“Oh, sure,” I say, kicking myself. I wasn’t anticipating company.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” he promises, setting up the easel and stool so his back is to the window. “I like it to be quiet when I work.”
“Great,” I mutter, watching him go to retrieve a large canvasand a pencil case. I try to nudge the desktop out of his eyeline so I can work in peace. He returns and tacks a small Polaroid to the top of the canvas, selecting a pencil before glancing in my direction.
“My grandfather,” he says, pointing to the photo. “He likedart.”
“I can’t wait to see the end result,” I say, forcing a smile. There’s something intimidating about Ford. Maybe it’s his slightly haughty way of speaking, but he makes me uncomfortable, like I’m constantly in danger of saying something he will think is stupid.
He doesn’t respond.
I turn my attention back to a list of references at the bottom of the article. Some are book titles, but there are a couple of links, and I click on a promising one called “the crimes.” It takes me to an old New York newspaper archive. There’s a brief introductory paragraph about BBK and then a list of jpeg links. The website looks old and I briefly wonder whether the links are legit, but it’s not my computer, so I decide to risk it, ready to pull the plug and pretend I never touched it should the link spawn a virus. I click the top one and let out a breath when the scanned image of an old newspaper article appears. It takes a minute, but once it clears I expand it to full screen. Columns of tiny writing are crammed around a central sketch, which isn’t much more than a line drawing. I can make out a figure in an old-fashioned dress. It seems to be a woman and she’s slumped in a chair, but the sketch is so loose there are no defining features. I close theimage and I’m about to navigate to the second when movement catches my eye.
“Room for a little one?” Izzy beams, dropping a large skein of red wool on the desk. “What’s he doing here?” she mouths, tipping her head toward Ford. I just shrug, so she wanders over to him and starts yammering. Subtle as a sledgehammer, that girl. I leave them to it and open the next image, but it’s very similar to the first one, another loose-lined pencil sketch of a woman in a chair, though this outfit is a little grander. I click the print icon, thinking it might be better to see them all lined up on paper. The computer seems to be connected to something, but there’s no printer nearby, so I repeat the process with each of the images and push myself off the stool to go looking for them.
I approach the front of the room, where Ramona’s desk is. She’s not there, but there is a printer and I can see a sheaf of papers in the tray. My images are on the top, so I collect them, then take a second to have a peek at what everyone else is doing. A couple of people have easels set up, like Ford, but most are working at desks and there’s a steady thumping noise as one girl repeatedly drops a block of clay onto a wooden board. I spot Noah cleaning a lens, his camera in pieces. His hair is swept to one side and he has a look of concentration on his face that I can’t help but find adorable. God, Fliss. I take a step toward him, unsure what I’m even going to say, when a hand rests lightly on my shoulder. My heart races as I whip around, forcing Scarlett’s hand to drop.
“Fliss! I’m sorry, did I startle you?” she asks, her eyes wide.She’s wearing a long, kimono-style jacket over a navy top and denim shorts today, her hair loose as usual.
“It’s okay,” I say automatically, even though my adrenaline is spiking. “I was just distracted, that’s all.”
“I didn’t think you or Izzy would be here,” she says quietly. I quickly change the subject.
“Wanted to start my project,” I say, holding up the printouts without letting her see them. “Have you started yours yet?”
“Yes!” She grins. “You want to see?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, so I follow her to a desk holding an array of beauty products. “It’s part installation and part performance art.I’m going to spread out lots of makeup and hair products, then invite the audience to apply them to me, to do whatever they think will make me look pretty.”
“You are?” I ask, intrigued. The thought of allowing strangers to apply makeup to my face is so weirdly intimate. “What if you don’t like it? Won’t it make you uncomfortable?”
“I’m sure it will.” Scarlett shrugs. “But that’s part of it. It’s all about exploring the beauty standards that women are expected to uphold. I might let them take photographs, too. I’m not sure yet. I’m calling itBeholder.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” I admit. I can’t help but be impressed—there’s something so brave about it. “It sounds great, Scarlett.”
“Thanks!” she chirps. “I just need to figure out how I want to set up the space.” She looks at the papers I’m still holding. “What about you? Journalism stuff?”
“Kind of. I’m researching that painting from the gallery.”
“Oh?” she says, but she’s started to fiddle with an eye shadow palette and I can tell she’s not really interested. “That’s cool.”
“I better get back to it. See you later.” I say, excusing myself. She smiles and I look for Noah but he’s busy with Ramona now, so I head back to my desk. Izzy is still sitting with Ford, but she has started to unravel the wool, so she at least looks like she’s doing something. I shove the printouts into my notebook and glance over at Ford, who is frowning as he draws dramatic, swooping pencil lines. It reminds me that all this research on BBK won’t get me anywhere if I can’t connect him back to the paintings, and I know what I need to do next.
I need to find out if there are any records of the artist who painted The Four.
FOURTEEN
Despite my good intentions, theinternet connection failed almost immediately, so I didn’t get much further in my research. Instead I spent half an hour trying to reconnect to the Wi-Fi. Ford moved his easel and Izzy not-so-subtly followed him, so I turned my back to the room and I’ve been flicking through magazines and staring out the window for the last ten minutes.
“So, what’s the vision here?” I turn to see Noah hovering, looking over my shoulder at a selection of colorful toys that were definitely not made for children. I slam the magazine shut. Damn you,Cosmo.
“I wasn’t…I mean…” My face is on fire, and I can’t get the right words out, which makes me look even guiltier. Noah smirks and plays with the lens of the camera draped round his neck. “I was thinking of making a…collage,” I finish weakly.
“Sure you were.” There’s humor in his voice, but he’s not making eye contact, and I can tell he’s regretting saying anything. Good. At least I’m not the only one who feels awkward now.
“Computer’s acting up.” I change the subject. “It’s older than Ramona.”
“Hey, leave Ramona out of this,” Noah jokes as he sits down on a tall stool. I study him for a second. I haven’t quite grasped his personality yet, but the thought that he might be flirting flits through my mind. I push it away. Wishful thinking, Fliss. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be in today.”
“Oh, Izzy made me,” I joke back, pointing to where she’s wrapping the bright red wool around a wooden frame. She’s set up her loom next to Ford, and he is sitting in front of his easel with the posture of a man awaiting sentencing. The canvas in front of him looks blank and I wonder if he erased all the work he did before.
