Ruin Me Page 14

  He doesn’t look upset as much as he looks put out, like a child who’s had his favorite toy snatched away. “Then what is it?”

  “Honestly, in order to get past this, I’d have to want this relationship to work more than anything else. And I just don’t. Not anymore.”

  “You’re pissed off at me, and I totally get that. Maybe we’re just having this conversation too soon.”

  “No. It’s over.” It feels so good to say it. Ever since Rory walked out of the apartment it’s felt like my heart is being squeezed tight. That’s the pain I have to ease. Not this.

  Brandt isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s staring out the window. I’m sure he’s heard me. But for a full thirty seconds, there’s no response.

  “Will you at least come by and take a look my work?”

  That’s what he has to say about this?

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “Your mother is coming for a studio visit tomorrow.”

  I stand up. “Good luck, Brandt.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Inez and Anna stood shoulder to shoulder in Brandt’s studio.

  Every artist handled the studio visit differently. Some waited patiently, passively, for Anna’s verdict on the work in progress. Some lobbied of behalf of their efforts, giving a running commentary on every brushstroke and color choice or a running monologue about the themes at play. There was the occasional artist who couldn’t endure being in the room with Anna, and they waited elsewhere for her verdict.

  But Inez had never seen an artist so obviously defeated before Anna even stepped into the room. Brandt wasn’t so much nervous as he seemed to have checked out.

  The early morning light was strong, and Anna had to draw the shades to get a better read on the paintings. But even with the adjustment, there was no denying that Brandt’s work was shit.

  Anna paced in front of the canvases like a tigress in a cage. Her only response so far had been the slightest twitch of the mouth. After what seemed an interminable amount of time, Anna finally turned to Brandt. He was standing in the back of the room looking at his phone.

  “Brandt, can you please come here and tell me what I’m looking at?”

  Anna’s tone was calm, almost sweet. Inez hoped Brandt understood that this was not a literal question. But sure enough, he ambled over and launched into a speech about the color palette, the theme of the show, and then digressed into less relevant commentary on his title, Wanderlust.

  “I don’t see anything in here that speaks to suburban ennui,” Anna said. “I frankly don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”

  “Is it … I mean, this is all still work in progress.”

  Brandt’s face was so red she wondered if he was having a heart attack.

  “This is not showing me progression. I’m seeing regression. A month ago, this all seemed to be on track. And lest you think that my opinion is tainted by my disapproval over what’s transpired in your personal life, I can assure you that it’s not. I wish that were the case, because at least then my clients would potentially be excited by something here. But that is simply not going to happen.”

  “I guess I’m hitting a wall, creatively speaking. But I’ll work through it. I just need to focus.”

  “How can we get you focused, Brandt? Tell me that, would you?”

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “When’s the last time Lulu looked at these?”

  The mention of her name made him visibly uncomfortable. “A few weeks,” he said.

  “Why so long? I thought she was more involved than that.”

  He glanced at Inez, and she prayed he wasn’t idiotic enough to say that he’d shut Lulu out because he’d been talking to her instead.

  “I thought I needed some time without her input.”

  “Brilliant,” Anna said sarcastically. “I’m tabling this conversation for now. Don’t touch these canvases until tomorrow. I have to sleep on this. And we’ll be back in the morning.”

  *** ***

  I didn’t sleep at all. My dreams were filled with images of that man pulling me down into the darkness. I’d wake up every hour, drenched in sweat, heart pounding. I had to turn on all the lights. I sent Niffer another SOS message. This time, I abandoned any pretense of subtly. Can you come home early? Last night I’d simply texted, Need you like bloody hell. I thought maybe the faux English thing would get to her.

  At around two in the morning I gave up entirely on sleep.

  I’m not at the gallery. I’m not with GoST. I don’t know where I fit in with the art world at all anymore. There’s the part I was born into, and the part I fell into, and both ended in disaster.

  It’s my fault for straddling the line between the two. That day on the rooftop, blowing the fake money down on my mother’s gallery. That was my moment to make a choice. But I wanted it both ways.

  My finger hovers over the DELETE ACCOUNT button. And my phone rings.

  “Lulu, it’s Inez,” she says, as if I don’t know.

  “What now?” If Damian Damian is running the story anyway, I don’t want to hear about it. Frankly, I don’t care.

  “You need to come to the gallery as soon as possible.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “You can’t hide forever, Lulu.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of doing my mother’s bidding?”

  “Do you get tired of acting like a child?”

  Ouch.

  I hit the DELETE button on Tumblr.

  *** ***

  Sitting on my mother’s couch, I have a perfect view of my father’s sculpture. That’s what I focus on while my mother goes off about how this gallery is my future and she knows I’m not happy with her but I’m being overly emotional instead of practical.

  “I know you’re not happy with me, and frankly, I’m not happy with you. But that doesn’t change the fact that this gallery is your legacy. And Brandt, for all of his flaws, needs your counsel for his work. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”

  The statue, all sharp angles and flat surfaces, looks almost like an odd geometric shark. A big, futuristic shark that is speaking to me right now. And it’s saying, You’re not a loser or a quitter, and neither was your father.

  “Brandt used to tell me I was his muse,” I say. My mother nods enthusiastically.

  “Can you put your personal differences aside and perhaps give him some counsel? Your creative input is valuable to his process.”

  “It might be valuable, but I’m not doing it. I’m sure you and Inez can take it from here.” It’s flattering to hear that she values my opinion in some way. And I know Brandt does, too, but he probably should have thought about that before he put his dick in some other woman’s mouth.

  Inez shifts in her seat on the other side of the room. My mother lights up a cigarette.

  “I’m going to be frank with you, Lulu. We are not in a good place right now. Not financially, and not artistically. I brought Brandt in because we needed some fresh blood—and I liked what I saw at that small gallery you brought me to. My instincts are rarely wrong, but I’m afraid this might be one such case.”

  I’m shocked to hear this. “You don’t think Brandt can pull it off?”

  “I think he’s cracking under the pressure.”

  You have no idea, I think. It’s worse; he doesn’t have anything to say.

  I pull out my phone and take a photo of my father’s sculpture. You’re a quitter and a loser, just like your father.

  “What are you doing? Please stay focused, Lulu. I’m telling you that we’re at a crossroads here.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that if Brandt’s show is a disaster, I won’t be able to afford the new space.”

  “So forget the new space. What’s wrong with this one?”

  “It’s too late. I sold this space in order to finance the new gallery.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This building has always been the center of everything—
home to me, home to the art. And now she’s telling me I’m going to lose it?

  How could my mother let herself get into this position?

  “Don’t do this…”

  “It’s done. We’re moving to the West Side. That’s where the Sterling Gallery belongs.”

  “I was on the roof across from the gallery the day of your luncheon. When GoST did the money thing.”

  My mother’s hand freezes mid-air, the cigarette suspended like a smoking gun.

  “Why would you do that to me?” she says.

  “I didn’t know that he was targeting the gallery. I thought he’d just be painting a building. I honestly had no idea it would have anything to do with you. I was just as surprised as you were.”

  “Are you … involved with him?” my mother says.

  I shake my head. “I barely know him. But I love his art. I think he’s a genius.”

  “Maybe if you spent a little less time running around with this alleged genius, your boyfriend wouldn’t be flailing. He probably had to cheat on you to just get your damned attention, Lulu!”

  “You’re blaming this on me?!” I yell.

  “Don’t raise your voice to me. I am just suggesting that you get your priorities in order. And until you do, I can’t see a place for you at this gallery.”

  Is it my imagination, or did Inez smile at that comment? Inez, the person I’ve looked up to since I was fifteen, my pop culture guru, style icon, the shining example of effortless cool. How long has she been rooting against me?

  My response to my mother comes in the voice and lyrics of Kurt Cobain, first musician Inez introduced me to.

  “You can’t fire me because I quit.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Buying a can of black spray paint feels dangerous, trangressive.

  When I was in high school, Mayor Bloomberg tried (unsuccessfully) to make it illegal for anyone under the age of twenty-one to buy spray paint. Most stores still keep it behind the counter so it can’t be stolen. I’d read a lot about how real graffiti artists won’t actually buy spray paint, only steal it. Kind of the way it’s a badge of honor to steal books by Charles Bukowski.

  The Home Depot on Twenty-third Street had everything else I needed: X-Acto knives, a cutting mat, masking tape, acetate sheets, poster board, and reams of shipping paper.

  Now I spread all the supplies out on my living room floor as I examine the photo I took of my dad’s sculpture. He didn’t name his sculptures; they were simply numbered. The one my mother kept was No. 7. I don’t know if the number signified a date or something else personal to her, or if it was one she simply couldn’t sell for as much money as she wanted in order to part with it.

  A search online yields images of most of my father’s work, but none of No. 7, which is disappointing because I wanted something larger than the photo I was able to get on my phone.

  On the other hand, the fact that there aren’t any images of No. 7 makes what I plan to do all the more important.

  I log onto Niffer’s Mac and upload my photo. I enlarge it and crop it. It’s not perfect, but it will do. I print it out and tape the paper to an acetate sheet—the clear paper that can be used for transparencies. I trace over the outline of the sculpture with a thin black Sharpie, and then use the X-Acto knife to cut out the negative space. Dragging the blade along the image gives me an incredible feeling of creativity and power. I feel connected to some deep part of myself that I didn’t know existed.

  When I’m done, I discard the white paper and I’m left with the carved-out acetate in the shape of the sculpture. I tape it to the poster board, open the windows in the apartment for ventilation, spread newspapers all over the floor, and shake up the can of paint. The loud rattle of the metal balls inside makes it a satisfying gesture, one that feels as symbolic as it is practical.

  I lay the taped stencil flat on the ground, and go at it with the spray paint. The first burst of black shows me that I have little control over the application. But I adjust my pressure on the button until I get steady coverage.

  When it looks finished, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to wait for the paint to dry before I lift the stencil off of the poster board. So I wait just to be on the safe side.

  Twenty minutes later, I peel the stencil off of the white board, and smile. My father’s sculpture is rendered in perfect black and white.

  I take a photo of it. It takes five tries to get the right size and the right angle. But when I do, I upload it to my computer and log on to a site called Block Posters.

  I’m going to have to turn my stencil into something that is at least three feet high, and unless I want to spend hours at a photocopy place enlarging the image, this site is the way to do it.

  I upload the stenciled image and program in three feet. In about two seconds I have a pdf to print out, and what happens is the image comes out spread across many sheets of paper. When the printer is done spitting it out, I collect the paper and arrange the sheets on the floor like a puzzle to compile the large image. Then I tape it all together.

  When I have the three-foot image all taped together, I then attach it to the large poster board. And start cutting out the negative space again to make my giant stencil.

  I’m startled by the sound of keys in the apartment door, and quickly scramble to stand up.

  The door opens, and I let out first, a scream of fear, and then a squeal of delight.

  “Niffer!”

  Her hair is longer, almost to her waist, very blond on the ends, her roots dark as I’ve ever seen them. She’s tan, glowing, her complexion a shimmering burnt umber. She has a bandeau around her forehead, and is wearing a peasant blouse and very short jean shorts. She’s mother earth, a celestial hippie. I feel like I’m dreaming her.

  But when she steps carefully over the detritus on the floor and wraps me in her arms, I smell her patchouli, her earthy scent, and I know it’s real. She’s back.

  I guess she got my texts after all. I’m touched that she’s here, but the fact that she actually ended her trip early makes me feel guilty.

  “Do I dare ask what the hell is going on here?” she says, sitting next to me and picking up the X-Acto knife. “You haven’t taken up cutting, have you? It can’t be that bad.”

  “No,” I say. “But it’s pretty bad. You didn’t come home just because of my texts, did you?”

  “I can’t say it was entirely because of your texts, but your cross-continental despair did give me extra incentive.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dumped all this on you while you were away. But I had no one else to talk to. Why didn’t you ever text me back?”

  She waves her hand. “I hate dealing with emotional turmoil via text. I kept planning to call you, but with the time difference and everything it just kept slipping my mind.”

  The hand-waving calls something to my attention. It’s a thin, brushed gold band with a small round diamond on her left ring finger.

  “Wait a minute. You’re not … ”

  She beams. “I’m engaged!”

  “To who? Claudio?”

  “Claudio?” she says, as if she’s never heard the name before.

  “Yeah, the waiter. The guy we were going out there to see.”

  “Oh god, no,” she says, as if I’d completely lost my mind. “His name is Umberto Frissi. And I have you to thank.”

  My head is spinning.

  “Okay, how am I to thank?”

  “It was my third night there, and I missed you something fierce. So I saw a poster for an art fair. It was in this extraordinary square—the music, the food—it was like Coachella for art. And I only went because I knew if you’d been there you would have wanted to go. I even had this idea I’d send you pictures of it and you’d be so blown away you’d get on a plane. Anyway, that’s where I met Umberto. He was selling his paintings. I barely noticed them, though. All I saw was this tall, dark, gorgeous guy with flashing black eyes and incredible shoulders. Oh, my god. You can’t imagine.”
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  I find this hard to believe—not because Niffer isn’t impetuous enough to run off and get engaged after three weeks, but because the one thing she values more than love is money. I don’t see her romantic, but no doubt penniless union with Mr. Barcelona lasting very long.

  “You left him in Spain?”

  “Of course not! He’s here.”

  “Here?”

  “At his parents’ place, actually. His father is a director at the New York City Ballet. His mother is some bigwig at The Met. They’re loaded.”

  This is starting to make a lot more sense.

  “I can’t wait for you to meet him,” she says.

  “Yeah. I can’t wait to meet him, either.”

  “Oh no—not so fast. I’m not letting him see my Lulu in full-meltdown mode. So tell me what’s going on. And start with this intense crafting situation you have going on here.”

  “I need you to help me with it,” I say.

  “Okaaay.”

  “But we have to wait until it’s dark.”

  Niffer walks into the kitchen, rummaging around. The fridge is pretty bare.

  “I’m not doing anything till you tell me what the hell is going on,” she calls out. “But first—wine. And food.”

  “Okay. In keeping with the spirit of your Spanish love affair, let’s go to Alta for some tapas.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Inez had never felt so powerful. Watching Lulu walk out was like a glorious dream. With a few smart moves—and some luck—she’d not only pushed Lulu out of the way, but she’d gotten her to quit of her own free will.

  Really, it bolstered her hope for her entire future. Ironically, the one person who would most appreciate her brilliant manipulations was Anna. The one person she could never tell.

  Inez couldn’t imagine why she took Lulu’s melodramatic tantrum so seriously, but she was inconsolable.

  “You were right about Lulu. That night, sitting right here. When you said she was involved with that fiasco at the gallery,” Anna said, lighting yet another cigarette and crossing the room to pour Scotch into a crystal tumbler. She reminded Inez of Anne Bancroft in The Graduate. She wished she’d get out of her funk and lay Anne Bancroft’s classic line on her: “Do you want me to seduce you?”