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‘You’re too good, Felix. But Elie does drive a hard bargain – I can’t wear it within a hundred miles of Los Angeles; apparently there’s only one other in the world and the owner plans to wear it to her next Oscar ceremony.’ Felicity Kocak stepped up to kiss Felix on both cheeks.
He then turned to Susie: ‘Felicity Kocak, Susie Thomas.’
‘My guest of honour! I can’t tell you how exciting it is to have such a controversial figure here. Don’t disappoint us by not making a scene. I’m counting on it. So many of us are just waiting for you to shake us all up. And as for your last show… ’ She slipped her arm into Susie’s and led her into a reception area filled with mingling guests and waiters hurrying through with trays covered in hors d’oeuvres and champagne glasses. The party had spilled over into the pool area outside – a string quartet was playing in the middle of the pool on an island that resembled the massive seashell from which Botticelli’s Venus emerged – while several models dressed as mermaids and mermen posed in the pool itself.
‘ …I flew in from Dubai just to see it. So confronting and yet so arousing. I really think you’re redefining female sexuality single-handedly – or should I say single-digitally?’ Felicity joked, then winked flirtatiously. ‘You are such a naughty girl! Mind you, we all were, once upon a time… ’ She smiled lewdly, and to Susie’s faint surprise she discovered that she found the billionairess attractive, with her wide cheekbones, brown eyes, and a faint ironic tilt to the mouth aglow with a wry intelligence.
‘I wouldn’t say redefining as much as providing an articulation. I’m only a conduit.’
‘So modest! Now that’s a surprise. Tell me, is Felix treating you well? He’s a tricky bastard at the best of times, but pure genius.’
Susie glanced across the room. Felix was deep in conversation with a clique of admirers, mainly female, monied and middle-aged – potential collectors, Susie assumed.
‘He certainly has strategy,’ Susie replied diplomatically. ‘You must have been thrilled to have secured the Hopper. I love that painting.’
‘You do? It’s on loan to the Whitney at the moment, but I have the perfect place for it in my Monte Carlo apartment. It needs minimal surrounds—’
‘—to match the flat planes of the work. I couldn’t agree more. You know, the figure I’ve always been fascinated by is Hopper’s wife, Jo. I mean, she was an artist in her own right, and a good one. I always had the impression she sacrificed her own career to promote his. I’m thinking about basing a new series of portraits around that theme – the female artist behind the great male artist.’
‘You love Jo Hopper? Then I have something you’ll like: several letters from her to a female friend, describing the very painting Felix sold me. They were part of the provenance.’
‘I would love to see them.’
‘Well, they’re here, in this house. I tell you what, I’ll show you – on one condition: we trade. I get first bid at the new works, and you get to see the letters.’
‘Felix will be furious.’
‘I know! What an exciting thought, being one step ahead of the infamous Felix Baum. What do you say?’
‘It’s a deal.’
‘Brilliant! Come steal me away after I’ve done the obligatory rounds and we can have a little girlfriend moment.’ Felicity’s voice dipped into a sexy huskiness as she caressed the back of Susie’s neck.
‘I’d love that,’ Susie answered, then headed straight out to the pool bar for something far stronger than champagne.
*
Susie sat at the bar nursing a Bloody Mary, watching the Puerto Rican bartender as he deftly mixed drinks; his curiously Renaissance-like beauty contrasted strikingly with this modern setting. A small island of space had opened up around her, while behind her the chatter of the guests rose and ebbed like waves hitting the shore. She sat there, relishing her solitude. She didn’t feel like socialising or doing the obligatory networking. It was suddenly overwhelming. She folded her arms over her womb; she knew she wasn’t showing yet, but the pregnancy gave her a new susceptibility, a transparency she was acutely aware of. To counteract the sensation, she pulled her digital camera out of her handbag. Swinging back to face the bar, she took a photo of the barman as he reached up for a glass; he looked particularly handsome in profile, his delicate dark features reminiscent of a Raphael painting. She turned back to the party and took a photograph of a short corpulent bald man in tight chinos and an open shirt, who looked vaguely familiar, as he bustled his way directly toward her.
‘Wow! Caught by Susie Thomas’s camera! What an honour.’ He settled next to her, climbing up onto a bar stool, his legs swinging free of the floor. ‘Tequila and soda on the rocks,’ he ordered, then turned to face her. ‘But why aren’t you swinging with the rest of the animals? I wouldn’t have picked you as the retiring type. How’s your boyfriend treating you?’
Wondering where she’d seen him before, Susie answered carefully. ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘You’re right; Felix Baum is nobody’s boyfriend. He’s probably nobody’s son either, like fucking Jesus. There’s so much bullshit written about him.’ The man held out his hand. ‘Marty Hoffman, Felix Baum’s nemesis, or so he likes to think. But really we’re not even in the same ballpark. If he’s Lenin, I’m Trotsky.’
Susie stared down at his hand with its thick, podgy fingers pressed through a row of clunky rings. ‘Go on, shake it,’ Marty insisted. ‘I’m a total whore for your work, but I concede that Felix is prettier.’
She shook his hand (which was sweaty), then had to extract her own as he held on to it longer than she wanted. ‘I know your gallery, Mr Hoffman. You have an interesting stable. I like your eye.’
‘Eye? You’re a bad liar, Ms Thomas. Another reason to like you. I talked to your London reps; you could have signed with me.’
‘But I didn’t.’
‘Like I said, Felix is a whole lot prettier, and luckier. I mean, who would have thought there were all those undiscovered Hoppers out there just waiting to be found? The trouble with Felix is that he’s promiscuous. I’m not. I like to stay with an artist, build something solid underneath them, something with longevity. We live in fickle times, Ms Thomas. Fame is more ethereal than ever. Is that you, Ms Thomas? Are you going to end up on the editing-room floor of history, a lost pixel in the ad break?’ He reached into his pocket and extracted a card, then opened her clutch and slipped his details into it. ‘An alternative to pretty boy. You’ll need it.’
Just then Felix pushed his way through the crowd.
‘So I see you’ve met Marty. Marty is one of the most eminent gallery directors on the East Side’
