“Y-you would?”
“Of course. You’re the only one here with any kind of style or personality, including myself,” she chuckles. It’s sort of true. She’s wearing all black: black dress, black hose, black sweater, black shoes. “Gabriel? I’m going to steal your date for a few minutes. I want to introduce her to a few of my friends. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not. Al…Lexie, I’ll be right here.”
“Okay.” I follow Pamela through the crowd growing more and more nervous. Is this the point in the night when I meet the mean girls of the octogenarian crowd? I follow her around some walls and a few pillars until we stop in front of a large group of women all ranging in age from early thirties up to about one hundred and fifty. I swear, one of the ladies is that old.
“Ladies!” Pamela shouts. “I’d like to introduce you to Gabriel Parker’s date, Lexie.”
They all turn as one like it was choreographed. When their eyes meet mine, they scan my body up and down. I feel sweat cresting my forehead on the verge of sliding down my face when one of them finally speaks, “Is that vintage Dior?” I don’t know who said it, but I nod.
“And the shoes are vintage Chanel. Isn’t she lovely?”
I see nods and hear a few of them muttering things when a woman in her mid-thirties speaks the loudest. “You’rewith Gabriel Parker?”
Oh, shite. Here we go. “Uh, um, well…”
“Yes. Isn’t it refreshing? He’s not with one of the scarecrows.” Pamela turns to me. “That’s what we call those women to which men like Gabriel always seem to gravitate. You know, stick thin, no personality, only after the money, andbiiiiiitchy.”
Several of the women titter and one literally cackles at Pamela’s words. I nod because I’ve met his ‘scarecrows’. “Well, I’m none of those things,” I say laughing nervously. “I'm certainly not stick-thin, that’s for sure.”
“You’ve got great curves, darling,” says a woman in her forties. “You’re a real woman.”
The thirty-something woman who I assumed was being judgy, steps forward, “Candace Weatherly. It’s lovely to meet you.”
I shake her hand. “You too.” One by one the ladies approach me either shaking my hand or giving me a quick hug.
One of the older ladies even whispers in my ear, “I hope he’s smart enough to hang on to you, my dear.” I’d love to tell her that this thing with us is all a hoax, but I can’t do that to Gabriel. Even though he’s a little annoying and a lot arrogant, he’s been very kind to me so far. Not to mention it’s really fun to be on the arm of someone like him even if it is fake. For just a little while I get to pretend I’m pretty enough and interesting enough to be with someone like him.
Once the group disbands, I take the opportunity to look at the artwork. I make my way to the outer edges of the gallery so I can look at the paintings hanging the walls. When I get to the first one, I gasp. It’s beautiful and huge. It’s got to be six feet tall and six feet wide. I read the label aloud, “V. Brooks.” I wonder who that is? The title of this first one is ‘Menagerie’.
I stare at the painting attempting to get the link between the title and the painting. It’s abstract. I know that from taking art in high school. It’s painted in lots of grays and deep reds, and there are what looks like strands or streaks of something metallic running throughout. I look back at the label to see if it says. “Oil and gold leaf on linen.” Huh. That sparkling stuff is gold. Now the title makes more sense.
I amble along the wall until I accidentally bump into someone. “Oh,” I squeak, “I’m so sorry.”
When the man turns around, he looks down at me and smiles, “Please don’t apologize. Let’s call it fate or kismet.”
“Kismet?”
Lifting my free hand up, he kisses it. “Yes. It was kismet that you bumped into me.”
“It was?”
“Indeed. You’re the loveliest creature here tonight.”
“I am?”
Chuckling, the man leans down close enough to whisper in my ear, “You’re fucking stunning.” Leaning back he hasn’t let go of my hand. “I’m Chip.”
“Chip?”
“Yes. What’s your name?”
I’m about to say ‘Alexia’ when I get a grip, “Lexie.”
“Are you here with someone or is this my lucky night?”
“I’m here with someone.” I don't know why he’s making me nervous, but he is. “I’m here with a date.”
