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“This is Ms. Micola Costa, a painter and art teacher from New York. She’s my date this evening and many more to come.” I wink after my statement resulting in a couple “oohs” from the reporters.
Making it to the other side, Micola’s palm is sweaty.
“Come.” I beckon as the clatter of dishes and buzzing jazz is heard.
We enter the dining space with our arms interlaced. Micola fluffs her bob as we search the long table for our names.
“Alexander Masters and Micola Costa, your seats are near the head of the table.”
Ivory fine china with crystal cut champagne glasses sits at the table amongst chatter.
“Alex!”
It’s Paula, one of the sculptors to be featured in Carvel. She’s sixty-five years old with the mouth of a sailor and a pair of hands that can mold dirt into a castle if time were on her side.
“Paula, what a pleasure. Meet Micola Costa, painter and teacher.”
“Costa as in Cefalu, Sicily?” Paula’s blue eyes light up with fascination.
Micola takes her seat beside her.
“Yes. Familiar with my family name?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? The question is, who isn’t? Particularly folk my age. I’m Paula Dominguez. From Spain. Been a sculptor since birth. Extremely honored to meet a Costa who’s an artista! Are you showcasing any work here in London?”
“Not this year.”
I love Micola’s response. She’s always had faith in her art, and it’s easy to say she’s not ambitious because she’s not breaking her limbs to be seen. There’s a deep sense of security and power one has to not chase the glitz. She always balanced me well.
“It’s stressful. All the shit we do to get people excited. I don’t mind the fancy dinners, but I can do without the red carpet bullshit!” Paula pulls out a cigar and lights it right at the table.
“Costas do an amazing job supporting the muralists in Spain. Ever since our local artists made a mural of Emilio Costa in Seville, they’ve donated millions to the Spanish art community. Always joyous to be in their presence.”
Micola has no idea how far the Costa blood money spans. It flows through all of Western Europe. It kills in the names of others.
“Well, thank you,” Micola responds, dressing her lap with her napkin.
I lean toward her.
“What did I tell you? They love the Costas.”
My breath tickles her neck as she swiftly straightens her back to create space between us.
“You can’t shy away from me too much.”
I whisper, caressing the side of her thigh with my thumb.
She responds with a kick of her back heel on my shin. I hide my pain by clearing my throat and turning to my neighbor, another artist.
“Mr. Masters, your domination in the sculpture scene these last five years has a huge microscope on you. Any idea how many collectors are trying to uncover your secrets?” Filmmaker Seth Kagan questions, mindless of his red wine mustache.
“So it’s been rumored.”
“What collector doesn’t want to open their own museum in their thirties! You’re turning yourself into a legend.” Seth laughs.
“Is that the goal?” Micola chimes in. There’s tension in her stare as if she genuinely wants to know.
“Who doesn’t want to be a legend?”
