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The couple looks over at me and they both nod, though the woman doesn’t seem wholeheartedly convinced.
“Are you familiar with Mr. Pavlicek’s work?”
“I’ve seen a few of his pieces in Architectural Digest,” the woman responds, sounding a bit haughty. I get it; she doesn’t want to come across as a novice.
I make sure to seem impressed as I respond, “Yes, I think one of his collages was featured in the magazine just last month.” I glance between them, asking for their names, then I smile and introduce myself. “I’m Lainey Davenport, one of the art advisors here at the gallery. I’m happy to help if you need anything.”
I’m about to step back—to give them a bit of space—when the woman holds out her hand to stop me.
“Do you think this piece will retain its value? Fifteen thousand seems like a steep price to pay for an emerging artist.”
Though it might seem shocking, I’m quite familiar with this line of questioning. There’s a whole host of reasons why people decide to purchase art, least of which is that they appreciate the art. Sure, there are the enthusiasts, the ones who are in it purely for the enjoyment of possessing something they find beautiful, but those collectors are few and far between. Most often, clients who frequent galleries as exclusive as Morgan’s use art the same way people use designer clothes and jewelry: as a means to show off, and if they happen to be making a sound financial investment in the process, all the better.
I find it slightly amusing that far too frequently, the clients who spend unimaginable amounts in the gallery couldn’t tell me the difference between Manet and Monet; they merely want me to predict if their Magritte will accrue value and impress their friends as much as their Masson. Someone just last week asked me, while pointing to an abstract piece by Kandinsky—an artist known precisely for use of color in his compositions—if I thought the paint choices were “too garish”. I could barely keep a straight face as I assured him the colors were impeccable.
“Mr. Pavlicek is quite established in the art world,” I explain to the couple. “This is his third show at Morgan’s, and his pieces are always highly sought after. In fact, Saatchi purchased two pieces from his last show.” Their eyebrows jump at the mention of the famed art collector, so I decide to go in for the kill. “He was also deemed the darling of Art Basel last year by Faire Magazine. I have no doubt you’ll be pleased with the value of this piece over the years, and more than that—” My sentence comes to an abrupt awkward halt as my gaze catches on a man walking through the door of the gallery. I’m stunned, almost beyond repair.
The couple stares at me expectantly, obviously waiting for me to continue, and I eventually do with a forced laugh that hopefully conveys I’ve merely lost my train of thought and not my whole goddamn mind.
“This collage is one of my favorites in this collection,” I finish abruptly, already stepping back. “I apologize, there’s something I need to take care of…if you’ll excuse me.”
It’s horribly unprofessional to leave them hanging like that, but I have no choice—I feel like I might pass out or throw up or something else equally as mortifying.
I swallow down my nerves and press a shaking hand to my stomach, hoping to staunch the quell of unease building inside me. I edge around the side of the room, trying to put as much distance between me and the person who just strolled in as possible.
I wish I hadn’t recognized my old classmate right away. It’s been well over a decade since I last saw Emmett, so he should be nothing more than a stranger by now, especially considering the stark differences between the boy I knew at St. John’s and the man across the room. Even as I flee, I can’t help but peer back at him. He’s only grown more fearsome with age. It’s as if he’s taken a flame and burned off the edges of boyhood, only to step clear of the ashes wholly formed as a tall, confident man, the embodiment of arrogant grace.
He’s easily the most well-dressed man in the room clad in a black suit and tie with a decadently crisp white shirt. His sartorial accomplishments are mainly in the details though: the expensive tailored cut of his suit, the vintage black leather watch adorning his wrist, the gold cufflinks likely stamped with his family’s crest. I bet if I were to peer closer, there’d be two letters embroidered in cursive on the cuff of each sleeve: E.M.
It seems so unfair that he’s allowed to waltz into people’s lives like this.
I was able to detox from my infatuation with him once, but it was painful and exhausting. I’d rather not endure the agony of it all again, which is why I’m now lurking in a corner of the gallery like some ill-mannered recluse who’s only just stepped foot into society for the first time in her life.
