Jennelle’s fifties-style red Formica kitchen was now her office. She couldn’t afford a real space yet, but that didn’t matter because she wasn’t at the stage where she needed a place to bring clients. She had only two—actually, three—clients, if you counted Daniel. One was a graphic designer, and the other an illustrator. She spent hours each day visiting art directors at publishing houses for the illustrator and then advertising agencies for the graphic designer, talking up her people and trying to network with the art community. Plus, she spent time trying to woo new artists whose work both she and Daniel thought was fresh and exciting.
After a month, she got the designer a job on a Lysol campaign with a leading agency. The illustrator hadn’t gotten anything yet, but samples of his work were in the hands of art directors whose job it was to pick illustrators for book covers. It was slow going and she was living off her savings.
“I’m giving it a year or two,” she said. “After that, I’ll have to look for other work if my income doesn’t grow.” She told me about some gallery openings she had been to, since she was now making the rounds to meet new artists, but it was like the catch-22 field of acting. You couldn’t get jobs unless you had experience, but how did you get experience if you had no track record and no one was willing to give you work? Still, some new artists figured they had nothing to lose by signing on with someone who had more energy than experience. In the meantime, she was taking out small ads on targeted websites, and starting her own website. I became a client and we found a couple of other friends in art or related fields who said they’d lend their names to make her client list look more impressive. She even put an item on Craigslist. Of course, that seemed to bring out a lot of self-styled artists who had more nerve than talent.
Jennelle, Daniel, and I were sharing a pizza in the Village before heading to the Angelika for a movie. “Guess who I saw the other morning?” I said.
“I give up,” Jennelle said.
“The über-agent.” I didn’t say that Luke was with her.
Jennelle scrunched up her nose. “Kyla’s not exactly someone I’d like to model myself after.”
I took another bite. “What do you mean?”
“She knows how to use her feminine wiles,” she said, taking a slice of pepperoni off her pizza and putting it onto Daniel’s.
I turned to Daniel. “I saw her coming on to you.”
“I didn’t notice her cleavage, I swear,” he said, straight-faced.
“I imagine Luke did.” I smiled tightly. “They must have had a cozy time in Paris.”
“Luke Edmond?”
I nodded.
“He was in the store last week,” he said. “I realized I had met him before. He put up some kind of notice on the bulletin board.”
“What did it say?” I asked, almost to myself.
“Dunno. I didn’t look. Is he looking to move or rent his place?”
“Not as far as I know, but maybe I should call him and pretend I saw his note. Get him to drive in from Long Island on some pretext, and then drive all the way back. Maybe he enjoys driving five hours in one day.”
“What did he do to you?” Daniel said, narrowing his eyes.
“He messed with her head,” Jennelle said, in an exaggerated Southern accent.
“He has a boot fetish,” I explained, “but it ends at the knees, I think, because that’s where he cut me off.”
Daniel pressed his fingers against his eyelids. “We can’t win. If we jump your bones you don’t like it, but if we don’t come on to you, you don’t like it either.”
“So you’re taking his side—thank you, Daniel, thanks for the support.” Daniel took out his wallet to pay for the pizza.
“Thanks for the slice, anyway.”
He put his arm around me and hugged me. “Don’t worry, Sagey. The man will come to his senses. You’re a hottie.”
“He’s sleeping with Kyla. He’s not thinking about me.”
“But she’s also sleeping with Edward what’s-his-name, the one whose pictures look like Rothkos,” Jennelle said.
“Scissorhands?” Daniel asked.
“How do you know that?” I asked. “Art world internet chatter?”
“I had lunch with Edward,” Jennelle said. “She doesn’t wear underwear.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Spare me.”
“No shit,” Daniel said. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Daniel,” Jennelle said, “please shut up.”
• • •
We headed to the Angelika to buy tickets for Belle de Jour and lined up outside. It was eight and the movie was starting at eight fifteen. I pulled up the collar of my jacket and tied my scarf around my neck. When I looked up, I was face-to-face with Greg. It took a moment to register.
“Sage,” he said. He was as surprised as I was.
“How’s it going?” I asked, buying time.
“Good—I’m working on a new flick about women in prison. I’m really excited about it. Thanks for asking.”
“I’m glad for you. How’s Pompidou?” I asked, nearly choking on the ludicrous name of my replacement.
He shrugged. “Ah, that’s…that’s over,” he said, momentarily looking down. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then he obviously thought better of it. “What about you?”
“I’m good.” I bobbed my head as if it were spring-loaded. “Busy.”
“You seeing anyone?”
I hesitated, knowing that I had seconds to decide whether I wanted to leave the door open or close it in his face. I took a step closer and looked up at him. “Actually, yes.” I smiled to tell him that was all I wanted to say.
“Good,” he said, patting my arm stupidly. “I’m happy for you.” He walked to the end of the line and Jennelle and I exchanged glances. She pretended to inhale from a cigarette and then exhaled dramatically. “Au revoir, Pompidou,” she whispered in an exaggerated French accent.