Stori
I LOOK AT my friend across the taxi’s backseat. “Glad you’re finally here David. Why does it have to be so long between visits?”
He gives me that megawatt smile. “Umm, when was the last time you came to California? It works both ways, doll.”
I agree with a nod. Both of us are married to our careers. He picks a microscopic speck off his jacket.
“This is gorgeous,” I say, feeling the rich fabric of what I think is a bespoke suit. After his recent trip to Great Britain where I know he has his clothes tailor made.
“This old thing?”
“We need to talk, but later,” I whisper, mindful of the cabdriver’s ears. “When we get back tonight.”
“Absolutely.” His eyebrow rises in punctuation.
The term insider trading is never far from our minds. Technically I guess he’d be guilty of that but God bless his felonious soul. He trusts my discretion and I trust his guidance. I’m sure the stock recommendation he gave me eight years back when he was about to go public wasn’t more than one friend’s kindness to another. There was buzz about the potential for his young company, but I never imagined it would turn into the Silicon Valley megastar it has today. He told me from the start to buy and hold, and that’s just what I did. It rose and fell, but I held steady. Never did I dream I’d amass such a hefty profit in stock shares, or that they’d be worth so much. Not for the small amount I could buy. But splits and mergers and one brilliant technological breakthrough later and it has. My twenty-five thousand dollar investment now four million, seven hundred twenty two thousand as of Friday’s closing. At the beginning, I’d look at my balance at least once every few hours. It was so exciting to see it grow. But the first time I lost twenty thousand dollars in one bad market day that cured me. Now I check only when I get my monthly statement, or when my stock app warns me there’s a negative news story about the company. As I look at beautiful downtown Manhattan, and know I’m about to own a piece of it, I thank my lucky stars David’s tip has panned out so well.
“Now tell me more about this artist I’m going to meet. Oliver, right?”
“Yes. We went to school together,” I say with a smile.
David’s funny smirk says it all. “And?”
“What?” He knows me well. But that won’t stop me from denying his spot-on reading.
“Your face. Something’s going on. Spill.”
I put on my ‘You’re completely off base’ look. “Nothing. Nothing’s going on.”
“Two nothing’s equal something, honey,” he says chuckling.
I’m saved from explaining myself by our arrival at the Gunn Gallery. The showing began at nine and it’s only nine forty now, but the party started without us. There’s a larger crowd here than I anticipated. Maybe Oliver’s a bigger deal than I envisioned. When I googled him the day after our surprise reunion, I found little to indicate this kind of event, or really any kind of success. There was almost nothing about Oliver London. But this scene contradicts my research. I know little about the art world but it doesn’t take much imagination to see this gallery is something significant, and I’d bet the artists who show here are too.
“This is impressive,” David says getting out of the taxi.
As we snake our way inside I’m immediately struck by the power of Oliver’s stunning paintings, which are artfully hung and perfectly lit against long white walls in three separate spaces. I lose David when he spots a hot server with a tray of champagne flutes. He didn’t even have to say a word. But I don’t mind because I’d rather absorb the art on my own. There’s only one painting every twenty feet or so on the walls, but each is large and commands attention. I don’t know which to look at first. All are nudes, but not just of beautiful young women and not all sexual. Some are as if you’re just seeing a private moment with a person with their clothes off. No feigning sexiness or beauty. No sucking in of stomachs. Just a figure alone in a personal moment. Both sexes and different ages are represented. Each is riveting.
The one to my immediate right is of a middle-aged man. It’s magnificent and sexy in such a genuine way. His body isn’t perfect, his skin isn’t smooth, but the look on his face is so expressive and filled with desire. He’s got shoulder-length salt and pepper hair, sun-weathered skin and strong arms. It’s reminiscent of Oliver but twenty or thirty years in the future. He stands at a window, looking down at a pool where a woman blissfully floats. It begs the question, who is she? His lover or his secret lust? Does she know he watches?
I move through the crowded rooms taking in each piece of art. They’re so much more than nudes. What’s naked about them is the story behind every canvas, in the expressions, in the settings. My God. Looking at the hands of the subjects I try to see if they were drawn like ours were, but find no similarities. Don’t know why that pleases me. Moving in front of the most sexual of the paintings I can’t help but be mesmerized. A curly red-haired woman with expressive green eyes lies on a rumpled bed. One leg is bent open on the mattress the other rests on the floor. A ray of sunlight cuts across her body, illuminating a breast, a slice of torso and the edge of her copper-colored pubic hair. Everything’s exposed but somehow it isn’t lewd. It’s intimate. Her arms and her half smile reach out beckoning some unseen person who’s standing in front of her. I think I saw this red-haired model when we walked in.
“Do you like it?”
I’m snapped out of my reverie by Oliver’s voice. Turning to face him I take in the man standing in front of me. Holy balls. The hair. The perfectly tailored suit with the open collared white shirt. I like it alright.
“It’s spectacular, Oliver. They all are. I see by the red dots you’ve already sold, well, all I’ve seen.”
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says, ignoring my response and throwing me completely off kilter.
He doesn’t know I spent an hour trying on outfit after outfit looking for the right one. I was worried this skirt made my ass look big, but I guess it doesn’t. Or maybe he’s into big asses. This is the oddest platonic relationship I’ve ever had.
“Thank you. I like your hair.” My eighth-grade response sounds ridiculous said aloud. Why am I all at once so inept when it comes to talking with him? Usually conversation’s my thing.
But he doesn’t seem to mind. He runs his fingers through the thick rise on the top of his head. The hairline is flawless. The sides are cut close, showcasing his strong jawline. His eyes lower for just a moment. I think I embarrassed him as much as he did me. But it’s that good kind of embarrassment where you’re happy it happened.
“Here you go, doll.”
I see Oliver’s head whip around to see who’s calling me doll. Then the pissed off look on his face as he watches handsome David pass me a champagne flute. His eyes are boring into my friend, but David’s too busy taking in all of Oliver, and too sure of himself to be intimidated. I’m certain he appreciates the view as much as I do.
“Hi. I’m David.” He extends his hand which Oliver accepts a little too firm.
“Oliver London.”
There’s a few uncomfortable seconds where no one’s sure what to say next. I don’t think Oliver’s interested in making a new friend. But David’s smart. His slight grin tells me he’s identified the kernel of jealousy Oliver is exhibiting. And me, I’m kinda loving it.
“David collects art,” I say, looking face to face for a reaction.
“Your work is brilliant. How come I don’t know about you?” says David.
“How come I don’t know about you?” Oliver answers, officially ending any doubt as to how he’s feeling.
David just laughs. “You’ve got things wrong, brother. As lovely as she is, my interests lie elsewhere.” He nods towards the young hot blonde guy offering champagne to the group standing next to us. When Oliver looks that way and makes the connection I swear I see his face pale with embarrassment. He jumped the gun, and by his expression I’d say he’s mad at himself he did.
“Oh. Sorry. I just thought . . . I mean really it’s none of my business . . . she’s not . . . we’re not . . .”
David’s enjoying the hot seat Oliver’s put himself on, but I decide to save him from any more self-inflicted shame. “David, have you seen the piece in the entry? It’s my favorite.”
Both men are grateful for the quick change of conversation I take to get past the last few minutes.
“The Swimmer?” says Oliver. “I’m glad you like that one. Not everyone appreciates secret desire.”
Ohhhh. I do, I do, teacher! David knows no response from him is necessary. He’s just enjoying watching the two of us dance around each other. It’s like everything we say makes us happy or turned on. The most mundane or normal comments carrying a hidden weight. Now I’m getting scared. It’s so hard to stop wanting what makes you happy. I’ve gone too far.
“I see a drink with my name on it. I’ll catch up with you later, Stori. Nice meeting you, Oliver.”
“You too, man.”
The men exchange sincere handshakes as opposed to the one-sided pissing contest Oliver was engaging in before. As David walks away, I sense eyes on me from across the room. A woman is craning her neck to get a better view of Oliver and me. She’s being obvious about it too, all the while wearing the most annoyed look on her face.
“I think someone’s trying to get your attention,” I say, lifting my hand to gesture towards the woman.
Oliver doesn’t turn around, but takes my hands and stops me midrise. He brings them and me close to his chest. Lord Jesus, help me resist this irresistible temptation I have no interest in resisting. That’s going to be my new prayer, from a pilgrim who doesn’t really want to be saved.
“Man, or woman?” he asks.
“Woman. Tall, black hair.” I feel like a character in a Mission Impossible movie.
“Don’t look at her. I’ll go over in a minute; right now I want to stay here talking with you.”
He doesn’t break eye contact with me, or let my hands go. But unfortunately, from my peripheral vision I see the other woman coming towards us.
“Not going to happen. She’s coming over. And she’s bringing company.”
He releases my hands and steps back a bit. The woman is accompanied by an older man and another female much younger than either of them. When they reach us, the tall woman touches Oliver’s arm and leaves her hand there.
“Oliver. I’d like to introduce you to my father, Powers Mann and his wife, Evelyn. Oliver London, our artist.”
She completely ignores me. But Oliver doesn’t. He gives her a withering look.
“And I’d like to introduce you all to Stori Ryder.” He doesn’t say my friend or signify what our relationship is.
“I’m Piper Mann, nice to meet you.” the icy looking daughter says.
It’s an insincere greeting. I don’t think she believes there’s anything nice about it. Pleasantries are exchanged and for some reason there’s a lot of scoping out happening. Piper’s sizing me up, Evelyn’s eyeing Oliver and if I had to guess, I’d say Powers is searching for the nearest exit. He looks bored out of his mind.
“I was hoping you could give my father a tour,” she says to Oliver. “Have the artist himself speak with you about his work,” Piper says lightly.
“Sure. I’d like that,” says Oliver.
Piper’s face suddenly shows a new expression. It looks like hope. She turns to her father for his approval. “Would you like that, Dad? Not too many people get that opportunity.”
Her father looks at her as if she’s out of her mind.
“Not really,” he laughs. “No offense Oliver, art’s just not my thing. Particularly paintings of fat women. I like my women slender. It’s a sign of discipline as far as I’m concerned,” he says, patting Evelyn’s ass.
Oh no he didn’t. What a fool. There are two people not surprised by daddy’s bad behavior. His wife and his daughter. But only Piper is embarrassed. Oliver and I are too shocked to respond. But he’s got that look on his face that says he wants to go off on the man. But what good would it do anyway?
“We came because we were having dinner next door. We’re about to head out. I’ve got a few properties downtown to look at in the morning,” the boob says as if he’s impressing us all with his real estate prowess. He must be a developer. Develop this, jackass.
“And I have a Pilates class. Got to keep things firm you know,” Mrs. Boob says, gazing at Oliver without an ounce of grace or subtlety.
Piper’s face drops. I kind of feel sorry for her. But I still don’t know who she is in relationship to Oliver’s work. The gallery owner maybe? Or his manager if there’s such an animal in the art world. I can see he feels bad for her too. He speaks up.
“No worries. Your daughter’s so good at her job, she has lots of art lovers right here who’d love to take your place on the tour. She made this all happen tonight, you know. People are really here because of her opinion of my work.”
But the man isn’t impressed. He’s looking behind Oliver’s face, at the young hottie with the tight dress. A woman fifty years his junior. Asshat. I’m not sure he even heard Oliver’s words. He puts his hand behind his wife’s back and guides her away with just a dismissive wave to us peons. Piper watches the departing figures and for just a moment shows her vulnerability.
“Thanks for trying.” She touches Oliver’s arm and looks him in the eyes. Hers are full of tears. But she quickly recovers and resumes her stiff expression. “Now, let’s go meet some people who do care.” She looks at me. “You’ll excuse us, Oliver has to get to work.”
“I have to go find my friend anyway. He’s probably looking for the one painting that hasn’t already sold,” I say.
Piper takes a card from her pocket and passes it to me. “Give him my card. We can set up an appointment for him to look at Oliver’s portfolio. There’s still a few pieces available.”
“Thanks for coming, Stori. Can I call you later? Or would it be too late?” he says.
I see Piper’s face and it isn’t happy. But all I care about is Oliver’s face, and that one looks just fine.
“Call me,” I say. “Nice meeting you, Piper.”
And then they’re gone. I can hardly wait to get home and google Piper Mann.