I do a little impromptu happy dance in the street when I round a corner and see my path into the building is clear from this side. Bolting to the rear entryway, I punch in the code and slip into the back hall. The door clicks shut behind me, closing out all the maddening pomp and paparazzi that seem to go hand in hand with Chase Croft — who, fabulous kissing skills aside, I’m beginning to think is a pretty big jerk for saddling me with all of this without so much as a warning. I guess now I have my answer to why he apologized for kissing me, last night.
I heave a deep, incredulous sigh as I lean against the door.
I’ve just had to sneak into my own freaking apartment like I’m sixteen again and my mom is asleep upstairs. True, this time I didn’t have to climb the trellis, but it’s still pretty damn annoying. I can’t help but think that if this — dodging cameramen and ducking through alleyways just to get home — is the new normal… I’m going to have to move to that pond in the wilderness, after all.
Or maybe Tahiti.
I’ve always wanted to go to Tahiti, though if someone gave me a million dollars to point it out on a map, I’d be not a single cent richer.
Whatever.
Point is, the kiss last night was freaking awesome.
But the aftermath pretty much sucks.
***
I never wanted to be famous.
I never wanted to be anything but boring, isolated, introverted Gemma — alone with her oil paintings, a few close friends, and a near-deadly caffeine habit.
I’m happy with my life, for the most part.
Okay, I admit, the last few months of dating Ralph haven’t exactly been a highlight, but up until then I’ve been pretty damn content. Great friends, solid job, rent-controlled apartment…
I’m (mostly) living the dream.
Since my own art doesn’t pay the bills, I work full-time at a gallery downtown calledPoint de Fuite, which sells extremely expensive, modern French art to edgy entrepreneurs, patronizing — yes, in both senses of the word — socialites, and rich businessmen who are always on the lookout for the next Monet or Renoir.
Sure, I’d rather live entirely off profits from my own paintings but until that happens — until I actually get up the nerve to show my art to people who aren’t Chrissy, Shelby, or my mother — I’m content to broker other artists’ work five days a week. Estelle, the gallery owner, is bossy and a little too obsessive about paperwork, but she’s not the worst boss I’ve ever had (I’m looking at you, supervisor Talia from that coffee shop on Newbury) and she’s pretty understanding about most things.
Except personal days.
See, she doesn’t really believe in them, unless they’re on the schedule two months in advance. So, when I called the gallery this morning, hoping she might take pity on me and give me the day — or the week — off to hide beneath my comforter until eitherA.The media get bored and go home orB.I run out of food in my pantry, she said no.
Well, actually, she said, “Pas question! Absolument pas.”
In any case, that’s why I’m here, atPoint de Fuite, praying none of the reporters camped outside my apartment noticed me sneak out the back door and followed me here. Though, I guess it’s only a matter of time before they figure out where I work, too. I can only hope this whole thing blows over before they start digging too deep into my past.
Estelle is decidedly unsympathetic.
“The world doesn’t stop for anyone, ma chérie, even billionaires.” Her face, faintly lined from years of laughter and sunshine, crinkles in a grin.
“Oh, jeeze, Estelle, not you too.” I groan. “You saw the video?”
“Everyone on the planet saw the video, darling,” she says, clucking in amusement. She smoothes one hand over her graying hair, which is swept back in the elegant twist she’s worn every day since I met her two years ago, then claps her hands three times in quick succession. “Now, we’ve had a special request from a new, high-profile client. Apparently, the family business has changed hands, and they’re redecorating their offices with an entire new spread of artwork, furniture, paint, and god knows what else.”
I lift my brows, wondering how this possibly concerns me.
“You’ll bring a portfolio to the office later this afternoon, and show the interior designer some images that might complement their updated space.” Estelle walks behind the glass-topped counter, her floor-length blue skirt flowing behind her with each graceful step. She pulls out one of our portfolio books, which contains full-color images of all our artists’ works. Usually, we only use them for reference when we’re ordering a new series to display in the gallery, but now, Estelle passes me the binder with a meaningful look. “Hopefully, they’ll like what they see, Gemma.”
I know very well she actually means,If they don’t like what they see, you’re in deep shit, Gemma.
I take a breath. “But, Estelle, we never make house-calls. I thought the wholePoint de Fuitephilosophy was to bring the clients to the art, not the other way around. Haven’t you told me a million times that someone who buys art without seeing it in person is…” I stop and think for a moment, trying to recall her words, and force my voice into a terrible impersonation of her own. “…bête comme ses pieds.”
She shakes her head at my poor pronunciation, but her expression turns wistful as she glances from the portfolio to my face.
“Ma chérie…” She laughs heartily, her eyes warm. “If someone wants to spend nearly a million dollars purchasing an entire series of our paintings… philosophy be damned. I’d be the stupid one, if I stood in the way of that.”