and furniture, it would be difficult to find a style of artwork to suit his house that wasn’t modern. Amelia, however, seemed once again to take all of this in stride.
“I’m certain we can accommodate whatever style you favor, Brent. From the looks of it, we do, as you say, have a lot to work with. But before we get down to business, I think you promised us dinner?”
“Of course!” he said. “How rude of me, ladies. I always say pleasure before business, myself.”
Dinner was, as expected, over the top. The chef had prepared a feast that, if not exactly “gourmet,” was sumptuous and rich. It clearly catered to Brent’s tastes, which ran toward heavy meats and creamy sauces. I attempted to eat as much as I could, but it was tough going. I prefer light and simple food most of the time. Amelia, however, made enjoying the meal look effortless, polishing off plate after plate of the decadent dishes.
When the dessert trays were finally removed, Brent sat back in his chair, gazing at her with obvious pleasure. “I always love to see a woman enjoy a good meal. Judging by your size, you don’t even look like you could eat a salad.” Amelia continued sipping her cocktail and didn’t reply. “This one on the other hand,” he waved at me, “ate like a bird. Big surprise.”
Before I could apologize, he held up his hands. “I’m only joking, Chloé. I don’t take offense. I know you ladies like to keep your figures.”
I nodded dumbly, feeling like I’d let Amelia down, but she winked at me from across the table. Seeing the look between us, Brent laughed. “Hey, that reminds me. I saw the two of y’all dancing the other night. Does that mean you’re like together-together?”
I flushed and Amelia laughed. “I don’t know if that’s a topic for a business dinner, Brent,” she said.
Brent held up his hands, “Hey, don’t worry about me. I know I seem like a redneck, but I thought it was sexy as hell. After you two left, the whole place was talking about you. I think most of the men, and a lot of the women, were more than a little turned on by the show. I don’t mind saying that not a few of us were pretty disappointed when you left, either. The two prettiest women went home together. Now if that doesn’t say something about the state of the world, I don’t know what does.”
Seeing my face he laughed again. “Hell, I got a brother who’s a cocksucker back in Raleigh, where I grew up. I get it. And like I said, you two are fucking hot together.”
Luckily, after that, he dropped the subject, but I struggled the rest of the cocktail round to get my blood pressure back under control. As we toured the large, empty rooms of his house, he and Amelia chatting about politics, sports, and occasionally art, I forced myself not to run screaming from the house. Amelia, obviously sensing my turmoil, took command, making sure that Brent didn’t see how upset I was. My mind was in complete tumult. His insinuation hadn’t insulted me—after all, given Amelia’s apparent past, everyone apparently assumed we were together. What bothered me more was the idea that we were somehow together for his pleasure, not our own. My recognition of this fact, and what it suggested about my feelings for Amelia, bothered me. Not able to quite understand entirely what this realization meant, I felt my stomach lurching from the rich food and my escalating distress. Once or twice, I almost had to excuse myself to the bathroom to be sick, but managed to avoid doing that, just barely.
After what seemed like an endless tour (a tour, I might add, that included his massive car collection), the three of us finally sat down to coffee in his empty living room. I was relieved to get off my shaking legs.
“What are your first thoughts, Doctor?” Amelia suddenly asked, turning to me.
Taken aback, I looked at her in surprise and she laughed. “We’ve seen the whole place now,” she prompted me, “and Brent has told us about his tastes. What do you think we can offer him?”
Remarkably, I barely hesitated. While I’d been scarcely listening the entire time we’d walked around his place, something had apparently sunk in. Opening up the leather folder I’d prepared, I began to show him several options for the various rooms we’d seen, suggesting that each have a unified scheme either in color or style. I explained that while the folder was understandably limited in scope, each of the pieces I was showing him represented what I meant. He would, of course, have the final say in all the pieces before installation, but we could create a room centered around the painting or sculpture that I showed him from the folder. In addition, I suggested several rugs and tapestries that would help warm up some of the coldness in his house, each of which would correspond to the room in which it was placed.
When I’d finished, Brent laughed, shaking his head as if dazed. “You amaze me, Miss Chloé. All along, I was thinking Amelia would be the one to do the hard sell, but you come in here at the end like a falcon and sweep me away.” He laughed again, looking back and forth between the two of us. “I love it. I love every single thing you just showed me.” He nodded once, almost to himself. “Let’s do it.”
We all stood up and shook hands, the tension leaving my body almost as if it had never existed. My jubilance at the sale was something I’d rarely felt before. I was surprised by how happy it made me. When Brent turned to the bar to grab a bottle of champagne to celebrate, Amelia gave me a happy wink behind his back. I winked back, my happiness making me bolder than normal, and saw her eyebrows lift slightly in surprise.
“Now let’s pop this bitch and toast our resident falcon here,” Brent said, popping the cork. He poured three glasses and handed them around.
“To falcons!” he shouted happily.
“To falcons!” Amelia and I responded.