Staring at the trendy facade of the Schilling’s Gallery, where the day’s event is Jared Macmillan’s debut, my stomach rumbles with dread.
I don’t want to be here. I haven’t gone in yet. No one knows that I’ve come. There’s still time to save my pride. I must be insane. Who in their right mind would choose to walk into a party for their ex-boyfriend, an ex who had flayed her wide open and walked away?
Bite the bullet, I tell myself, you are expected to be here. This is your job. I push the door open, cursing under my breath. Spineless coward.
The party is bigger than I expected. Twenty or so large paintings line the walls in two groups—one arrangement of less than ten and the rest displayed throughout the Nuevo-modern studio. More than fifty guests dot the expansive polished concrete floor. Some are studying the artwork, while others mingle with art-world bigwigs. These types of events always have two groups of people—those there to admired the artist and his work, and those there solely to instigate themselves in the art world.
I see Mr. Rothschild, my boss, standing in the center of the room alone. I might as well make my presence known, so I can leave before running into Jared.
Rothschild sips his flute of champagne like he wishes it were a tumbler of scotch as I cross the floor in his direction, mumbling excuses to the chattering critics that I cleave along the way.
He nods and then looks out over the throng black-clad guests. “I’m glad to see that you made it, Ms. Campbell,” he says, fidgeting with the knot on his tie.
At least one person was glad that I came. “I didn’t want to miss the party,” I say, snatching a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and gulping it in one try. “Everything looks great. I’m really surprised by the turnout.”
Mr. Rothschild stops a passing waiter and places his empty glass on the young man’s tray absently as he turns in the other direction. I snatch another flute while my boss’s mind is elsewhere.
He turns back to attention, “Do you mean that you don’t think Mr. Macmillan is talented enough for this type of fanfare, or that Thom managed to pull it off despite his lack of experience?”
I nearly choke on my required wine. So he knew that I had dumped Jared’s account on Thom, a PR rep with just six months of insignificant experience. Stubbing my toe against the black concrete column supporting the second floor of the studio, I search for some worthy excuse. “No... I just meant...”
Chuckling, Mr. Rothschild takes the crook of my arm and steers me over to the row of paintings. “Kidding, just kidding,” he says as he pats my arm like he’s placating a pet. “And in case you weren’t aware, I know all about your state of affairs with Mr. Macmillan.”
O-M-G! No way could he know! Maybe he just meant my refusal to work with Jared again. “Mr. Rothschild, I can assure you that I passed the account to Thom with Mr. Macmillan’s best interests in mind.”
He ignores me and continues on with his speech, like he had rehearsed this conversation earlier in the evening. “I had a talk with Mr. Macmillan last week and he had quite a bit to say about you.” Rothschild looks at me in a knowing-sort of way, a sly smile stretching across his dignified face.
I bite down on my lower lip hard, hard enough to halt the indignation that wants to flow out of my mouth. What the hell did that mean? If Jared had bashed me to my boss, to the president of the company, I’d have to kill him. Or in the very least, humiliate him today. It wasn’t enough that Jared had lied to me for months, then abandoned me for his uptight family, but he wanted to trash my career as well?
My insides gnash, like I just might explode, splashing his prized canvases with my not-so-blue blood—Carrie-style. I can feel the grinding of my molars, my own teeth itching to tear him a new one.
Rothschild drags my twitching body to the nearer wall, gently squeezing my arm twice. “Take a look at Jared’s newest works. I think you might find them enlightening.” He stops me in front of a large, somber canvas.
Typical, another still-life. So Classic Jared. All that he painted were these indigestible still-life’s. The man’s stuck in a time warp, just as his paintings are. Neither the artist nor his work has any vision, movement or future.
This painting is no different. Cold, hard-lined surfaces had been artfully rendered, but lacked any spirit. The overall impression is one of despair and darkness. But there, in the bottom left of the painting, I notice something unexpected. Beneath the facade of the counter, inches away from the refrigerator, is a picture-perfect replication of my discarded engagement ring—the one that Jared gave me over linguini at Romano’s. My heart drops at the thought Jared could be so cruel as to mock the ring that bound us together and the night it all fell apart. How could he be that cruel?