“I’m fine for the moment, thanks.”
“Cecilia. Excuse me.” Keely suddenly appears at my side, and I am grateful for her interruption. “I wanted you to meet Elizabeth Brysk Cohen. Another board member. She’s blown away by the womb room. Can I drag you away for a half second?”
“The womb room?” Lorry raises an eyebrow.
“That’s not the official name. That’s just how I refer to it.”
“I’ll bring her right back,” Keely says, and then extends a hand. “Sorry, Keely Devonshire.”
“My apologies. Keely, this is Lorry—Laurence Kenter. Lorry, this is Keely, the curator of my show.”
“Nice to meet you, Keely. It’s a very impressive show.” He smiles. “Go,” he directs to me. “Go meet important people, and let them tell you how much they love your art. We can catch up later.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ll look for you in the womb room.”
Not thirty seconds after I’ve stepped away from Keely and Elizabeth, Jane intercepts me in the atrium, just outside of the entrance of the gallery, where I’ve retreated for a breath of air.
Even before she opens her mouth, I can read everything in her eyes. She saw him. She sawus.
“Holy shit, CeCe. Was that Lorry?”
I nod, holding on to my poker face.
“What is he doing here? Did you know he was coming? Did you invite him? Does he live here now? Have you two been in touch? What the fuck??? How did you not tell me any of this? Are you dying?”
“Did it look like I was dying?”
“It did. A little bit.”
“Yes, I’m dying. What is he doing here? Why is he here? Why now? Shit. Where’s my husband?”
“He’s inside. I just saw him in the black box. Talking to Cressida James. Holy crap, Cressida James is at your opening. You aresobig-time now.”
“I’m not. I’m not. I’m just me.”
“You’re you, but you’re big-time. You look fabulous. I love your hair. Your work is fabulous. The art world recognizes that. Your fellow artists recognize that. You and Fran are like this powerhouse couple. It makes sense that Lorry would come back now. Looking like a snack.”
“A what?”
She looks at me, cocks her head. “Are you not on Black Twitter? Never mind. Just, congrats. On everything. This is your moment. Shine, shine, shine!” She takes me by the elbow then, leading us back into the gallery and the anteroom, which is buzzing with people looking at my work. Dissecting it. Analyzing it. Judging it. Coming to their own conclusions.
It’s a wee overwhelming.
I need more champagne. I need reinforcements.
I find François in the corner, eventually, and I am surprised by how much his presence comforts me. How warm and at ease I feel when he places his palm on my lower back. He is talking to Arturo Ferri, one of his new close friends and the cinematographer ofAzimuth. Arturo, an artist in his own right, is incredibly flattering about the installation. And Fran nods and beams like a proud father. A knowing twinkle in his mercurial eye. And I think, for the first time in a very long while, that perhaps we will make it. This man, with his crazy French curls and his cheekbones for days and his sharp jaw and the twin moles on his cheek and his sleepy smile. This man who can be infuriating and untrustworthy and unreliable at times, beautiful, brilliant, supportive, and doting at others. This man who contains multitudes. The full charcuterie board. For whatever reason the universe has, he is the one I have ended up with. He is still in the picture.
“Are you happy?” he asks at some point, drawing me into him. Kissing the top of my head.
“I am.”
“You should be. You’ve done incredible work.” He turns into me then, rubbing his thumb over my earlobe, kissing my lips. Sexy, but not overtly so. “Je suis si fier de toi, chérie.”
“Merci.”
“Where is your friend? Anouk? I thought she would be here,non?”
