The small gallery on Greene Street in Soho where Daniel had his show specialized in showcasing new artists. It was large enough to hold a hundred guests but double that number showed up, which told you not only that the opening was a success but also that I had a good chance of finding at least one new client.
Daniel’s work interested the press. At first glance the canvases appeared to be collages of photographs of naked female film stars. On closer inspection it became clear that they were actually oil paintings. So the quality of the work, coupled with the number of people drawn to see it, told me that Jennelle would find new clients too.
I took total credit for her outfit: Olive satin D&G pants, a black mesh tank top under a vintage leopard-fur jacket that we had redesigned into a shrug. Whenever someone complimented her, she’d usher that person over to me and say, “Here’s my personal shopper and fashion stylist,” before she strutted off. I lost count of how many times she did that because the cheap wine made my head feel like it had been dipped into a vat of Ambien. Still, I came away with the names of two women who wanted closet assessments, Jennelle found some potential new artists, and Daniel sold three paintings with expressed interest in several others.
“You didn’t meet anyone?” Jennelle said, like an overbearing grandmother, when we met in the bathroom as I was standing at the sink, trying to focus my eyes. I shook my head. “Didn’t you see that guy with the amazing dark curly hair, in the ‘Shit Happens’ T-shirt?”
I shook my head.
“Well, what about the hottie with the shirt that said, ‘It’s Okay, I’ll Drop Everything and Help You with Your Problem’?”
Another headshake.
“Sage,” she said, impatiently. “Weren’t you even trying to meet someone?”
“The only one I noticed was that tall bimbo with the halter top that made her look naked from the back.” She had dark hair that reached her hips, large brown eyes, and heavy eye makeup. “She was hitting on Daniel and everyone else.” I couldn’t place her cloying perfume, but it reminded me of something that was big in the nineties.
“I saw that, too.” Jennelle rolled her eyes. “Her name’s Kyla something and she’s a big-name rep here and in Europe. She’s always in Daniel’s store looking for something or other for her artists, but I was talking about guys. Didn’t anyone interest you?”
Mostly, I was thinking about Luke Edmond and wondering whether there was any chance he might show up. The art community was small, and word of new shows spread quickly. But by eleven the gallery was almost empty, except for me, Daniel, Jennelle, and Daniel’s store manager. We all left together, and then went our separate ways.
Before I mailed my boots to Luke, I called my insurance company and added them to my floater. They cost as much as a piece of jewelry, and I wanted to make sure that if they disappeared, or he did, or if he cut them up and used them in a collage he was making or who knows what else, I wouldn’t be left without money to replace them. He was a starving artist without enough money to buy himself dinner. Why should I expect him to send back my precious boots? For all I knew he might now be trying to peddle them on eBay.
I put a note in the box written on fabulous handmade gray paper. I wrote it in red ink from a fountain pen, my way of showing Luke…well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Then I waited. The package should have arrived in three days. I hoped that someone wouldn’t swipe it if it sat on his front porch.