I laughed, wondering if she knew Preston. I bet they’d hit it off.
Nadine pulled a fancy water bottle out of her Louis Vuitton and took a swig. From her devious smile, I could tell it wasn’t water. She handed it to me, and I thought, Why not. I took a sip, and it was definitely not H2O. More like a G and T.
“Yum,” I said, handing it back.
Beanu licked Nadine’s chin, and she cooed to the dog.
“She’s adorable,” I said.
“Thanks. She’s constantly petrified. She peed on my cashmere scarf the day I got her, and I was like, oh, welcome home, bitch.”
We each took another long swig, and I could feel my body temperature warming up.
“Those are cool,” I said, pointing to her bracelets.
“Thanks. I made them,” she said, like it was nothing. It wasn’t nothing. They were unusual and beautifully designed.
“Wow.”
“I take a class. It’s kind of a huge commitment.”
“Bigger than Beanu?”
She laughed, and as we continued to sip from her “water” bottle, I told her about how I ended up in DC and my Banana Republic dream.
“Let me guess, you’re looking for your happily ever after?”
“Something like that.”
“Yeah, join the club.” She sighed. “I think we should just lower the bar. Like, it’s okay if we end up with some guy who owns a bowling alley and has a mullet.”
I laughed.
“I think I’m just gonna sit here until Banana Republic comes back.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
So we did. But BR never came. And after drinking more of Nadine’s “water,” I started feeling a little woozy, so I excused myself.
“Oh hey, here’s my card, come take my class sometime!”
I looked at the card. Underneath a flying lotus were the words FREESTYLE FLOW WITH NADINE. On the back it said, FIRST CLASS FREE.
“Wait, you teach yoga?” I said.
“I do. I teach yoga, make bracelets, and shop.”
“You forgot day drinking at the dog park.”
“When necessary,” she said, holding up the now almost empty water bottle.
“Well, thanks for this, and the libation. If he comes, don’t steal him,” I told her as I headed toward the gates.
“How will I know him?” she called out.
“Oh, trust me, you’ll know.”
CHAPTER 8
REAL ART
It took four inches of Brady’s small batch bourbon, but I wrote a cover letter to Kevin and pressed send, closing my eyes and bracing myself for the sound of the swoosh. For references, I put my former boss Liv (what the hell) and Langhorne, an artist we represented at the gallery in New York. In the four years I worked there, Langhorne was the one artist I actually discovered.
I was at a party in Bushwick before it was chic, in a warehouse, where everyone was doing Molly (I declined, not wanting to end up petting strangers all night). I had been invited by my colleague Andrea, who wasn’t even there. I drank two warm beers by myself in the corner and then left. On my way down, the elevator stopped on the third floor and opened into an artist’s space. Paint and canvases were everywhere, and it smelled of turpentine and coffee grounds. The beers had given me enough confidence to walk in, and I stood right in front of the piece that would eventually go in the window of the gallery. It was a giant canvas with hundreds of photographs adhered to it. Old pictures, of people, all turning away from the camera. From afar it looked like a painting, because of the way he infused the pictures into the canvas with oils. When someone takes a picture of me, I’m usually the one who looks away, which I suppose is what drew me to it. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, but I couldn’t exactly explain why.
Langhorne came out of the bathroom as if he was expecting me. He had grayish hair and lanky limbs, handsome in a goofy, unkempt way. I apologized for barging in. He waved at me like it was nothing.
“I actually manage a gallery,” I added.
“Well, maybe it’s my lucky day,” he said.
He showed me the rest of the pieces, five total, and they all had the same feeling, but the pictures were different. In one there were pictures of roads, in another, windows. I remember having this sense of something coming alive inside me, like my heart was one of those balloon guys outside of car dealerships that fill with air and swing around. I wanted to raise my arms up and say, “Yes!” I knew it was real art.
I basically forced Liv to go there the next day, and it all unfolded pretty quickly, as these things sometimes do. His first show was put up three weeks later. It sold really well, and of course, Liv took all the credit. Except, during the opening reception, when Langhorne raised his flute of champagne and told the packed crowd, “And most importantly, to Page, who has a keen eye and blind courage, and who is responsible for me being here tonight.” Liv shot me a look, but I didn’t care. He was right. I was the one who had literally stumbled upon him and recognized his talent. From then on, he always had a soft spot for me. I once dog sat for his pit bull, Boomer. I wondered what he would say if Kevin called him.
That night, I got pulled into sleep easily. Maybe it was Nadine’s secret gin and (a little) tonic. I dreamed that I was Liv (glamorous, bilingual, rich) and Liv was me (bored gallery manager, pretty enough, always making coffee). We were playing bocce in some bar, and I (as Liv) was kicking ass.
When I woke up, I thought to myself, that’s it. Since forever, the one thing that I was really passionate about (besides dogs, soccer in high school, and Monet in college) was Langhorne’s mixed media paintings. Maybe I could start my own gallery. Why should I work for someone else again? All I needed was truckloads of money. I didn’t have any myself, but I seemed to be surrounded by rich people, so that was a good start.
CHAPTER 9
IS ANYONE STRAIGHT?
Barkley’s house was one of those old yellow Victorians set back from the street in Georgetown, with impeccable landscaping in front, including fountains and torches. It was the rare occasion where over-the-top seemed just right. I was greeted at the door by a houseman in a bow tie who led me into a sitting room where Preston was curled over an antique table, rolling a joint.
“Page! I’m just having a little smoky treat before the guests arrive. Care to join me?”
I hadn’t smoked pot since college. “No thanks, maybe later.”
“Ok. Mauricio, could you get this fab woman a cocktail?”
Preston rushed out of the room with his joint, and Mauricio, an extremely good-looking man with perfect olive skin, asked me what I would like to drink.
Even though I felt like I should be ordering a sidecar or a mint julep, I decided on a vodka tonic.
“Of course, Miss . . .”
“Page. You can just call me Page.”
“Great. I will be right back.”
The room looked like my grandmother’s house on Cape Cod, but slightly modernized. Floral patterns on the couches to match the drapes, wicker chairs with ornate legs. Of course, this stuff was most likely “acquired,” whereas my grandmother’s furniture was simply passed down from previous generations. It was strange how new money sometimes tried so desperately to be old money.