“Ma chérie, I’m calling tocongratulateyou.”
Wait…what?
“I don’t know how you did it, but the VIP from yesterday called an hour ago and purchased an entire spread of abstracts!” Estelle laughs delightedly. “He says they’re redoing the entire executive suite at Croft Industries, and he’d love nothing more than to adorn the walls with our artists’ work.”
My stomach sinks as I realize Chase’s angry words in the elevator had been no idle threat.
I’ll buy however many goddamn paintings you want! I’ll buy the whole fucking collection! But Brett isnotyour client, anymore. Do you understand me?
“There’s been a misunderstanding, Estelle—”
“And then, almost as soon as I hung up the phone, a very large man with a very interesting scar came to the gallery with a huge bouquet of flowers for you! Red roses — justlovely, the whole gallery smells divine. Apparently Brett Croft, the VIP from this afternoon, was so pleased, he thought you needed an extra thank-you for your services!”
I’ll bet he did.
“I don’t know what you said, but you certainly must’ve made an impression.”
“Estelle—”
“And you didn’t even tell me about the three abstracts you soldhim!”
“Well, Estelle, like I was trying to explain—”
“Excellent work! Truly,” she interrupts me. “Gemma,ma chouchoute, I’m so pleased, I’m giving you a few days of paid time-away. You’ve been working hard, and it’s clearly paying off.”
“But, Estelle if you’d just let me—”
“No objections!” Her tone is final. “You’ve been begging me for some personal days for ages. What is the expression you Americans use? Don’t look at a horse’s teeth?”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” I correct, my voice resigned. “But, Estelle, we really should talk about the reason Croft Industries—”
“Au revoir, Gemma! See you on Monday.”
The line goes dead in my ear and I slowly pull the phone away, staring at it like it might provide some answers. And then it hits me.
It’s only Wednesday night.
Which means I have a four, full days off — something that hasn’t happened in all the years I’ve been working for Estelle. Andthatis cause for some serious celebration.
So, despite the fact that my life has (for the most part) gone to shit, seeing as there are dozens of reporters camped outside my apartment and the guy I’m falling for is engaged to another woman, I flip on some music, grinning as I recognize the familiar strains of Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers’American Girl, and start to spin around the apartment in crazy, happy circles, until the world turns to blurry smears of color around me.
***
Bag slung over one shoulder, I back out of my apartment and shut the door behind me, wiggling the knob once to ensure it’s locked. The duffle is heavy enough to test my balance as I walk down the five flights of stairs — I’ve packed only enough clothes for a few days away, but the two large bottles of wine I stashed inside are weighing things down a bit.
When I hit ground level, I pause in the hallway for a moment and pull my hair around the sides of my face so it cascades down in a dark curtain, covering everything except my eyes. Reaching into the duffle, I grab the ratty Red Sox cap one of my ex-boyfriends (a term I use loosely) left at my apartment after a drunken overnighter a few years back, tug its brim low over my forehead, and slip a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses over my eyes.
Totally incognito.
Okay, so I know it’s not exactly a perfect disguise, but it’s the best I could come up with on such short notice. And, anyway, now that it’s dark out, most of the reporters have gone home for the night, so I should be able to make the dash to my car without any problems.
I haul a deep breath into my lungs, telling myself there’s no reason to freak out. I’ll just throw open the door and make a run for it, before the few remaining hold-outs have a chance to stop me or get any good pictures.
Easy as pie.
Actually, come to think of it, not easy aspie.
Easy as something else. Like ramen noodles. Or microwave popcorn.