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It’s funny—as much as Theodora was pushing for Margaux to go out with her nephew, I’d have assumed he at least wanted to take her out. Now I get the sense that he’s merely doing her a favor.
“Exactly.” The fewer words I utter tonight, the better. No need to wax poetic about the brand deals Margaux brokers—specifically the ones with social media influencers wanting to start a skin-care line or branch into athleisure or whatever “merch” is trending at the moment. I don’t pretend to know half of what she does on a daily basis. All I know is she’s really good at it. One of the best. “You?”
“Beg your pardon?” he asks, though I’m quite certain he heard me clear as a bell.
“You?” I repeat.
“What about me?” His eyes glint, as if he’s keen to the fact that I’m using as few words as possible, as if he finds amusement in making me ask a proper, fully formed question.
“Where did you go to school and what did you study?” I ask. While I’m well aware of this man’s reputation in the art-collecting underworld of the city, I don’t know much about him otherwise.
There’s no Wikipedia page on Roman Bellisario.
No website.
No red carpet charity gala photos.
Nothing.
At least there wasn’t anything when I googled him years ago after he had me fired from my dream job over an honest mix-up.
I’d seen him at my old gallery a handful of times, walking around like he owned the place. Negotiating prices on nonnegotiable pieces. Demanding private showings before or after hours. No one ever told him no. He was one of their biggest clients.
“NYU,” he says, washing down his answer with a sip of amber-colored liquor. “I studied art history. Had every intention of advancing my degree and pursuing a career in higher education. Teaching, to be specific.” He pauses, his attention flicking down for a beat. “Still think I’d have made one hell of an art history professor, but I guess things don’t always work out the way we plan them.”
“What stopped you?” I can’t help myself.
I also can’t help myself from imagining him commanding an auditorium full of young minds, his broad shoulders and generous biceps straining inside a tweed jacket, his messy hair and tortoise-framed glasses giving him that dark-academia edge that’s all the rage right now. The front row would be filled with girls, all taking notes, all raising their hands for a chance to be in his hot seat, if only long enough to ask a single question.
As much as I hate it, the man is speaking my language. My skin is on fire, sparked with the electric urge to wax poetic on favorite painters, periods, and Picasso pieces. No doubt he’s a man who knows his stuff, and I’m sure he could teach me a thing or two.
But Margaux wouldn’t know a Picasso if it hit her in the face.
Margaux would talk about a Taylor Swift or Bruno Mars concert she attended at Madison Square Garden last month or some trendy, hard-to-find candle she hunted down in a boutique on Bleecker.
Still, I’m pleasantly surprised by the fact that he’s not just some old-moneyed jerk trying to pad his portfolio with priceless works of art he can use for tax-evasion purposes down the road (it’s a thing).
“My father.” A hint of a wince colors his handsome face, and a divot forms along his jaw. “It wasn’t the Bellisario way, or something along those lines. Feels like a lifetime ago. I try not to think about it too much.”
“What’s stopping you now?” I ask. If I had to guess, he looks to be somewhere in his midthirties . . . surely he’s not still living under his father’s thumb? If he’s got enough cash to drop millions on Stefan DuMonde paintings and Ophelia Finnegan sculptures, he’s got enough cash to pursue his PhD.
“Between running my father’s company and raising my daughters, my spare time is limited these days.”
“Do you have help?” I ask before clarifying. “Raising them?”
I shouldn’t be engaging in this conversation, taking it to deeper levels and veering off the small-talk beaten path, but surely a question or two won’t hurt.
“I have hired help, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says.
His lips press flat like he wants to say more but changes his mind.
“I’m sorry. That must be difficult,” I say.
“It’s not the way we planned it, but it is what it is.”
I would love to know what exactly “it” is.
Did they divorce?
Did she suddenly decide motherhood and marriage weren’t for her and fly the coop?
Did she somehow tragically pass away?
What was her name?
What was she like?
And most importantly, what kind of woman can turn Roman Bellisario from a bona fide heartless bastard into a doting girl dad?
A hundred other questions flood my mind, but I wash them down, one after another, with my cucumber gin and tonic.
