Until then, I had work to do. Exhaling, I reached for the laptop’s mouse. That inventory wasn’t going anywhere.
Two hours later, I realized how sore my eyes felt from staring at the screen. I stood up to stretch, when my phone pinged with a new email. The sender’s name made me pause: Narcissus Gallery.
My heart skipped. “Yeah, right,” I whispered, a mix of disbelief and intrigue tightening my chest.
As if one of the biggest art galleries in New York would email me. I hovered over the trash icon, ready to mark it as spam, until boredom got the better of me. On a whim, I tapped it open.
The email looked surprisingly legit. No ‘Hello dear’ or ‘Urgent business!!!’ or ‘You won the big prize!!!’
The subject line simply read:Business Opportunity. The sender address looked authentic too.
I read on.
Dear Ms. Nielsen,
My name is Malcom Heffner, and I am a curator at Narcissus Gallery. I recently came across your online portfolio and was thoroughly impressed. After consulting with my colleagues, we would like to extend an opportunity you may not be aware of.
In support of emerging artists, the gallery is organizing a series of exhibits over the next six months, featuring work exclusively from up-and-coming talent like yourself. Artists may choose their own theme, though each submission will be reviewed by our curation team.
Would you be interested in participating? You would receive a one-week solo exhibit, along with a full promotional campaign created by the gallery.
If you’re interested, please contact us to discuss the details.
Regards,
Malcom Heffner
“Holy shit.” I blinked, rereading it. Then sat down and pulled it up on my laptop. I needed a bigger screen to search for the catch.
There had to be a catch.
Could my ad campaign have worked this fast? I’d nearly forgotten about it. I’d targeted every gallery in the city and picked my best pieces for the showcase. Mr. Yamaguchi—retired marketing whiz from 2D—had helped me write compelling copy, and he was worth every bag of wasabi peas I’d bribed him with. Plus, gossiping about Sebastian’s revolving door of dates had been part of the fun.
So maybe someone had seen it.
I Googled the gallery. Then the curator. There he was—Malcom Heffner, Narcissus Gallery curator, LinkedIn verified and everything. I found a direct contact for him and typed a polite email asking if the offer was real.
Then I hit Send, spun in my chair, and squeezed my eyes shut. If this was legit—and if I landed the commission from Ben too—this could be huge. But I’d learned not to count myexhibitions before they were hung. Optimist or not, I was also a realist with a PhD in dashed hopes.
A new email pinged. My heart stuttered as I clicked.
Dear Ms. Nielsen,
I completely understand your need to verify. We artists are more aware of forgeries than most.?
I assure you, the email is genuine. If you’re interested, please feel free to contact me at my personal number to arrange a meeting at the gallery.
He signed it the same as before, and included his direct number.
I let out a whoop loud enough to scare off a customer halfway through the door. Screw it. I was going to have a solo frigging exhibit in a frigging famous gallery!
Chapter Nine
Jesse
I was walking on air as I locked the door to the shop and headed to the subway station. I’d called Malcom Heffner and we’d agreed to meet at 6:30 at the gallery. Everything still felt surreal. I tried to tame my excitement, but my face was stuck in a permanent smile. Probably why I got propositioned by several people, including a homeless guy in an Armani T-shirt, and the girl from the food truck where I’d stopped to grab a hotdog.
I ate on the subway, squashed between two old ladies who leaned over me to talk about their friend’s hip surgery—in gory, graphic detail. It was their own fault if they found ketchup all over their hair and clothes when they got home.
