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I don’t do this for the accolades or the gifts, but clients like Rupert are the maraschino cherry on top of an already decadent sundae. I only wish there were more like him in this industry, but alas, they can’t all be diamonds in a sea of cubic zirconia.
“Oh, I wanted to thank you so much for that restaurant recommendation last month. You weren’t lying when you said the scallops—quite literally—melt in your mouth,” he says as we head to the back room. I usher him to a table covered in glazed urns of all silhouettes, shades, and sizes.
To anyone else, these items would be just vessels to hold cremains or flowers, but to someone in the know, they’re sophisticated masterpieces. Paula’s process is famously and painstakingly perfectionistic—down to the millimeter. She spends hours upon hours etching intricate patterns and designs into the clay before it so much as sees the inside of a kiln. On top of that, each piece comes with what she calls a “birth certificate” in the form of the date and time the piece was created and subsequently finished, along with a playlist of songs she listened to while making it and a detailed rundown of what inspired her, as well as what she ate and drank during the process.
Paula is notoriously famous for viewing her work as her children and treats each one as such. Her eccentricities might seem outlandish for the average collector, but they only serve to fuel demand for those in the know.
“Will Ms. Paula be making an appearance at the gallery anytime soon?” Rupert asks as he makes his way from vase to urn to vase before returning to the shiny onyx vessel that catches his eye.
“Not that I know of. From what I understand, she’s mentoring some university students in Austria right now. If I find out when she’ll be back in the city, you’ll be the first to know,” I say. “You like that one?”
I point to the black piece.
“The birth certificate is inside,” I add.
Rupert carefully lifts the lid and dips his hand in to retrieve a piece of paper. Adjusting his glasses, he scans the details with utmost discernment.
As he reads, my phone vibrates in my pocket, sending a start to my heart.
My mind immediately goes to Margaux and her predicament.
“Rupert, I’m so sorry,” I say when I pull my phone out to check my messages. Normally I wouldn’t dream of interrupting a client meeting. “I need to make sure this—”
Only it isn’t a text.
It’s a call.
And it isn’t Margaux calling me.
It’s Roman.
As I hold my breath, the room starts to spin.
I silence the call and clear my throat.
“Everything all right, dear?” Rupert asks, blinking behind the pristine lenses of his expensive glasses.
Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I force a smile on my face. I wasn’t expecting Roman to call. Quickly, I remember the paintings he’s framing for me. He was probably calling to get a delivery address, though I can’t imagine the paintings were framed this quickly? It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.
“Yes, sorry,” I apologize again. “It was nothing. So, what do you think of this one?”
“I think this poor sweet little thing needs a home,” he says as if he’s about to adopt a pet from a shelter. “And I have just the place for it in my foyer niche.”
“Perfect,” I say. “I’ll have it wrapped and delivered to you by the end of the week.”
Margaux squeezes my hand so hard I worry she might crush it. A thin sheet of paper covers her lower body as she lies on an exam table in a small dark room.
“All right, are we ready?” The too-chipper ultrasound technician takes a seat in front of her machine. “Just going to squirt a little bit of this conducting gel on your lower belly, and then we can begin.”
She grabs what looks like a clear ketchup bottle from a warmer, flips it upside down, gives it a couple of shakes, and spreads the goo on the lower half of Margaux’s exposed stomach.
My sister sneaks a quick glance my way, and I offer a reassuring smile followed by an equally reassuring squeeze of her sweaty, trembling hand.
“We having a good day today, ladies?” the sonographer asks. Her eyes are glued to the screen, which is vaguely reminiscent of an abstract black, gray, and white piece by Harlow Hendriks I saw the other day. Harlow is fully color blind and paints only with those three tones, letting the shadows do all the work. “This weather is incredible, isn’t it?”
Margaux doesn’t answer. For the first time in modern history, the cat has her tongue. That and she’s too focused on the screen, though I’m sure she has no idea what she’s looking at.
The technician presses keys and buttons and moves the transducer around.
