“Your dad is intense,” I say.
“Probably just as intense as yours,” he says with a sad smile.
“That’s very true. I just didn’t... Never mind.” His family dynamic is none of my business.
“No, what?”
“I just didn’t think you would let it go that easily.” The stubborn man doesn’t back down from a fight over art with me.
Gavin works his jaw. “It’s easier this way. It’s fine.”
“But you were so excited about it. Why didn’t you fight for it?” I can’t help digging into the newest facet of Gavin.
“It’s no use arguing with Dad. He’s stubborn and he’ll do a great job with the cars.”
I shrug. It’s really not my business if he doesn’t want to rock the boat with his father. For all the time Dad tries to take shows away from me, I push back. Otherwise I would never get to do any shows. I could probably push more, but I know it’s scary to go up against such strong figures. If Gavin doesn’t want to because it’s too much work, well, that’s not entirely surprising from the charming playboy.
The rest of the night is surprisingly enjoyable, considering how it started. When Gavin goes to use the bathroom, I slip over to the other side of the table and slide Gina my card, giving her the elevator pitch about myFemale Gazeshow, and how I think we’ll have some pieces she might like.
She agrees to stop by the exhibition, and if she likes it, she’ll come to the sale and bring all her richest friends with her. And a few of the other people around the table express interest and take my card too. So the night’s not a total bust for me.
After dinner there’s a charity auction, led by a very amateur auctioneer.
“He’s leaving money on the table! He could get another fifty thousand from that elderly couple in the back, hands down!” I whisper frantically at Gavin, leaning closer so people don’t know I’m talking shit at a charity event. They could have at least asked a real auctioneer to donate their time.
“I know,” Gavin says in an equally befuddled voice. “And when he called that pop art piece by Richard Hamilton a painting by Andy Warhol, I died inside.” He grabs my arm and gives it a shake to emphasize the enormity of the mistake.
We watch for a little longer. Gavin’s hand stays where it is, his thumb rubbing slow circles on my arm. My first instinct is to slap his hand away, but the soothing movements combined with the heat I feel whenever we make contact feels kind of nice, so I let it stay there.
“He looks so afraid,” I say.
“Public speaking is an acquired skill.” Gavin winces in sympathy. We’ve both suffered through an auctioneer’s first time, both our own and the first times of the employees we train and mentor. But it doesn’t get easier to watch.
“And he’s losing the crowd.” The din of side conversations gets louder and louder as the audience decides the entertainment on the stage isn’t worth their attention.
“Please make it stop. It’s too painful,” I say when the auctioneer starts the bidding of an intricate, limited edition Rolex at $250.
“Someone needs to do something.” Gavin turns his face away from the stage, hiding it behind my shoulder. I can feel his breath tingle the bare skin of my back and I shudder a little, wondering when we got so comfortable with all the touching.
But not telling him to stop.
“We need to do something,” I say.
“What do you mean?” His eyes follow me as I rise from my seat.
“It’s for charity.” I grab his arm and urge him up. His eyebrows are drawn low over his eyes in confusion, but he follows me without question.
I run into one of the event organizers at the bottom of the stairs leading to the stage.
“What do you guys need?” the harried employee asks me. Her hair is coming down from her bun, and her tie is askew. She’s clutching a clipboard and looking morosely at the event unfolding in front of her, knowing it’s not going as well as it could.
“The main lady...oh god, I forgot her name. Big personality, slight smell of alcohol wafting around her, great shoes. Anyway, she asked us to help by taking over. We’re auctioneers. Professionals.” I indicate me and Gavin.
Behind me, Gavin is so close that I can feel him shake in laughter at the lie.
“She never tells us anything,” the overworked employee says, but waves us on.
I creep onto the stage and tap the man on the shoulder before he can sell the Rolex for $1,000. I whisper that we’re the reinforcements and we’re taking over the rest of the show. He throws the microphone at me so fast it almost hits me straight in the face, but I catch it at the last second.
