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Who am I to argue with that?
I take Contessa, some jewelry, and three pairs of shoes up to Desmond and Sandy’s apartment. I can’t decide which ones to wear with my outfit and I need them to work their fab queen magic on me.
“Come on in, you two!” says Desmond giving me a huge hug.
My friends are almost as excited as I am. Sandy turns up the stereo as Desmond sits me down in a high-backed chair in the middle of the lounge. I don’t protest. I’m like a sleepwalker or someone under hypnosis. Contessa rolls her eyes at me, then jumps up onto the sofa to curl up for a snooze. I’m sure she just wants us to go away and leave her in peace.
“You don’t need much make-up.” Desmond steps back with his arms folded, head on one side, and appraises me. Then he says, “Let’s go heavy on the eyes and leave the lips nude. What do you think?” He’s not asking me, but Sandy who nods, sucks in his cheeks, and opens a multi-tier makeup box. Desmond throws a protective smock around my shoulders and the boys get to work.
“Whatever you do, I’m going to wipe half of it off,” I say as if it matters, waving away another layer of mascara. The boys don’t seem to have heard me.
“You look every inch, the part, my love,” says Sandy finally, holding up a mirror for me to see the results of their artistry. It is me, no doubt. But I look sensational, like a model on a magazine cover. “And you look so much better now you’re not hiding behind those enormous spectacles, that didn’t suit you.”
“Sandy! You can be so mean,” says Desmond laughing.
“No, he’s right. They are awful! I even need to wear them.” I laugh. “Thank you both so much. Really.”
“Don’t you cry, missy,” says Desmond, sternly. “We don’t have time to start over.” I dab the corners of my eyes with a tissue and swallow hard. “Gianni doesn’t want to see you with streaks down your face, does he?”
The mention of Gianni’s name causes a wave of butterflies to shoot from my fingertips to toes and back again. But excitement is tinged with tension and explodes as a laugh.
My phone beeps. It’s a message from Mrs Peabody. She’s five minutes away. I tell the boys and they whirl around in a mist of gay frenzy. I pick up my bag and tell Contessa she’s the most beautiful perfect cat ever, before going down to the sidewalk to wait for my ride. Desmond and Sandy have dressed down for the night, but I still feel as if they have upstaged me. They’re not even in drag.
Another message beeps on my phone. It’s from Henry wishing me loads of luck although the way the year has gone, I might have used up my full quota. He’s looking forward to seeing me at the show.
Mrs Peabody’s vintage dark green Daimler slows to a stop at the curb. Desmond and Sandy burst out of the apartment building door, speechless for once. The uniformed driver gets out to open the rear passenger door for us.
“Get in then,” says Mrs Peabody from the back seat. She’s glittering in silver lamé. Her white hair gleams and shimmers. Desmond, Sandy, and I all pile in the back with her.
After some excited pleasantries, Mrs Peabody says, “Okay, listen.” And she puts on her glasses and reads from the screen of her phone, “The caterers are there, now. The DJ is in traffic but should be there very soon. We have reps from the arts pages of the Times, Time Out, and Art Quarterly. They are all keen to talk to you, but I’ve sent them a press release and a set of Q and A’s, so don’t worry about doing interviews. There will be another time. Tonight is all about you, Olivia.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “Also, I have some buyers in mind, so you can leave that whole grubby business to my sales team. They are all wonderful people and know what to do.”
I smile and say how grateful I am. Everything is just so incredible I’m grinning like a Cheshire cat when my phone rings. It’s Gianni.
“Libby! I can’t wait to see you.”
“Hey, where are you? I hope you’re not calling me with an excuse of why you can’t come.”
“No! What are you talking about, funny girl?”
“Gianni, I’m in the car with Mrs Peabody and my friends.”
“Alright, I get it. No dirty talk. Haha.”
“Gianni! You’re making me laugh. I’m so excited to see you. We will be there very soon. Kisses.” I hang up the call aware that my friends in the car are listening and mocking me mercilessly. Mrs Peabody smiles kindly.
A muscle-bound bouncer in a tuxedo monitors the warehouse door from the street. One of Mrs Peabody’s team, a smartly dressed young woman with an iPad and a headset, says welcome and good evening, then waves us through and up the stairs to the exhibition space. The venue is set up so beautifully.
I had been here only the previous day, but the difference is overwhelming. The scaffolding towers have gone, and theatre lighting shoots cones of rays dramatically onto each of my paintings and drawings. My work looks incredible. The limited palette of blacks, oranges, and ochres of the collection fits with the bare brickwork of the historic building. Drops of unbleached calico add warmth and domestic sensual intimacy to the show of oils, pastels, and framed drawings. The overall impression is mesmerizing. If it wasn’t my show, I would want it to be. I am so proud of what I have achieved in such a short space of time. Now that I am here, I just want to enjoy myself.
“Gloria,” I hug Mrs Peabody. “Thank you so much for putting it all together. I couldn’t have conceived my work here. It looks fabulous. And I don’t particularly care if no one else comes tonight.” I pause for a moment. “Well, there is one person who I want to be here.”
“Yes. I know who you mean.” She winks at me, then moves away to talk to a knot of people who have just arrived. Wait-staff circulate with flutes of Champagne and tiny canapés. I sip the bubbly wine and turn to see Henry enter the room. He’s not alone. He comes over with two journalists whom he introduces. I instantly forget who they are because my attention is on the door again. The DJ is playing some breakbeats mixed with samples of Italian Baroque violins. It suits the imagery of my artwork perfectly.
A few more people arrive and behind them is the familiar shape of Gianni. I excuse myself from the journalists and their questions and walk over to greet him.
“Wow, Libby. This is fantastic. Congratulations,” Gianni says wrapping me in a hug. “I had no doubt I would see you showing your work like this one day.”
“It’s a dream, Gianni. I can’t believe it’s real.” I hold his hand. “Now you’re here, my life is complete.”
