No way.Surely notthePatricia Yang.“Are you serious?She’s been one of my inspirations for years.”And yet, on Jean-Michel’s phone, I was staring at her very familiar FotoBom page, and saw that she followed him.If he was connected to the person who launched Patricia Yang’s career ...“Wait.What are you saying?”
Jean-Michel swiped a champagne flute and took a dainty sip before lending me a charming smile.“I am saying, my American friend, that I owe Ichika a favor, and I should like to introduce her to you and your work.”
I coughed, like I was choking on the desserts I was still dying to eat.“What?!You’re kidding— All I shoot are horses and occasionally nature scenes.”I thought of Skyler, how easy it was to capture his earnest, youthful essence on camera.“I only just started experimenting with human subjects.And Patricia Yang, her photography is ...”Rich, varied, way more technically proficient than mine...“Thought-provoking, profound.Nothing like what I do.”
“Perhaps you are not giving yourself enough credit.You would not be the first artist whose potential I could spot from a mile away.”Jean-Michel’s eyes fell to theSurrogate Gooseanniversary flyers accordioned across the end of the bar.
The pieces started coming together.“Wait, were you one of Armand’s art teachers?”I’d already spoken to a handful of Armand’s mentors, but it was a thrill every time to get a fresh perspective on what Armand was like when he was young.
Jean-Michel smiled coyly.“I taught him everything he knows.”He gestured to the crowd, to the physical manifestation of Armand’s talent, hard work, and utterly absurdist art.“And look at what has come of it.”
“What was he like?”I wasdyingfor gossip.“Was he a good student?Did you help withSurrogate Goose?”
Jean-Michel opened his mouth, then simply ran his hand through his hair.“I would not wish to discuss Armand’s past without his consent, or bother him on the biggest night of his career, so far.But he is an open book; I have no doubt he will tell you himself.”He slipped his fingers under his jacket lapel and pulled out a business card.“Do let me know if you decide to stay longer.I’d be very happy to meet for lunch to discuss the future of your own art.”
Illuminated only by the multicolored strobe lights, his card bore his name in fancy gold calligraphy and a phone number below it.Nothing else.“Okay.Wow.Thank you, really.It means a lot to have someone take an interest in my work.”
Jean-Michel smiled, then dipped into a distinguished bow.“Lovely to meet you, Lucas.Look after our boy.”
“I will.”
He politely discarded his champagne flute with a passing waiter and disappeared between dancers.
Armand Dances Through Strife
October 1
45 Days Sober
I wobbled past what appeared to be every booze-bearing server hired for the event, past the long queue to the toilets, and into the mercifully empty employee’s-only bog attached to Hettie’s back office.I locked the door behind me and turned on the sink, watching the water pool, marbled with soap scum.Circles and spirals spreading into amoebas and flowers until there was nothing left, and the water ran clear.
Slowly, I heard the music again.The thumping of the beat.The soft roar of a crowd shouting their cocktail conversation over it.I could feel my hands now, chilly and full of pinpricks, and I could even look at myself in the mirror.
I lookedrank.
Sallow, the skin under my eyes and in the hollows of my cheeks gray, damp hair clinging to a damper forehead, shiny with flop sweat.Good thing this wasn’t the most photographed day of my entire life, eh?I washed my face and forced my shoulders back.I wasn’t going to have a drink.I wasn’t going to curl up and die.I wasn’t going to ring Karim.
I was going to—
Someone knocked on the door.
My throat produced a horrible, choked sound, and I nearly fell over.
“Demetrio, you in there?”Lakshmi pounded on the door like the police.“Do you need help, pet?”
God.I was such a massive twat.“No,” I groaned, “I’m fine.Sorry, sorry.Be out in a mo.”
“All right.”She paused for a second, then grumbled in her harshest and therefore most caring voice, “I can take you out the backway and have Lucas meet you at the car—”
“I’m fine, Lakshmi.Honest.”I swallowed.“You couldn’t round me up a Fanta, could you?”
“Give me another fifteen percent, and we’ll talk.”
I laughed.“You’re a good egg, Ranjit.”
“And you.”She banged the door one more time, followed by the receding click of her heels.I washed my face again, glad as ever that I’d worn black to hide the pit-stains, and promised myself a meeting in the morning.
Do it anyway, Demetrio.
