Work of Art ~ the Collection (46 page)

Friday morning, Brian calls me into his office. “Ava, you have got to see the pictures from Wednesday night. Thomas and I had such a blast!”

I look at his laptop screen. “Remind me what that was? You go to so many functions, I can hardly keep up.”

“I know, I live such a fabulous life!” He laughs while he clicks through the photos. It looks like every model and young actress in Hollywood was there. “It’s that new show at MOCA,
The Collision of Art and Fashion
. It’s such a great idea, even if it’s probably just a thinly-veiled ruse to up ticket sales in this lagging economy.”

I pull up a chair.

“Girlfriend, look at this shot of Thomas with Kate Moss!”

“No way, I love her!” I lean in closer. This is Max’s dream event—the type of opening he would attend and be photographed with models or actresses. My heartbeat accelerates.

“So, did you see Max there?” I ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“Funny you should mention Max. I knew he was back, and I was sure he’d be there. But I never saw him, not even in the event photos. Let’s see if we can find him.”

The anxiety as he clicks on each photo is indescribable. I’m convinced as every image pops up on the screen that I’ll see him with his arm around some beautiful creature. But by the time we get to the end of the website’s post on the event, it’s clear he hadn’t attended, for he certainly would’ve been photographed.

Brian clucked. “Well, what do you know? The Romeo of the art world has been put out to pasture.”

“One night off does not a retired art-babe pursuer make,” I point out, trying not to feel too hopeful.

“I suppose you’re right, but if there was ever a party the old Max would’ve been the life of, this was it. The pretty ladies were drinking and dancing on the tables by the end of the evening. If I were straight and single, I would’ve had my choice of delicacies . . . better than a Vegas buffet.”

As I walk back to the printing studio, I feel a complicated mixture of emotions. I’m proud Max avoided a party that would’ve encouraged the wrong behavior. If that was a test, he passed with flying colors. Knowing that makes me feel even worse for turning him down for Sunday. I’ll think of something special to do next week.

On my way home from work, I notice a striking billboard, and it gives me an idea. I fire up my laptop as soon as I get home.

To: Max Caswell

Re: Question of the Day

Are you a Harry Potter fan?

A few minutes later, I get a response.

From: Max Potter

Re: My Occlumency skills must have worked because I blocked your mind from knowing I was captain of the Quidditch team during my brief stint at Hogwarts.

Of course I’m a fan. How can you be a creative person and not appreciate Harry Potter?

Why do you ask, my little muggle?

I laugh with delight . . . who would’ve pegged Max as a Harry Potter fan? As if I needed another reason to like him.

From: Ava Weasley

Re: Hogwarts . . . in your dreams . . . you big muggle you!

So, you think you’re using Occlumency against me? . . . Don’t get Snape-ish with me, mister.

The reason I asked is that I’m loonier than Luna Lovegood for Harry Potter, and there’s a marathon of midnight showings at the Arclight of all the Harry Potter movies, and I never saw book five. I was thinking of casting a spell on you and dragging you with me next week. It’d be my treat. I’ll even splurge for the chocolate frogs and butter beer.

From: The big muggle with the magic touch

Re: looking for my wand

You are the fire in my goblet. If you can cast a spell on me, can I cast one on you?

As for our movie, shall we travel via broomsticks, or can I pick you up in my enchanted car?

From: the little muggle with big ideas

Re: If we can’t ride the Hogwarts Express

. . .
then by all means, the enchanted car. I promise not to wear my robes, and I’ll try to keep the fan-girl stuff to a minimum.

When we finally sign off, I’m happy that my idea worked out. An escape to a movie is just what we need.

Riley and I have a busy day planned for Saturday, starting with manicures and pedicures first thing in the morning. From there, we’ll make a final stop at a designer resale store to find a less-expensive dress for Riley.

At first, the designer resale store looks like a waste of time. We’re getting ready to leave when I spot a dark green velvet gown hanging on the restock rack near the dressing rooms. It’s beautiful, it’s on sale, and looks to be Riley’s size.

“Ava . . . this is perfect! Keep your fingers crossed that it fits,” she says happily as she heads to the dressing room.

When she emerges from the dressing room she swivels back and forth to examine herself at various angles. “Oh my God, I love this!”

I admire her as she slowly turns. “Wow, Riley, you look gorgeous.”

She grins. “I’m calling Barney’s right now to give up the dress they’re holding. Come on, girlfriend, I’m taking you out for a really nice lunch with the money you just saved me!”

After we’re seated outside on the beautiful patio at Il Cielo on Burton Way in Beverly Hills, we order kir royales to celebrate and split a lemon pasta with shrimp and a chopped Italian salad.

I look over and see Riley twisting her napkin in her hand.

“Do you really think I look okay in that dress for tonight? I really want to make the right impression with Dylan’s parents. When we met a few weeks ago, I was worried they didn’t like me.”

I narrow my eyes as I hold up my index finger. “First of all, you look amazing in that dress. Secondly, how could his parents not like you?”

She sighs with a pout. “They just didn’t seem that friendly.”

“Give it time. A lot of parents are protective of their kids. They’ll come around.”

She bites her lip and still looks tense until the champagne from the kir royale starts to really kick in.

“So, will Dylan be wearing a tux?” I ask.

“Mmm, you know I have a thing for a man in a tux, Ava. I don’t know how I’m going to keep my hands off him.”

“Oh, I agree, there’s nothing better than a good looking man in a tux . . . especially when it’s so different from how they normally dress.”

“Can you picture
art boy
in a tux?” she asks, twirling her fork in her pasta. “Maybe next year we can get him to come.”

“We’ll see . . .” I’m distracted by the mental picture of Max in a tux. I can only imagine how that would be my undoing.

After the bill’s been paid, we wind our way out of the patio. Just before we reach the valet stand, we run into Joe, Jess and Max’s artist friend. The girl with him is very pretty. He’s got a huge grin, and he’s holding her hand like he’s won the lottery.

“Hey, Joe.”

“Hi, Ava, good to see you.” He gives me a quick hug.

“This is my girlfriend, Xio.”

I smile and then introduce Riley.

“How’s the art world treating you?”

“Pretty damn good. As a matter of fact, we’re here celebrating because I just sold my monumental painting at a great show in New York.”

“Congratulations! That’s so exciting. Do you know who bought it?”

“Yes, she actually invited me to her brownstone after it was installed. Man, what a place she has . . . I heard she comes from a family of major real estate developers or something . . . big money. Anyway, her name’s Heather Alistair. She used to be active in the New York art community before she got sick a few years back. She’s been off the radar for a while. I’m glad she’s finally doing better.”

“Alistair? Is she any relation to Jonathan Alistair, the publisher of
Art+trA
? We worked together on Max’s book.”

“Oh, yeah, I believe he’s her husband.”

What the hell . . . ?
My lunch is suddenly in my throat, and I hear my mother’s voice in my head.
Women who sleep with married men are whores.
I grab Riley’s arm to steady myself.

“Husband?” Riley asks. “Are you sure? Maybe . . . he’s her ex? He lives in L.A., after all.”

Joe shrugs. “Yeah, could be. I didn’t see any sign of him, and she never mentioned him . . . but I know they were married at one time, because I remember reading about them.”

“Was she wearing a ring?” Riley lifts her left hand and wiggles her ring finger.

“She had on a big old mother of a ring, but I’m a guy . . . I don’t remember what finger it was on.”

Xio laughs.

The blood drains from my face and the sidewalk spins.

“Riley, we’re late. We’ve got to go,” I whisper under my breath, hoping she’ll hear me.

“Okay, well it’s been great meeting you, but Ava and I are late, so we’re going to head out now.”

There’s a flurry of good-byes before I stumble to the valet stand.

No, no, no, no, no!
I feel like screaming. I imagine my eyes are bugging out like a character in a Tim Burton movie.

After we get in the car, Riley pulls away from the valet and finds a place to pull over down the street. She takes a strong authoritative stand. “Ava, calm down. You have no reason to think he’s still married. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, he lives here, he’s never mentioned her . . . don’t you think if he were still married, Max or Adam or Jess would know about it?”

I take a deep breath. Maybe she’s right. I should ask him before I have a nervous breakdown. I take my cell phone out of my bag, but Riley snatches it from my hand.

“Not yet! You need to calm down first and tell me what you’re going to say before I give you the phone.”

My stomach churns and I double over and take a series of deep breathes. I sit up and look out the passenger window as Riley speeds along.
Why in the hell is my life so complicated? Why can’t I just find a nice man to date like Riley did . . . someone who isn’t a sex-obsessed philanderer or an intense high-strung artist? I’m going to join a goddamned convent and never look at another man.

More deep breaths. I focus on finding my center, whatever the hell that means. “Okay Riley, I’m ready. Give me my phone.”

“What are you going to say?”

“That I need to talk to him. I’ll be really sweet, I promise. I don’t want to tip him off that the news is bad, because I need to see his eyes when he tells me, either way.”

Riley studies me carefully and then slowly hands me the phone.

“Okay, sweet and calm.”

My hands shake as I run my fingers over my phone to find his number. I take another breath and hit send. The call goes directly to voicemail, which doesn’t surprise me since he’s probably still on the plane to L.A. Despite my dark mood edged with hysteria, I use my sweetest, sexiest voice.

“Hi Jonathan, it’s Ava. I’m really looking forward to seeing you. Anyway, something important has come up and I’d love to hear your thoughts on it. So, if you could call me as soon as you get in, that would be great. I’ll be waiting.”

Mission accomplished.

Riley regards me with a steely resolve and nods, assuring me that if Jonathan’s played me, she’ll be right by my side ready to take the bastard down.

Chapter Eight / The Other Woman

Deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.

~ Oscar Wilde

“Y
ou said Jonathan’s on a plane, right?” Riley asks, as we drive to the salon.

“He usually takes the later flights from New York.”

“So, you probably won’t hear from him until late at best. This is a conversation you need to have in person. It’s good that you’re supposed to see him tomorrow.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have left that message.” My stomach churns with renewed vigor.

“The message didn’t give anything away. But you need to figure out a way to get your mind off it until then. As I said earlier, there’s a good chance he isn’t married, and if that’s the case, you don’t want to make yourself sick and ruin your whole evening.”

Damn,
I’d managed to push tonight’s event out of my head. It’s the last thing I want to do now. I plot ways to get out of going, but the anger sets in. Riley’s right. Why should I let this potential mess ruin my evening? I pull myself up by my bootstraps. I’m going to have a good time tonight if it’s the last thing I do. I can face the real or imagined firestorm tomorrow.