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I nod. “It’s an interesting notion, and one I’ve considered many times myself, though obviously I choose to see it from a different angle. I think it was Martha Graham who said, ‘No artist is ahead of his time. He is his time. It’s just that the others are behind the time.’”
My insult sticks.
Anya’s smile widens, but it doesn’t become any more pleasant.
“What’s your art? What do you do?” she asks, waving her hand impatiently.
“Mixed media on canvas, mostly.”
She looks to Nadiya with confusion. “Are galleries still interested in canvas?”
It feels like my ribs squeeze tight as coffee shop art comes roaring back into my mind.
“I think Elizabeth’s art will do really well in the Paris market. Her work is a reinterpretation of the classics. Much like you, she’s an iconoclast, destroying popular notions of what great art is and can be, not to mention the fact that her work carries over a lot of the same cubist ideals yours does.”
I realize, before Nadiya does, that her explanation of my art is only going to annoy Anya more. No artist wants to hear that their work is comparable to someone else’s. It pushes them off their pedestal, strips them of the idea of being a creative genius.
“How charming,” Anya says, her tone dripping with disdain.
A man steps up behind her and taps her shoulder. “Anya, do you have a moment?”
I’m relieved when he steals her away, and the second she’s out of earshot, Nadiya turns to me with a teeth-clenched smile. “Okay, well that did not go how I thought it would.”
“It’s fine,” I assure her.
“I know she can be a bit grumpy—”
I shrug. “No worries. I’m not someone who has to necessarily like an artist to appreciate their art. Her collection is wonderful.”
She presses her hand to her stomach in relief. “Good. I’m glad you aren’t running out of here offended, because I want to walk you through a few concepts I think could work for your show in Paris.”
I nod enthusiastically and Walt steps back, letting me know he’s going to find Matthew.
Nadiya takes me back through Anya’s photographs, pointing out details of the show that she’d like to mimic when we present my collection. Stein’s gallery in Paris is much smaller, she tells me, so my work will need to be condensed onto fewer walls, which means each piece in the series will really need to present nicely alongside the one that comes before and after it. She and I talk through how best to achieve that—discussing the merits of custom frames and lighting—then I catch sight of a man I recognize over her shoulder.
Twenty-Six
It takes my brain a moment to place Olivier as the man I met and danced with at the Global Wildlife Conservation fundraiser, and it seems to take him a moment to recognize me as well. I watch his pale blue eyes as they take me in and then crinkle with recognition as he smiles.
He’s as handsome as I remember, his black hair slightly less tamed than at the fundraiser, the longer strands brushing the collar of his coat. His stubble is thicker too, like it’s been a day or two since he’s taken a razor to it.
“Nadiya, you always did have the best taste in friends,” he says, interrupting our conversation.
Her sentence cuts off as she glances back to see Olivier, and she laughs in delight. “Olivier! I was hoping you’d make it tonight!”
He leans down to kiss her cheek, his eyes staying locked with mine. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he tells her. “Though now I realize I should have cut out of work even earlier.”
Nadiya follows his gaze to me, surprised, I’m sure, to realize we know each other. Her lips part and she’s about to speak, but Olivier beats her to it.
“Elizabeth,” he says with a quiet snap of his fingers, as if my name just came back to him.
“Yes. Hi,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “Nice to see you again.”
Olivier senses Nadiya’s intrigue, answering her question before she even has to ask it. “I met Elizabeth recently at a fundraiser. She outbid me on a Magritte, and I’m still bitter about it.”
Nadiya’s eyebrows rise in shock. “Oh really? I’d heard that was going up for auction.”
“It was my husband who outbid you,” I clarify.
“Yes, right. That pesky husband of yours,” he says, sounding as if it’s all in good fun. He glances over my shoulder briefly before catching my gaze again. “Where is he anyway? Make my night and tell me he let you come here alone.”
“He’s here somewhere,” I say, flustered by his ability to flirt so unabashedly.
“Olivier, play nice,” Nadiya teases.
“I’m always nice. Look, I’ll prove it. Elizabeth, Nadiya, would either of you like a drink?”
Nadiya takes a step back. “You two go ahead. I need to keep making my rounds.” She squeezes my forearm gently before she leaves. “Keep thinking about what we were talking about and we can touch base again in a day or two.”
