Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“You didn’t address what I said—”
“Because it’s fucking ridiculous. And insulting.” He turned away again. “I’m going to bed, Astrid. We can pick up this pointless conversation in the morning if you really want.” He moved to the stairs, walked to the next floor, and disappeared.
I stayed on the couch and felt my eyes water with tears I refused to release.
The next morning, we barely talked about what had happened the night before. He apologized, but it was obvious he only did it to make the conversation go away. Nothing had been fixed, exactly as he wanted. He spent the day with me, but the air between us was tense and not the least bit enjoyable.
I went to work the following day at the gallery where I worked. Once I’d finished school, I’d taken a few art classes because I wanted to be an artist. But that dream had never panned out, so I sold art rather than made my own.
My husband was a very rich man so I could stay home all day or go shopping, but since he wasn’t around often, I got lonely sitting in that big villa by myself. Florence was one of the most romantic cities on earth, but it didn’t feel romantic walking the streets alone or eating lunch in a café with no one to talk to.
It was nice to be around art, to have clients who appreciated the work of the artists we represented. Some of our paintings could be ten thousand euros—or a hundred thousand euros. We also had a lot of clients who didn’t give a shit about art but needed it on their walls to look rich or pretentious.
When I was home, I worked on my own art but never deemed it good enough to show anyone. My husband never asked about my work, so I didn’t have to hide my canvases. They stayed in my art room, a room he never entered.
My boss told me we had a new client who needed his drawing room to be touched up with artwork, so it was my job to visit the house, take all the measurements, and absorb the ambiance of the room and what would complement it. I was an art dealer, but I was also a bit of a decorator too, a job with many responsibilities.
I drove to the address, a building that was distinct and separate from the others in the heart of the city. Iron gates blocked the entrance, and Gothic statues guarded the outside, which seemed odd, considering this city had flourished during the Renaissance. After I parked my car, I tried to enter through the gate, but it was locked. I noticed the speaker and the keypad there, so I pressed the button and spoke into the intercom. “Um, hi. This is Astrid. I’m from Hemlington Art Gallery.”
A buzzer beeped, and the gate was unlocked.
I let myself inside and approached the enormous double doors, black like obsidian against the stone wall.
The doors opened before I could knock, and I was greeted by a man in a collared shirt. “Hello, Astrid. I’m George.”
I remembered him from the email. “Yes, it’s nice to meet you.”
He shook my hand then escorted me inside. The foyer of the house was beautiful, two staircases in the back, dark and masculine tones everywhere. It was very clear that a bachelor lived here all by himself.
“Let me show you the space.” George escorted me to one side of the villa, and we entered a grand study with a large fireplace, a mahogany desk, and a sitting area positioned on top of a rug. It was well decorated, but the walls were bare. “The owner of the house has been here for years but never got around to selecting his artwork. He’s a very busy man.”
I’d already sized up the room, realizing the potential of the space. “It’s a lovely room.”
“Yes, I agree.”
I took a look around, examined the open walls and took measurements, trying to decide how the layout should be. I sat down on the couch and took notes.
George continued to stand there, as if I might steal something if he left me alone.
“I have some ideas,” I said. “Do you have any idea what kind of artwork the owner likes or…?”
“He’s not picky. Just something to fit the space.”
“I would hate to put in all this work without having some idea of what he likes.” Some of my clients like paintings of naked women exclusively, some preferred floral arrangements and landscapes, and others wanted specific types of art, either religious or evocative. “Does he like images of historical significance? Does he like landscapes? Does he like portraits of people? If we could just narrow it down, that would be helpful. If this is his study, then it’s his domain, and he needs to enjoy the art in his space.”