Chapter Six - Chella
Matisse is late. Two. Hours. Late. Oh, all his packages arrive at ten AM, right on time. The whole truck full of art valued at more than fifty million dollars is in the back docking bay. Idle.
Because we are not allowed to unload until he gets here.
I try to remain calm, but I’m picturing just how late we’ll have to stay to get it all out and into the basement where we pre-stage it before transporting it upstairs on the freight elevator.
Usually we do this in one day. But I can’t see it happening.
I sigh.
Unless we all stay here until midnight, pushing through.
Maybe it’s a good thing. Tomorrow is my day off. I will get home, drop from exhaustion, and then if I’m lucky, I can sleep away half the day.
The building rumbles and I get to my feet, straighten my jacket and jump down the stairs that lead to the showroom down below, heels in hand.
The rumbling is the freight elevator being called downstairs. When I’m at the bottom of the stairs I stop, hopping as I try to slip each foot in each shoe, and then take a deep breath and collect myself.
I whoosh through the door that leads to the back office and smack right into the hard body of a man. He catches me before I fall, holding on to my upper arms with a steadying grip, and laughs.
“What the f—” It’s Smith Baldwin. I look around nervously, but my staff is too busy with the delivery—and Matisse, who has finally showed up—to be paying any attention to me. I take my attention back to Smith and whisper through clenched teeth. “What the hell are you doing here? You need to leave. This is my job.”
Smith smiles a smile that says he has all the answers, trust him. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a light gray tie. His broad shoulders make the line of the suit taper down to his hips.
I don’t know very much about Smith Baldwin, but I do know he’s weird. I think everyone can agree on that. The man never went to school, and yet he has honorary degrees from seven institutions. Not just colleges, either. Elementary schools gave him a diploma. Do elementary schools have diplomas? I guess in the world of elite boarding schools, this might be the case. His high-school diploma is the same way. Never earned, only honorary. And just from the casual research I did on him at Rochelle’s insistence, I know he has three graduate degrees. One of them is from the Wharton School of Business.
Does he even have a job? Smith was not the reason I agreed to Rochelle’s plan. I barely looked into his past at all. So, I don’t know. But I think he ticks the box with the word unemployed on his census surveys.
He is rich. But he is also beyond rich. I’m rich. My father is rich. Elias Bricman and Quin Foster are also loaded with more money than they can probably ever spend.
But Smith Baldwin is disgustingly, excessively wealthy.
“I’m here with Matisse,” Smith says. He waves a hand over his shoulder to indicate the internationally famous recluse of an artist. “We’re practically best friends.”
I can only blink. Three times in quick succession.
Is he fucking with me?
No, apparently not. Because Matisse is calling his name from across the office. He’s at the gallery’s professional version of a coffee machine, trying to make it work. “Help me with this, Smith,” Matisse calls.
I realize Smith is still gripping my upper arms, so I break away and walk over to the artist, who is concentrating very hard on trying to make the machine spit him out some coffee. “Hi,” I say, startling him.
He whirls around and backs up. Except he can’t back up, there’s a granite countertop there. So instead he is forced to lean back at the waist, like I’m some kind of disease he needs to be as far away from as possible.
“Sorry,” I say in a calm voice. “I’m Marcella Walcott. I’m the Benton Gallery manager. I’m here to make sure everything goes off without a hitch.” He says nothing, so I keep going. “We’re going to unload in the basement, map everything out while it’s still in crates, and then we’ll unpack and deliver each piece up here, in the gallery, using the freight elevator. We’ll do that last part tomorrow.”
He says nothing.
“If that’s OK?” I add. “If you’re prefer it done another way, I’m happy—”
“No, no,” Matisse says, finally leaning forward again, relaxing. “Do it your way. I don’t want to interfere. Just don’t scratch anything.”
“Right,” I say, letting out a long breath with my word. “We won’t. I promise. We’ll take very good care of your sculptures, Mr. Matisse.”
“Just Matisse,” he says, taking my hand and squeezing lightly. “Just call me Matisse, tell me how to work this stupid machine so I can get a cup of coffee in me, and we’ll be just fine.”
I do that and when I’m done, Smith has disappeared. But I have a job to do, and so I take the stairs down to the loading dock and get to it.
The rest of the day is nothing but standing over my crew, worrying like a schoolmarm about the bronze sculptures we’re unloading. I try not to hover because the dock manager, Kathryn, has it all under control—she’s been working here longer than I have—but I don’t entirely succeed.
Matisse is in and out over the course of the day. I have a feeling he’s doing his best not to hover as well.
Smith hangs out, leaves, comes back, leaves. I try to ignore him but I have to wonder what exactly I got myself into last night.
He took me home, so he knows where I live. And then he shows up here, pretending he’s only interested in Rochelle because of Quin. Please. But this second appearance has me rattled. I guess he really is a long-time friend of Matisse. And I can see it, now that I’ve had a chance to meet the artist. They are a lot alike. Both of them are weird.
At some point in the late afternoon they disappear for lunch, but my assistant, Michell, has sandwiches brought in from a restaurant across the mall and we all stop to eat and talk about what a great show this will be.
It’s called Backstage. And when we are done with the installation, the entire gallery will look like the backstage of a ballet theatre. There are seventeen life-size bronze sculptures of ballerinas. Eight women, four men, and five children. Plus life-size sculptures of the stage hands and everything else that goes on behind the scenes.
This Thursday night will be one of the biggest nights this gallery has ever seen. And it’s going to run for three months, so actually, the Charles Benton gallery might never be the same after Matisse leaves his mark on Denver.
We are going to sell every single piece. I know it. I’ve had my eye on two of the children for months. They are laughing, their expressions frozen in happy excitement.
I’m going to put them out on my back courtyard.
Matisse leaves around ten PM, convinced that we know what we are doing, and then says he’ll be back in the morning to help with installation. He has seven crews coming in tomorrow morning to get things set up. Charles always handles the actual installations, which is why I have these two days off each week. But maybe I could just pop by?
It would be better than sitting around at home, at least.
It’s well after midnight when we get the final crate down into the pre-stage area. My shoes disappeared hours ago. I don’t even know where they are at the moment. My assistant, Michell, left around seven, but Kathryn is still here. We both slump onto a couch in the employee lounge, beat.
“I want to sleep right here,” Kathryn says, pulling her feet up and leaning into the tufted sidearm of the couch. She pulls her hands under her cheek and closes her eyes.
“Me too. You can come in late tomorrow,” I say.
“Fuck that.” She laughs softly, eyes still closed. “I’m not missing a moment of this.”
I smile. “Yeah, I was thinking of coming in tomorrow too. It’s kind of a big deal, right?”
“So big,” she mumbles.
“Hey,” I say, slapping her leg. “You have a ride home? I don’t think you should drive when you’re so tired.”
Her phone buzzes just as the words come out. “That’s my chariot now. Jason is picking me up.” She reluctantly pulls herself into a sitting position and then stands, her hands on her lower back as she stretches, then beams a smile down at me. “It was a great day, Chella. We’re gonna rock this shit on Friday.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, watching her gather up her things and head towards the back door. “We just might do that.”
When she’s gone, I sit there for a few more minutes, thinking about how life has changed in the past two days.
I got fucked by Quin Foster. Smith Baldwin drove me home last night. And I had more than a dozen work-related conversations with Matisse today.
I go looking for my shoes, which are on the stairs leading up to my loft office in the gallery, and I’m just putting them on when I startle from a knock at the front door.
There are two men out there. My heart skips a beat, wondering if they will try to break in, but when I look closer, I realize it’s Matisse and Smith. “What the hell?” I find my keys in my jacket pocket as I walk over to the door, then unlock it and open it up. “What are you guys doing?”
“Would you like to have dinner with us?” Matisse asks. “I don’t think you ate, did you?”
“No,” I say, hesitantly. “I was just about to go home. I don’t think anything is open right now.”
“I know a place,” Smith says.
I stare at him, knowing what he means, but not quite understanding what he’s after.
“Come on,” Matisse says. “We’ve got a car right over there.” He points across the mall to the dead-end street corner where vehicular traffic is allowed. “And we’ve got a table. They’re expecting three.”
“I’ve got my car,” I say, stunned at the midnight offer.
“We’ll bring you back to your car,” Smith says. “When we’re done.”
“I’ve got to lock up,” I say.
“We’ll wait out here,” Matisse says, motioning to the steps leading up to the front door.
I think about it for a second. It’s not exactly what Rochelle planned. Or what I agreed to. But it’s damn close. “OK,” I say. “Give me five minutes to shut things down and I’ll be right back.”
They both smile. They smile like wolves.
I’m silent as I sit between them during the five-minute ride over to Turning Point Club, but Matisse and Smith chat about old times. Parties, and women, and drinking, and money.
Very, very typical.
When we pull up in front, Smith gets out first, then holds out his hand, helping me step out. Matisse gets out on the other side and meets us at the door. There is a flurry of activity when Smith approaches the maitre d', and then he leans into his ear and says, “In the bar, near the window.”
The maitre d' nods and says, “Right this way, Mr. Baldwin.”
Smith follows the man, I follow Smith, and Matisse is right behind me. But when we get to the booth, Smith doesn’t sit. Instead he waves me into the side facing the bar and Matisse into the bench across from me.
“I’ll be right back,” Smith says. And he leaves me there with Matisse.
“It went very well today,” he says. “I’m impressed.”
“Thank you,” I say, wanting very badly to turn my head to I can see where Smith went. “I’m off tomorrow—”
“I know. But you won’t be needed.”
“Oh,” I say, a little disappointed.
“I have it all under control. Your crew might be in the way as we install. And I’m not very friendly when I’m stressed. So it’s better you called them all off.”
“Oh,” I say again. “I think some of them might be disappointed.”
“It can’t be helped. I like things the way I like them.”
“Of course,” I say, just as a waiter comes up and says, “Hello.” He gives us his name, recites the menu, and then waits for us to decide. I’m way too tired to remember anything that waiter just said, so I just stare at Matisse with a blank look on my face.
“We’ll have the filet mignon,” Matisse says. “Medium rare. And a Caesar salad. Do you like Caesar?” Matisse asks me.
I nod, suddenly feeling very weary.
The waiter disappears and then I’m alone with him. I force a smile, but my mind is whirling. “Are you a member here?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “For many years. I met Bric in school a long time ago. We’ve been friends since childhood.”
“And Smith?” I want to kick myself for asking about him.
“Smith is…” Matisse laughs. “Smith.”
“Right.” I chuckle. “I get it. Kind of. I don’t know him. I just met him…” Shit. Do I really want to talk about last night? “I don’t know him at all,” I say. And then I look around. “Where did he go?”
Matisse shrugs. “Where does he ever go?”
Right.
There’s an uncomfortable silence after that, so I try to make conversation. “I love that piece in the show. The children,” I say.
“Which one?” He smiles and I figure talking about his art is a safe way to navigate my way through this dinner.
“The two dancing. Glee, it’s called.”
“Oh,” he says, thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see why you’d like it. Will you be sad when someone purchases it on Friday?”
“No.” I laugh. “I’m going to purchase it.”
“Are you?” He has one eyebrow cocked. “It’s forty-seven thousand dollars.”
“I know,” I say. “I have money saved. I’ve been waiting for this show all year. You have no idea how exciting it is. I was thinking of coming in tomorrow, just to watch.” He’s about to protest, but I keep going before he can. “But if I’ll be in the way, I’ll wait my turn.”
“It’s better to let Mr. Benton handle it. Trust me.”
I do trust him. I’ve not only heard about the temper tantrums of artists, I’ve seen them first hand. And if this is Matisse’s way of warning me that no matter how well things go tomorrow, he’s going to be a raging asshole, I’ll take his word on that.
We chat a little more about his show. What we have planned as far as food and drinks. We’re going all-out. Exquisite canapés and the best champagne. It’s going to be quite the party. But then he switches the conversation back to the club, just as our food arrives.
“Do you get invited here often?” he asks.
The salad and steak are served at the same time. And the filet mignon in front of me has my mouth watering. It smells delicious. My stomach is rumbling so loud, I’m sure the entire restaurant can hear it. But that question… “Invited?” I ask, not sure how to answer.
“You’re not married?” he asks, like he thinks he knows the answer, but maybe he’s wrong.
“No.” I laugh.
“Then you have to be a guest. It’s a gentlemen’s club, after all.”
“I… I never thought about it, I guess. I don’t come here,” I say, in way of explanation. “It’s a place I’ve become acquainted with very recently.”
I look around. Take it all in. Everything is in black and white. I know this bar is called the Black Room and the restaurant on the other side of the lobby is called the White Room. They are each named for the color of the marble on the floors. The brownstone facade is typical of building constructed in the late eighteen hundreds, but the inside is more art deco. The edges and curves that people love about that period are all over in the design of the bar and the inlay on the floors. In the furniture, even, I realize. The black leather booths have rounded tops and the tables in the middle of the room, which do not have white linen tablecloths like the ones along the window, have a pattern on the top that reminds me of Gatsby.
It’s opulent and excessive. Just like the men who run it.
“But I love the decor.” And I do. It might be excessive and opulent, but I like it.
I realize I never unwrapped my silverware. The white napkin is starched and creased into an envelope shape. It has a monogram on what would be the outside flap which reads TPC. Turning Point Club, I realize.
“You should see the rooms upstairs,” Matisse says, cutting his steak as I cut mine. I take a bite before I even process how to respond to that comment.
“Mmmm,” I say, enjoying that first bite of meat so much, I have to close my eyes. “That’s so good.” I laugh.
When I open my eyes and look at Matisse, he’s staring at me. “Would you like to see my room upstairs, Chella?”
Chella. Would you like to see my room? Would you like to go upstairs? Would you like me to fuck you tonight?
I swallow the steak and go stiff. Is that what this is? Did Smith set me up to fuck him?
I look around, and something, I’m not sure what, makes me look up.
There is Smith Baldwin. On that second-story balcony that Bric and Quin were sitting in last night when Smith escorted me out. He’s leaning on the railing with a drink in his hand. Smiling.
I put my silverware down and scoot out of the bench.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Matisse. “I’m really sorry. But I have to go. I just remembered that…” But I have no excuse but the truth. So I say nothing. Just walk out of the Black Room and make my way through the crowd of people in the lobby.
Why are there so many people here? It’s after one in the morning.
Why, Chella? You know why.
It’s a gentlemen’s club.
This is a sex club and Smith Baldwin brought me here to fuck his friend.
“Chella,” Matisse says, gently grabbing my arm as I wait my turn at the coat check. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I’ll take you home.”
“My car—”
“I’ll take you to your car.”
“No,” I say, pulling away so he has to let go of my arm. “I’ll get a cab.”
The girl comes with my coat, even though I never asked for it, and I slip it on and escape outside before Matisse can say anything else.
I stop on the wet sidewalk, the cool air washing over me. Small snowflakes stick to my face. Melt from the heat of my embarrassment.
The door opens behind me and I’m sure it’s going to be Matisse, but it’s not.
“My driver will take you to your car, Marcella.”
It’s Smith.
The driver is suddenly there, opening the door of the long, black car.
“Get in,” Smith says. “If you walk, I’ll follow you, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want that to happen.”
I get in, expecting him to get in with me. But he doesn’t. He closes the door, speaks to the driver, and then walks back inside Turning Point Club, hands in his trouser pockets, like this is just another task he needed to check off his list for the day.
The driver takes me to my car. I don’t even have to tell him where I’m parked. But I guess it’s easy enough to find out, if someone was stalking me.
Someone was definitely stalking me.
I get out of the car before the driver can open my door, and I’m inside my Mercedes breathing hard and confused before he can say anything. I turn the car on, check my mirror, and back out. The limo is still here. The driver backed up far enough to let me maneuver. But when I make my way to the garage exit, he follows me.
He follows me out onto the street. All the way to my townhouse on Little Raven Street. When I close up my garage, he’s still waiting. But when I get inside the house, go up one flight of steps in the dark, and look out the guest room window that faces the alley, he’s gone.
I check the front of the house too.
No one.
And then I do something I almost never do.
I set my house alarm.