Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“Exactly.” She says it like she’s been desperately wanting someone to make that observation all night. “By the way, thanks for coming. I saw your name on the VIP list and remembered our brief conversation at MoMA. I thought of it when I was curating our part of the exhibit.”
“You did?” I can’t quite believe I made that much of an impression on her.
“I wanted an installment that attendees would experience. I wanted them to see the letters, read the letters, but also feel them. That’s why I sometimes say a sculpture is a sculpture and art is art. Because it’s about a feeling art elicits more than anything.”
I’m the same way, and I feel bubbly, a little excited over our shared connection. “That’s so nouveau. So formalist,” I tease.
She faux gasps. “I’ve got a formalist in me,” she says. “Don’t tell a soul.”
Then I latch back onto what she just said. “You said your part of the exhibit. Is there more to this?”
“Yes. We’re partnering with two other galleries. Bettencourt tomorrow night. Ashanti the night after. They both have letters. Each one hits a different theme.”
“Like a pub crawl for art. And your theme is longing?” I ask.
Her bright brown eyes spark with awareness. “It is,” she says, then nods toward her husband and Bridger. “He’s trying to woo my husband, isn’t he?”
For a split second, I’m tempted to say how would I know?
But that’s a defensive stance. She’s not asking if we’re having a thing—are we? Are we having a thing? God, I hope so—so I swallow the reaction.
Then I consider her question carefully before I ask, “Don’t most people in the entertainment business want to woo your husband?”
“That is true.” She sighs, a little resigned. “Most fail.”
“I hope Bridger doesn’t,” I say, since that’s a reasonable thing for me to want as a Lucky 21 intern.
“I suspected that since you came with him,” she says.
“We work together,” I add, not quickly, not defensively. Just proving my point. We are nothing in public. “At Lucky 21.”
“What do you think he has to offer my husband then?”
I definitely didn’t think she’d be quizzing me about Bridger, but the answer rolls easily off my tongue. “He’s tireless. He’s driven. He’s passionate. And he understands what your husband wants to accomplish with his stories. He wants to make people laugh.” Then, what the hell. I go for it. “And he wants to surprise them with an unexpected love story,” I add, taking a little liberty there, but I’m pretty sure I’m right based on how David dotes on his wife.
Allison smiles, impressed. “Good to know,” she says as the curator from MoMA arrives by her side, this time with her braids curled at the ends.
“We meet again,” Amelie says to me, playfully, in French.
“We sure do,” I say, answering in the same language.
“And what do you think of the exhibit? Does it have enough theory for you?” There’s a wink in her tone. A reference to our past conversation in the sculpture gardens.
“Or perhaps never enough,” I volley back, then with a nod toward the black-and-white shot of a woman on a bridge, I say, “Black-and-white is a clever choice. It’s like the photographic complement for the letters.”
The curve in her lips says she’s pleased with that observation. “Yes, a perfect pair. Wine and fruit.”
“Olives and cheese,” I toss back, then the three of us chat for another minute about the installation until a man strides up behind Amelie, dressed in black, and he whispers in her ear.
“Of course, Serge,” she says to him, then to me, “There’s someone I need to talk to. Allison, come with me.”
We say goodbye and they take off, two power women in the art world, making deals perhaps presiding over feelings. As I make my way to check out more letters, I spot Bridger shaking David’s hand. David flashes a small smile at him, then spins around, smiling bigger when he sees his wife. He beelines for her. Bridger strides across the gallery to me.
“Thank you,” he says, soft, just for me.
“I don’t think I did anything.”
He shakes his head adamantly. “You did everything. You unlocked the door. Hell, you kicked it open with a steel-toed boot.”
Well, I won’t turn down the compliment. “And, tiger?”
Bridger dips his face, then raises it, like he’s trying valiantly to erase the evidence of how tiger makes him feel.
Pretty damn good, by the looks of it.
I glow.
“I made some inroads,” he says. “He likes the idea of the columns and how I suggested structuring them in a story. But there’s something getting in the way for him. I don’t know what. But I can sense something stopping him from a yes.”
“Any idea what it is?”
“No. But I told him I’d do everything to make our show the biggest hit in the world.”