“I’ve got time,” I said. “Elliot’s done a vanishing act and I can’t do any work.”
“Oh, you can’t access the server, huh?” Ralf said sympathetically.
“Exactly,” I said. “I’ve asked Elliot to share the password countless times in case this happened and look where we are now.”
“It’s not okay,” Ralf said. “To not let you in. Sometimes people need to be let in!”
I looked at him sharply; a degree of vehemence had crept into his tone. “What’s going on?”
His smile was forced. “Nothing,” he said. Then, “Hey, you want to go to a gallery opening?”
“Like an art gallery?” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “I know the owner.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Look, you want a quintessential New York experience? Fine art, fine champagne and some of the most influential people in the city? Come on.”
“Hmm.” Ralf had a point. Although my and Ralf’s last excursion had left me wondering how his mind worked, I couldn’t deny the appeal of free champagne.
And so it was that I found myself in Soho, crowded into a room that resembled a white cube, champagne coupe in hand. Ralf had almost instantly disappeared to make a call and I’d been left to navigate the crowded room of elegantly dressed people who were ostensibly here to appreciate the art but seemed more interested in one another.
After trying unsuccessfully to catch anyone’s eye and start conversation, I decided to inspect the paintings and I shuffled my way to the nearest one. It was a long, rectangular canvas, covered in thick blobs of purple paint, with what looked like nails and bottle caps mixed in. The label told me this wasTea with Verity/ c. 2023. I stared at the piece for at least a full minute but failed to establish which bit was Verity and which bit was the tea. I sighed. I very much missed having an audio guide. I edged down to the next artwork, another big canvas, this time coated in murky green with a streak of brown across the bottom.Lest I Forget You, You’re Always Here, the neat little label next to it announced.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I muttered. If Elliot were here, he’d tell me to find the symbolism in the work, that the journey to do so was part of the experience. But what could be gleaned from a canvas of block color, and not even a nice color at that?
“I’m told it’s about the descent to the underworld,” a low voice murmured in my ear.
I turned to see an impeccably dressed woman in black, relieved to have found an interpreter. “Thanks,” I said. “I was struggling to under—”
“So, who are you here with?” the woman asked, her eyes flickering over my shirt and trousers.
“My friend,” I said. “Ralf.”
“Oh.” She took a sip of champagne. “You’re not here to buy?”
I reddened. Even if I had a few quid to rub together, it wouldn’t go on art I didn’t understand. “No, just a big fan.”
“Nice to meet you.” The woman was gone before she’d even finished the sentence.
“Thanks, I’m Lucie,” I called after her, but she was already engrossed in conversation with a man dangling a Hermès bag from the crook of his elbow.
Where was Ralf? He’d brought me to this place, promising a proper New York evening, but had promptly ditched me. Was that a New York thing to do? It didn’t feel like it. My mind wandered back to the ball game, the Met and Brekdogs. They’d all felt like proper New York experiences, except they’d all featured Elliot. I had no doubt that Elliot, for all his artistic leanings, would probably hate this place. My mind wandered to his wellbeing, yet again. Where was he? I checked my phone. Still no messages.
Ooh, canapés. A tray of mini quiches swooped by and I trailed the waiter like a lovesick puppy until he stopped in a quiet corner and I could grab a handful. I was starving and thanked him profusely.
“Cute accent,” the waiter said. “English?”
“Yup.” I said. “And I don’t know anything about art. I’m Lucie.”
“Oh, me neither,” the waiter said with a giggle. “Cal. I just do these gigs to pay the rent in between modeling jobs.”
“Seriously?” I could believe it. Cal was waifishly pretty, with cheekbones to die for and a glorious thatch of red hair.
“Uh-huh.” He sneaked a quiche, nibbled it. “This place is the worst. Everyone acts like I don’t exist, even though my face is literally on a billboard down the street.”
“Oh my God, really?”
“Nike ad,” he said with a proud smile.
“Wow, that’s impressive. See, I think I’d rather look at that than whatever all this is.” I gestured around me. “I don’t get art; my colleague Elliot tells me I’m a philistine.”
