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As she walks away, Olivier seems to relish the fact that we’ve been left alone.
“I was serious about that drink you know. I haven’t had dinner yet either. Come on, walk with me.”
“I should find Walt.”
He turns me gently, pressing on my shoulder, and pushes us along, deeper into the throng of guests hovering around the food and beverage tables. “Why? Don’t you see him enough as it is? Besides, I want to hear about what you and Nadiya were discussing when I walked up. I didn’t realize you were an artist.”
“I am. I mean, don’t get excited. I’m not necessarily a successful one yet.”
He thinks that over for a moment as he grabs two plates and starts to walk along the small buffet of food.
“Aren’t most noteworthy artists only really appreciated posthumously?”
I laugh. “Oh good, so I have to die before I’m taken seriously?”
“’Fraid so. Here, want a crab cake?” When I don’t reply, he looks back at me. “What?”
“It’s just…you’re so…” I shake my head in confusion. “I truly can’t decide whether I like you or not.”
He grins and adds more food to the plate he’s making me. “Let me give you a second crab cake and see if that helps you make up your mind.”
“I’m not even hungry.”
“Don’t make me eat alone.”
I don’t know how we end up in one of the side rooms, plates and drinks in hand, looking over Anya’s photographs. I keep trying to slip away, making excuses, but he’s too charming for his own good.
“Just stay for a moment. I don’t want to look sad and alone in here with these plates of food.”
I sigh and give up trying to escape him.
I shift my chin toward one of the photographs.
“Do you know her? Anya?” I ask.
“We’ve met before, at galleries and things. The art world in New York is smaller than you’d think.”
“And? What do you think about her?”
“Oh, she’s a total asshole. Everyone knows that, but look at her work.” He points toward the wall. “It doesn’t really matter what I think about her. Her photographs speak for themselves.”
“Yeah, I had the same thought.”
“You won’t have to worry about that though,” he says.
I can feel his gaze on the side of my face as my attention remains on Anya’s photos.
“What do you mean?” I ask, working up the courage to turn to him.
“Well, we enjoy Anya’s art in spite of who she is. With you…you’ll be adored. People will want your art in their homes because they’ll want to possess a tiny piece of you however they can get it.”
He says these words and his blue eyes are impossibly earnest, which makes absolutely no sense. It’s obvious what a playboy he is, how confident he comes across. He’s just the sort of man you want to put in his place.
“You can’t just say things like that.”
He laughs. “You think I’m laying it on, but it’s the truth. I’d buy your work sight unseen.”
I slap my hand against my forehead. “How do you not see how offensive that is to say to an artist?”
He smirks, not the least bit deterred. “Is it?”
“Yes,” I reply with a harsh tone, assuming he’ll back down.
“Fine. Let me see your art sometime and maybe I’ll change my mind,” he flirts. Then his eyes dart over my shoulder and his grin dims only slightly. “Ah, shame.”
“What is?”
“Your husband has finally found us,” he says after taking a sip of his drink. “I thought I’d tucked us far enough away that I’d have you to myself for a little longer.”
I turn to look and sure enough, Walt and Matthew are strolling into the side room off the main gallery. I expect Walt to look upset, or at least annoyed to find me here talking to Olivier. But his dark eyes meet mine and he smiles, seemingly happy to have found me. Then his gaze shifts to Olivier, and that smile falters for a moment.
“Olivier, was it?” he asks as they approach.
Olivier nods. “Good to see you again. How’s the Magritte?”
“It’s due to be delivered next week.”
Olivier’s eyes fall on me when he replies, “I’m jealous.”
I look down to the ground, feeling somehow guilty.
“I have an early morning. Are you about ready to go, Elizabeth?” Walt asks me, already stepping back from the group and angling his head toward the entrance of the room.
“You work on Sundays?” Olivier asks, looking less than impressed.
Walt eyes him with mild impatience. “I do when I have to. Our senior vice president who oversees the China region is flying back to Shanghai tomorrow afternoon. I need to meet with him before then.” Then he looks to me, his impatience for Olivier rubbing off on me. “If you’d like to stay, I’ll have my driver come back for you.”
Some part of me is both relieved that he wants to take me home and angry that he offered to let me stay. Too confused by the warring emotions, I simply nod.
