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“You look fantastic,” I say.
“And you’re a genius.” She clasps my hand in hers, the other on her heart. “Thank you for doing this. Especially when I’m going to get all the credit.”
Since I flew to LA this morning with the final art pieces for the premiere, I’ve been focused.
It’s the first time I’ve done portraits for a client, and I’m proud of how they turned out.
But this is a big stage, literally.
Tyler Adams comes up behind Annie. I saw him at the crowded party, but he’s more intense like this, in a dark suit with the collar open, the black shirt matching his eyes.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Annie asks him, her eyes moving between the portraits.
“Mhmm. But I’m biased.” Tyler half smiles at me, then turns the full force of it on his wife as he drags her close.
Swoon. I miss having what they have. I can forget Clay for a few minutes or even an hour, but this reminder makes me long for intimacy. For the closeness of having another person who has your back and thinks you’re everything.
Seeing him unexpectedly in Denver knocked the air from my lungs.
Hearing that he’d been supporting Coach this entire time, knowing that he still cares about something, gave me hope for him.
“About the break…”
“It was the right move.”
I wanted to talk about it, and instead, he just affirmed it.
Evidently, he’s taking it easier than me.
The woman hanging the art taps me on the shoulder.
“We should finish getting ready. Thanks again for the opportunity. Great to see you,” I say to Annie and Tyler.
The space is bustling with staff dressed in black, organizing trays for food, filling champagne glasses, and putting finishing touches on the décor.
I snap a picture and post it to social, which the publicity team already gave me permission to do.
When guests start to flow in, I take a minute to escape to the washroom. I got a message from Brooke earlier telling me to kick ass, and even Mari wished me luck before I hopped on my plane this morning. Another text comes in when I’m about to reach for the stall door.
Grumpy Baller: Good luck tonight, Pink. Blow their minds.
My heart flips over.
“Did you see the portraits? They’re so crass.” A woman’s voice comes from outside the stall.
Another responds. “I heard she was a last-minute stand-in. They had another artist lined up, and it fell through.”
“The director likes avant-garde, but this is ridiculous. The studio threw money at them. They would’ve been better to spend it on more champagne.”
Laughter follows, and I’m suddenly lightheaded, as if I hadn’t eaten all day. I wait until I hear the bathroom door shut to unlock the stall and step out.
Out in the foyer, ushers are moving people into the theater.
I want to run, but I can’t. It would be too awkward. So, I follow their hand gestures and head into the dark cinema. My seat is partway up. The cast is seated closer to the front, dressed elegantly. The men on either side of me are wearing press badges.
When the lights go down, the music and credits starting, my mind goes back.
“She was a last-minute stand-in.”
