“It’s a recreation ofThe Nightmareby Henry Fuseli.” I turn to find that Julian has returned. He cocks his head at the strange skull painting. “That one’s referencing a Cézanne.Still Life with Skull,I think.”
I pull out my phone to look them up and raise my eyebrows, impressed.
“I can’t assume a single thing about you,” I say. “What exactly do you do for work, Mr. Conrad? Are you a musician? An art historian? An extremely talented nepo baby?”
Julian gives me a lopsided grin like he’s just told me a good joke.
“I’m an investor,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. Most of my friends are in healthcare, a side effect of years spent practically living in the hospital, and so he may as well have told me that he wrangles hamsters for a living.
“What does that mean in your day-to-day?” I ask.
“Well, these days, whatever I want it to mean,” Julian says, brushing a hand against the back of his shorn head. “I caught a good windfall a few years back. So now, I identify small creators and entrepreneurs with promise and give them backing so that they can have a shot in the market. It’s like being a curator. Or even a philanthropist, maybe.”
I’d recognized something in Julian, a simmering ambition that suggested that he didn’t live in a world where he didn’t get what he wanted. Hearing that he’s a finance bro doesn’t surprise me.
“Does it count as philanthropy if you take a cut?” I ask dryly.
“It’s a much smaller one than most,” he says. When I snort, he considers me. “I can’t tell whether you’re impressed or disgusted.”
“Neither. You’re a dirty capitalist, but aren’t we all.” I shrug. “Though I have many more questions now.”
Julian answers them as we circle the perimeter of the gallery. It was co-founded by his grandfather, Robert Conrad, and his close friend, William Harrison, after they moved to Chicago from England in the 1950s, then converted to a nonprofit when they moved back twenty years later.That explains your accent, I say, and he laughs and confesses that it’s a bit mangled, a consequence of years of international school and a self-proclaimed addiction to travel. He has no siblings, and like Leila, his parents passed before he could formulate lasting memories of them—“It’s how Leila and I got to know each other,” he says, and I, who have two elderly parents living out their best lives in a bustling retirement community, am reminded of my good fortune. I learn that Julian’s parents left an impressive amount of assets, and much of his time is spent managing them.
“But mostly, I’m a gentleman of leisure,” he says. “A collector of beautiful things.”
His eyes rove over me as he says it, and I look away and toward the painting before us. It is enormous and, if I’m honest, a little grotesque: orange speckled with splotches of brown and black reminiscent of mildew, tactile chunks of gray-brown arranged like soapsuds along the corners.
“I don’t know if I would quite describe this as beautiful,” I say.
“You’re not supposed to.”
I turn toward the voice and find myself face-to-face with an elegant, full-figured elderly woman. She is brown skinned and cat-eyed, a feature she complements with similarly shaped glasses, and her gray hair is cut into a short pixie. Her bone structure is dramatic: high, strong cheekbones leading to a sharply hewn jaw. She’s dressed entirely in blue: royal blue wide-leg pants, a textured blue blazer, a cerulean-blue shawl, chunky turquoise jewelry. On her arm is a man who resembles a bulldog, replete with bleary eyes and drooping jowls.
“Margaret!” Julian says, opening his arms to pull her into a hug. Her companion frowns, and Julian turns to him next. “And nice to see you too, Stanley.”
Stanley gives a noncommittal grunt, latching himself on to his date. His hostility doesn’t shift until Julian introduces me.
“Sean, this is Margaret West, our artist of the hour, and her husband, Stanley,” he says. “Margaret, this is Dr. Sean Sullivan, my date tonight.”
“Ah, the famed pianist. Such a pleasure to put a face to the name,” Margaret says.
I swing around to squint suspiciously at Julian, but he dodges my gaze. I can’t tell if I’m flattered or annoyed that he is apparently going around telling everyone who will listen about our clandestine meeting. It feels pushy, like he’s trying to make it seem like we mean more to each other than we do.
“It’s nice to meet you too. Your work is incredible,” I say to Margaret, opting not to feed her curiosity. “Are you an artist as well, Stanley?”
I hope the question is welcome. At cardiology department events, I’ve always made a point to tend to the non-medical spouses, the (typically) wives of cardiologists and section heads who have grown so accustomed to being treated as their partner’s window dressing that they almost tear up when I ask them about their interests.
If Stanley is comforted by my acknowledgment, he doesn’t show it. His eyes swivel lazily to me and hold for one contemptuous beat, before he says, in a voice that sounds like it needs a good clearing, “No.”
Well fuck you too, I think, but I don’t let my smile waver. I bring my attention back to Margaret, who is considerably more pleasant to look at.
“Not every day you get to meet the artist as you appreciate their work,” I say. “Would it be irritating if I asked you what this one means?”
The corners of Margaret’s lips quirk in an almost smile.
“I’ll only tell you if you promise to keep it a secret,” she says conspiratorially.