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21
Aweek later,she was back at the gallery, pacing the floor while she waited on hold for Tracy, Manager of Special Events at Brown’s Catering. Nina had been sure she’d chosen a vegetarian menu for Morris’s next show — at the artist’s request — but when their rep called to confirm they had no record ofit.
“This is Tracy.” The voice on the other end of the phone wasbrisk.
“Tracy, hi. It’s Nina at the StockholmGallery.”
“Hi, Nina. What can I do for you?” Tracyasked.
Nina explained the problem, detailing how she’d filled out the order form and checked the box requesting all items bevegetarian.
“Hmmm…” Nina could hear Tracy tapping the keyboard on her computer. “That’s really strange. I have your paperwork in front of me and the box isn’tchecked.”
Nina lowered herself into the desk chair. “That can’t be right. I’m sure I checkedit.”
“Do you want me to email you a copy?” Tracyasked.
“Yes, please,” Nina said. “What are our options now? The show’s Saturday and the artist is a strict vegetarian. This really puts me in abind.”
“Let me take a look at a couple things,” Tracy said. Nina waited while she tapped. “We’ve already got some of the chicken on order. I might be able to cancel it and revamp the menu, but the gallery will have to cover any cancellation fees on the food, and some of the vegetarian options will cost more thanusual.”
Nina dropped her head into her hands. “Why isthat?”
“We’re usually able to get discounts by ordering in advance, because we can combine quantities from different events. In this case we’ll have to place last minute orders for this event alone. It’s probably going to costus.”
“I understand,” Nina said. “Do what you have todo.”
“Will do.” Tracy’s businesslike tone made it clear that what was a catastrophe for Nina was just one of many crises in Tracy’s day. “I’ll email you a copy of the order form now and will get you a new menu by this evening.” She chuckled. “Vegetarian, ofcourse.”
I’m going to strangle that laugh out of you with my bare hands,Ninathought.
“Thanks so much. You’re a gem.” She hung up the phone and covered her mouth with her hands, like that might stop the primal scream threatening to erupt from hermouth.
The computer dinged with new email and she opened it to discover Tracy’s email. It took less than thirty seconds to determine that Tracy had been right: Nina hadn’t checked the box for the vegetarianmenu.
She’d fucked up. It wasn’t unrecoverable, but it would cost her. She couldn’t expect Moni to cover the cost of Nina’s mistake. Nina would have to cover it from her dwindlingsavings.
She sat back in the chair and looked past the gallery’s interior to the window. It was sunny and hot, Brooklyn’s pedestrians out in skirts and shorts and sandals, passing by the glass in sunglasses and hats on their way to whatever activity healthy, normal people not obsessed with sex did to amusethemselves.
Nina felt pale and out of sorts by comparison. Not to mention so horny it waspainful.
Jack still hadn’t delivered on her orgasm. She’d lost track of the number of times he’d brought her to the brink since their trip to Croatia, but her need for release had overshadowed almost every other aspect of her life. Jack’s confession their last night in Split was the only thing that managed to be equallydistracting.
She’d replayed their conversation a hundred times since then: the naked emotion on his face, the way his voice had sounded raw, almostvulnerable.
I loveyou.
The words sent a storm of conflicting emotions pinwheeling through her body. She had been relieved when he didn’t press her to repeat the words, when he’d let it go unmentioned that she hadn’t, but it wasn’t a question that could go unanswered for muchlonger.
Did she love JackMorgan?
Was the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about him love? The fact that she could hardly breathe when he touched her? That she craved his touch and his mouth and the way he looked at her in bed every wakingmoment?
She wasn’t twenty anymore. She didn’t want to succumb to the conditioning of her youth, the idea that fairy-tale princes always rode in on a white horse, ready to rescue the princess with sweet words and respectfulgestures.
What if some of them rode in chauffeured cars and wielded rope and masks, platinum cards and penthouses? Was it any less love because Jack was rich? Because he had trouble expressing himself and took her breath away with his hands and mouth instead of his words? Who got to decide the definition of love? Who got to tell her what she felt for Jack wasn’tit?
She stood and paced the gallery floor, her eyes combing Morris LeGrange’s most recent pieces. They were as compelling as always, and she wondered suddenly how many artists and collectors made fun of them. How many of them felt it wasn’t “real” art because they couldn’t find the beauty init.
