It was Sarah’s first gallery opening in Toronto. She was part of a group show of six up-and-coming young photographers, painters, and video artists, and she had an entire wall set aside for herSingle Lifeseries in one of the city’s smaller, edgier downtown art galleries. Now she hovered in uncomfortable heels and a sheath dress at the opening, occasionally meeting eyes with the other young artists who all seemed inexpressibly cooler than she was. They were standing in their assigned corners as potential buyers circulated in a meandering orbit of cheap wine and stilted conversation.
“This is yours?” A woman in her sixties with a silvery bob of hair leaned close to one of the photos, peering at a detail in the upper corner.
“It is,” Sarah agreed. The question felt superfluous; all the photos were self-portraits.
The woman stepped over to examine another photo, then chuckled and moved on to the next artist without even glancing at the rest of her work. Sarah needed to get used to that: the inconsistent attention, the casual dismissal in people’s eyes. This was part of the game, she supposed: developing a thick skin, selling herself as much as her work, acting charming in the face of rich people’s knowing looks.
Her friend Anya had stopped by earlier, apologizing for having to run but giving her an assertive hug and a long stream of enthusiastic gushing. Her roommate Winnie had come by as well and had quietly eaten a single piece of cheese on a napkin before giving a half-whispered compliment and slipping out the door. How Winnie managed to function as a student-teacher in a room full of Toronto public school students was beyond Sarah’s imagination; given Winnie’s general disposition, Sarah suspected that they were eating her alive.
Just as Sarah began to consider helping herself to her own glass of wine and then hiding in the back hallway to down it, she saw Paul entering the door and peeling off a black and white checked scarf as he looked around to find her. Trish had purchased a peacoat for him, and Sarah could concede that it made him looked appealingly dashing, if amusingly British. Someone else had entered behind him, too—surely not Trish herself. No, it was Ren. Sarah’s stomach flipped at the sight of him. Were Paul and Ren good friends, now? The idea made her sad—that Ren was now accepted as part of Paul’s social circle but she herself was not.
“There she is!” Paul called when he saw her. He stepped forward and gave her a casual hug, his wool coat exuding the chilly fall air. “This is so exciting!” His eyes flicked to the photos and back again. “Your first show in the city!”
Ren stood back, smiling at her in one of his scuffed leather jackets. “Hey,” he said warmly. She gave him a hug and smelled a whiff of a stolen cigarette on him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be having a baby right now?” she asked.
“Five days ’til deadline,” Ren said. “But I wouldn’t have missed this. Why didn’t you tell me you had a gallery show?”
“You’ll know why when you see the work,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh.
Ren immediately went to examine her photos as Paul followed behind. Her heart pounded from nerves, watching him pause at the first one. At least there was no gratuitous nudity, but in every other way the photos made her feel completely exposed. HerSingle Lifeportraits made Sarah seem by turns comical, confident, and absurdly lonely.
“Inspired by the break-up with Liam, I take it?” Paul asked over his shoulder.
“And your housewarming party,” Sarah replied to Paul. She saw Ren register this with a frown. “When I was the only single person there,” she reminded them.
“That was entirely an accident,” said Paul, waving a hand in protest, and Sarah repressed the desire to point out that in spite of his denials, Trish hadn’t invited her over again. Sarah and Paul had had coffee a few times and he had been warmly supportive of her break-up and her new artistic goals. But she and Paul never did anything involving Trish, nothing that meant Sarah was going to be part of their core friend group. Fair enough, Sarah supposed; she didn’t like Trish either and shouldn’t expect unreciprocated affection. It still made her sad.
She watched Ren taking in the photos in order:The Picnic, which depicted Sarah lying on a checkered blanket alone in a park surrounded by empty bottles of wine, her legs clad in rainbow tights, smears of blinding white sunscreen on her cheeks; thenThe Sunbather, a portrait of her alone at a beach, wrapped in a sandy towel and reading a smutty novel under a neon pink umbrella as the legs of an attractive young lifeguard walked past. Ren stepped in front of a photo of her in a bubbly bathtub, then moved on quickly.
She noticed a few women registering Ren from across the room. That must happen to him everywhere. She realized it had been a while since she’d even remembered how beautiful he was. She was too busy missing him. He hadn’t called her again since the museum day. She hadn’t reached out, either, of course. His wife was having a baby; she felt like he needed to be the one to maintain the outlines of their friendship.
“These have so much of your personality,” Ren said when he returned to her side.
“Sassy and self-absorbed?”
“Sunny but with a razor-sharp wit,” Ren offered. “No, I just mean they have a perspective. An opinion. It’s a really cool direction for you.”
“It’s like you’re a theater director,” Paul agreed. “Designing costumes, staging sets.”
“Well, we’ll see if any of them sell. They may be a little too pointed to hang in people’s living rooms.”
“I would buy one,” Paul insisted.
Sarah almost snorted. “Can you imagine a photo of me with my legs akimbo between Trish’s black-and-white photos of Toronto tourist attractions?”
Paul winced a little, while Ren looked like he was suppressing a laugh.
“I’m sorry!” Sarah cried. “That came out snarkier than I intended. Your place is lovely. Very…clean.”
“We’re engaged, actually,” Paul said. Sarah stood frozen in shock for a half-second before her smile returned.
“Wow! Congratulations! Look at you two.” She waved her hand between them. “You’re engaged, and you’re having a baby. Checking off all the big ones. I might be forced to call you adults soon.”
“We probably won’t get married for a couple of years,” Paul added, “to save up for the wedding Trish wants. But that’s the plan.”
“Well, that makes sense. Let Trish plan what she wants! And you,” Sarah added, turning to Ren, “need to send me a photo of your gorgeous baby as soon as it arrives.”
