The galleries are hung with bold, splashy contemporary pieces—huge canvases in neon pinks and acid yellows, sculptures that belong on another planet.
Waiters in black jackets circulate with silver trays, balancing delicate flutes of champagne and canapés so beautiful that I’m not sure if I’m supposed to eat them or admire them. Smoked salmon on blini no larger than a coin, foie gras mousse in pastry shells, and radishes hollowed out and filled with goat cheese. They’re works of art!
It’s a far cry from the dusty pastel I spend my days coaxing back to life. I feel as if I have stepped into anEmily in Parismontage, except I don’t have a wardrobe budget, courtesy of Netflix.
“Stop looking like a deer in headlights.” Cece loops her arm through mine. “You belong here.”
I have confessed to her and Jean that I feel out of place at such events, and maybe that’s why they’ve made it their mission to take me to enough so that familiarity can breed comfort.
I smile vaguely at her and am spared another pep talk when Jean—who’s been chatting with a family friend poured into a custom Gucci dress that reveals far more than it hides—returns to us, his face alight like he’s unearthed gossip gold.
I’ve learned that my colleagues love to gossip about the rich and famous as much as they do about art acquisitions and artists.
“Rumor is that Gustave de Valois will be bidding on the main attraction tonight.”
My ribs tighten, a vice closing around my lungs at the sound of his name.
“Not the Cimabue,” Cece gasps.
Jean nods eagerly. “Apparently, he has a thing for good old Giovanni.”
“Probably because they’re both arrogant,” Cece quips, earning a knowing laugh from Jean.
Giovanni Cimabue, the Florentine painter of the thirteenth century, was infamous for his inability to accept criticism—even his own. If he spotted a singleflaw in a painting, no matter how exquisite, he’d destroy it without hesitation.
My eyes find Gustave then, and I want to tell them they’re wrong. The Gustave I know isn’t arrogant. He has grace. He has humility. He apologized—a man like Cimabue never would have.
Delicious in a dark suit cut to perfection, he stands near the stage where the auctioneer is warming up the crowd. His posture is regal…very Count-like, as if the entire room exists to frame him.
He’s flanked by men in suits equally tailored and bespoke, and women glittering with jewels.
He looks entirely at home—every inch the aristocrat who makes me feel plebeian.
I see movement next to him, and I take a long, deep breath, hoping it will restore my equanimity.
Because Gustave is not alone.
As if fate hasn’t tortured me enough, Simone glides into view. She is a tall, sleek figure in a column of burgundy satin, her hair swept into an updo that probably required a couple of hours of professional work.
She greets people with air-kisses before she drifts toward Gustave, touching his arm like she has every right to.
I am suddenlyveryaware of the thrift-store zipper at the back of my dress.
I down half my champagne in one gulp.
“Oh, and look, Phillipe Badeaux is here.” Cece is on tiptoes.
“He’s one of de Valois’s friends,” Jean tells me, and points discreetly to a good-looking blond man who’s talking to both Gustave and Simone.
They’re all laughing.
There’s a woman, slim and dressed in a black outfit that reminds me of Elizabeth Hurley’s vintage safety-pin dress, standing next to him. She’s focused on her phone. She looks familiar.
“That’s Sigrid Montagne,” Jean whispers, his eyes on the celebrities. “Model. Works a lot with Givenchy.”
Right. I may have seen her on a billboard or two.
It’s incongruous to be here with all thesefancypeople. This is definitely not my world. But it’s okay to be a guest, isn’t it? Maybe I can pretend I’m conducting a sociological study:An Ethnographic Examination of Behavioral Contrasts Between the Fondation Louis Vuitton Gala Set and the Residents of Boyle Heights.
