Page 11 of Pretty

She dipped her head. “Like I said, technically, it’s Jolie.”

“Which means ‘pretty’ in French.”

“Yeah. When kids learned that, they would tease me at times, but children can be cruel.”

“I’ll bet you were a gorgeous child.”

“I was often told that. I never let it go to my head, though. My parents were fascinated with the color of my skin versus my eye color.”

“And the rest of your name. It’s French, right? Are you French?”

“No. I’m not French, but my father is, and yes, I do speak some French. My mother is Nigerian, but she is from England.”

We had just finished eating the feast that I ordered from room service, and we were sitting on the couch watching TV, or rather it was watching us. Because I watched her all night, I could tell that she was the artist whose works the show highlighted. It was evident that she took a personal stake in the patrons’ interest in the art based on how her shoulders grew tight if someone made a less than pleasing remark about the painting, or how she moved on when someone complimented it, as though she was assured of its value.

I knew who she was, but she had no idea who I was. Even after I dropped my name, she still appeared clueless, and I loved that. I’d had enough groupies throughout my career that I didn’t need another one. I’d started randomly talking about sports to see her reaction, and that was when she explained that she wasn’t into sports at all.

“I’d love to hear you speak it.”

“No, we were supposed to be talking about why I hate sports.”

“You can tell me all about it . . . in French. That way it would be more bearable, and my heart won’t break.”

She laughed, and it felt good that I brought it about, because I could tell that it came from deep within her soul. The other thing that I noticed about her this evening was there was a sadness about her, one that she didn’t seem to easily discard.

I stared at her.

“What?”

“For some reason, I have the feeling you haven’t laughed like that in a long time.”

“I haven’t. This night has been cathartic,” she confessed. Her eyes held a deep yearning, and her voice was soft, almost like she was looking for permission to speak.

“Then his perception was true.”

“Excuse me?”

“Will Nevels. He perceived that you had been through some challenging times, and that was where the depth of your painting had come from. He was right.”

She bit down on her lower lip and chewed thoughtfully as she ran the tip of her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “Of course, he was.”

“Why did you give the man such a hard time?”

She scoffed. “Because he pretended to be interested in my work when all he really wanted to do was bed me. If you want to sleep with me, then say that. Don’t pretend that you’re interested in my works when you aren’t.”

“I have it on good authority that he purchased a painting though.”

“Whose authority?”

I chuckled softly, and she pressed her hand against her belly as though the sound had hit her low and deep. “Mine. I overheard him talking with your agent, and then I saw him buying it.”

“Mm.”

“Is that all you have to say.”

Shrugging, she replied, “It doesn’t really matter one way or the other.”

“You seem bothered.”