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But I’m not buying direct from publishers. I’m not skipping the middleman. I’m making my purchasethrough the museum. They’ll turn a profit on every single book—probably a wider margin than usual, because the publishers will cream their pants to fulfill a purchase like this.
“An order this size,” Updike tries again. “There will be certain logistics… I want everything to flow as smoothly as possible… Certainly you don’t mind if I consult with my manager in charge of acquisitions?”
“I don’t mind at all,” I say. “Alix and I can go explore the museum. We’ll check back at close of business today?”
Okay. I’m being an ass. The museum’s only open for two more hours. But the bill of sale will end up topping seven figures. Maybe eight. Martin Updike can scramble a little.
Because the look on Alix’s face makes it all worthwhile.
Updike murmurs something about getting a curator to show us around. I start to refuse—there’s no reason we can’t read the write-ups on the wall like every other visitor to the museum. But Alix’s eyes look like Christmas ornaments when Updike makes the suggestion. Makes sense—she wants to share notes with an expert, not some barbarian like me.
“That would be excellent,” I say. Updike excuses himself to make some calls, promising to be back in a few minutes.
Alix waits until he’s out of earshot before she says, “You’re insane.”
I grin. “How can you say that?”
“We don’t need all these books!”
“I do.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Make you happy.”
She wasn’t expecting that. She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again and draws a breath, but her eyes have gone all shiny. Finally she says, “You don’t have to buy an entire library to make me happy. You already do that, every single day.”
“Maybe I have an ulterior motive.”
“Like what?”
“Like making you grateful. So I can have my wicked way with you.”
She doesn’t smile. Instead she answers like she’s making a solemn vow. “You can have your wicked way with me any time you choose. Any place. Any way.”
“Careful, Princess. Don’t make promises you aren’t willing to keep.”
“Who says I’m not willing?”
Before I can think of a way to test her in this very public museum, I hear someone clearing their throat. I turn around to find a harried looking woman. The walkie-talkie strapped to her hip squawks, and she automatically reaches down to adjust the volume.
“Mr. Prince?” she asks. “Ms. Key? My name is Kellen Nolan. Mr. Updike asked me to show you around the highlights of our collection. He says we have a couple of hours.”
I’m wondering why Updike chose Kellen as our guide. She’s about Alix’s age. Dressed all in black. Her hair is in a messy ponytail, and she has gauges in both ears. She looks like she’s auditioning for some foreign movie where everyone drinks Campari and smokes skinny cigarettes.
“That’s right,” I say.
Kellen turns to Alix. “Do you have any preference about where you’d like to start?”
Alix answers without hesitation. “The Impressionists, please.”
Kellen beams. “My favorite. Right this way.”
She leads us to a bank of elevators labeledEmployees Only. By the time we reach the second floor, we know she got her PhD in art history from Yale, and she’s studied at the Sorbonne in Paris. She wrote her dissertation on a guy I’ve never heard of, and she’s been working at the Met for three and a half years.
But none of that is why Updike chose her. Updike chose her because Kellen focuses on Alix like my princess is her private patron, her fellow student, and her long-lost best friend, all rolled up in one.
Alix does her best to fold me into the conversation. But I don’t give a shit about unblended color, natural light, and the ambivalence of spatial imprecision. I pretend like I’m interested in a painting of some woman with bare tits, holding a bowl of orange fruit, but I’m really watching Alix shine.
