I answer the call on my phone. “Hello?”
“Hannah. It’s Isabella.” My heart lurches at the sound of her voice. “I was in the neighborhood. Could I come up for a second? I have coffee.”
“Uh—I’m sort of in the middle of something—”
“It will only take a minute,” she says, and the blood drains from my face when she adds: “The timeline got moved up. I’ll need the piece by tomorrow.”
4
Isabella stands before my painting, cup of coffee in hand. She’s leaning on one hip, eyes narrowed. I would never show a collector my unfinished work, but this is different. I know Isabella. And if she wants to see a work in progress, I have to show her. It’s my only shot at having a piece in the show.
“It’s nice,” she says, her tone flat. “But you know what? I like this one better.” She turns, and when I realize which painting she is referring to, I nearly spit out my coffee. She’s pointing to the half-finished painting from the estate sale.Ivan’spainting.
“That—that’s nowhere near done,” I stutter, stepping in front of it.
“But it looks onlyslightlyless done than the other one. Besides, it’s exquisite. The water, her expression, the emotion.” She steps around me for a better look. “This is exactly what I had in mind. It hardly needs a thing. Take tomorrow, add a bit of color, don’t go crazy. I like it as is. It is so raw, so vulnerable.”
The shock makes my head swim. I lean against the stool, trying not to crush my coffee cup. “I can’t. It’s not—”Mine, it’s notmine... but I can’t speak. I need to sit down, I need some water.
She quiets me with a wave of her hand. “It’s perfect.” Isabella claps her hands, delighted. “Excellent work, Hannah.” She turns on her stilettoed heel, and in a few long strides she’s at the door. “I know it’s a quick turnaround, but I can offer you seventy thousand dollars and a permanent spot at the gallery.” And then she’s gone.
I stare at the door, dazed. That much for an unknown artist? Forme? That’s rent for over a year, more time to paint, and the exposure that would come with being in the Hawthorne Gallery.
And yet.
That painting is not yours to sell.The words appear in my subconscious as if spoken by someone else. What am I thinking? I can’t sell Isabella another artist’s work. What if I’m caught in the lie? What if his widow comes by the gallery and sees it? What if the guilt of doing this gives me an ulcer?
No. I’ll call Isabella right now and tell her the truth. Tell her that the painting belongs to someone else. Or no, not that. She would wonder why I didn’t come clean to begin with. I’ll just tell her that although I appreciate her offer, I’ll have to pass.
I pull out my phone and call Isabella. It rings once, twice. Anxiety rises in my chest, works its way up my throat. “Hello?” she says.
I open my mouth to confess what I’ve done, but before I do, a sudden panic whips through me, and I hang up the call. I type a text to her instead,Sorry, pocket dial, and sink down to the floor, breathing hard.
Seventy thousand dollars—I need that money. I need it badly. Swallowing hard, I force the guilt down my esophagus and into my stomach. This man never showed his art to anyone. He’s dead. I’m doing him a favor by allowing people to see his art.
Right?
I take a long, slow inhale and breathe out slowly.Think.
There’s got to be a way for me to give Isabella the painting she wants while at the same time making it some combination of Ivan’s work and my own. My eyes land on the painting as a grave determination takes hold. I will not let this opportunity pass.
5
One Year Later
Lifting the skirt of my evening gown, I step out of the black car and onto the red carpet to a flurry of voices and camera flashes. “Hannah! Look this way!” I make my way toward the gallery, stopping every few feet so that the paparazzi can photograph me.
It feels strange and a bit lonely, not having a partner to walk the red carpet with, and I have to suppress the quiver of longing I have for my old life. Images interrupt my thoughts, like a montage in a movie: Christine and me putting together her IKEA furniture. Laughing when we realize that all the legs of the chair are backward.Frankenstein’s Chair, we call it, unwilling to fix it. Making espresso martinis in our kitchen. Dancing in the apartment in our wigs before a night out, heels so high that one misstep could kill us.
I blink fast and shake my head, dispelling the memories and smiling for the cameras again. That was the old me. I should be grateful for how far I’ve come.
Tonight I’m in a wine-red gown and matching lipstick, but I should have worn different shoes. The straps of my stilettos are cutting into my ankles, and I don’t think I’ll be able to last all night. They’re vintage Chanel—my first pairof designer heels—that I bought last year when I signed my contract with Isabella for ten paintings and a solo show.
Now that the day of that show has come, I’m overwhelmed with emotion. In the past month, my work has been praised in the arts section ofThe New York Timesfor its unique contemporary take on classical form and femininity. I am the hottest new artist in the city, according to some of the top art critics. I came out of nowhere, they say. There’s even an ad featuring Isabella and me in the subway.
Nervous energy ripples through me as I step into the lobby. Heads turn and guests beam at me. I give a small wave.
“Hannah, darling! There you are!” Isabella sweeps up to me and kisses me once on each cheek. She looks elegant in white this evening with long silver earrings and bold rings on every finger. It is a relief to see her—I don’t know whether any friends will be here. I look at all the unfamiliar faces in the room and feel a loneliness take hold. I’ve lost touch with most of my friends because I have been so focused on my work over the past year. Even Christine is gone most nights, preferring to stay at her boyfriend’s place in Brooklyn.
