Ruin Me Page 23

  Inez closed her eyes, fortifying herself to walk into Anna’s office as if nothing was wrong. The last thing Anna would want is an apology. She’d want to pretend the whole thing never happened.

  Inez knocked once and opened the office door. “Good morning,”

  Anna was dressed in a white Alexander McQueen suit. Her only accessories were pearl earrings the size of acorns. The outfit was striking and dramatic, but Anna looked tired, her weariness accentuated by the slash of red lipstick and gray eye shadow.

  “I’m busy right now, Inez. And I’m leaving at nine for a day of meetings with collectors.”

  “For Brandt’s show? I’ll go with you.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  Inez told herself not to overreact.

  “Okay, whatever you want. But before you go I need to show you some interesting stuff. We are getting slammed with submissions, and I’m telling you, it’s the most exciting stuff I’ve seen in a long time. This whole GoST thing has just cracked everything wide open for us.”

  Anna did not seem even remotely interested. Undeterred, Inez scuttled back to her office, retrieved her laptop, and presented it to Anna.

  “Just look at the first two artists’ portfolios. And this one—who would guess these paintings are from a woman? We could use a woman in our stable.”

  “Oh we could, could we?”

  “And this guy—I know you were never a fan of Basquiat, but this is much more refined.”

  “I was afraid this would happen,” Anna said.

  “What?”

  “The publicity boosted Brandt, but is attracting the wrong kind of artists.”

  “It’s exactly the right kind of artists. We have to broaden our stable if we want stay competitive.”

  “There’s no we. It’s my reputation.”

  “Well, starting next week it’s going to be my name on the door, too. And this is the kind of work that’s going to build my reputation.”

  “I think our conversations about partnership were premature.”

  Anna’s expression was so closed off, Inez could almost imagine they’d never met, let alone had passionate sex.

  “Don’t punish me for last night. At least, not through work. If you want to be mad at me personally, fine. But this is business.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t take your lecture in professionalism seriously, considering you’ve been in this business all of five minutes.”

  “Five years, actually.” But she knew the conversation was over—as was her partnership with Anna. She was back to where she had been the night of the Dustin McBride show: looking for a new job.

  She would have to just hang tough until Brandt’s opening. Then, first thing the next morning, riding the buzz of the show, she’d put the word out that she’s open to accepting a position elsewhere.

  All the more reason to make sure the show was a smashing success.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  We’re moving along the crowded pedestrian walkway on the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Rory holds my hand, guiding me through the anxiety-inducing tight space: cyclists roaring past us to the left, souvenir vendors clogging the lane we’re supposed to use, and both sides, a level below us, the rush of cars to and from Brooklyn.

  It’s a magnificent bridge, no question. And walking over it is definitely something every New Yorker should do at least once. I’m trying to enjoy it, but I’m filled with trepidation.

  Rory doesn’t exactly want to sight-see. This morning, as the warehouse slowly filled with light and I lay naked in his arms, he promised to explain the plan for his next—and final—GoST painting.

  “Look,” he says, pointing at the gothic double arches a half mile in front of us, the apex of the bridge. “That’s the spot.”

  He can’t be serious. Not only is the spot treacherously high and incredibly dangerous, it’s a pristine New York City landmark that is unblemished by even a hint of graffiti. And why is that? Aside from the logistical challenge of getting within arm’s reach of the brick surface of the bridge’s peak, the spot has been anathema to graffiti artists since the late 1980s, when Sane/Smith tagged it—making them the first graffiti artists in Manhattan to be formally charged with Criminal Mischief. The million-dollar lawsuit was dropped after Sane was found dead in Flushing Bay.

  “That’s insane,” I say. “No pun intended.”

  “It’s the holy grail,” he says.

  “Even in the 1980s that was a million-dollar offense. What do you think inflation’s done to that fine? And you can’t just run away when you’re a hundred feet above the East River. They’re going to catch you in the act. Someone’s going to see you doing it, Instagram it, and the cops will be here before you can even think about getting down.”

  “You think I’m worried about money? About getting caught?”

  “No,” I say. I’m the one who’s worried. I worry about him never really being able to move on. I worry that he will climb any mountain to stay out of reach of normalcy. That he will always be one step away from me—from us. It scares me because the only future I can see for myself is one with us together. “Did you mean what you said this morning about wanting to do other things? About moving forward artistically?”

  “Yeah. I told you, this is my sign-off. At least, GoST’s sign-off.”

  “You already did something huge—the boxes. And I know you think no one understood, but someone does. Read this.” I pull up Damian’s post on my phone. “This guy knows Brandt didn’t do it. And he understands what you’re trying to say.”

  He takes my phone, scrolling through the article.

  “Good. Hopefully he’ll get the next thing, too.”

  “And then what?”

  He shrugs. “You saw the stuff I’m working on.”

  “Yeah, I saw it. But who else will? Let me show your new work—the sculpture. Or any paintings you do. It’s not doing any good sitting in a warehouse. It’s no better than my father’s stuff hidden away.”

  “Show it where? And who do you think would buy it? The same elitist gallery fucks who buy everything.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we could just display it—like an indie museum.”

  “That’s crazy talk, Lulu.”

  “Look, I just have to know that you’re open to showing your work. I’ll find a way. Some day. It’s something we can work toward.”

  Rory pulls me away from the edge of our lane as a fresh wave of cyclists buzz past us. We walk to the edge of the bridge, and he holds my hand while looking away.

  “What are you trying to do?” he says.

  “I just told you.”

  “I don’t need you to show my stuff. You know that. So what’s this really about?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m trying to figure out a future for us.”

  “I told you—there is no future for us. That’s not who I am. Just because I’m moving on from GoST doesn’t change who I am inside.”

  “Then why did you bring me here? Why didn’t you just tell me to leave last night?”

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  And I don’t know if I can keep doing this.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  I need my mother.

  I’m twenty-one years old, but leaving the Brooklyn Bridge, I’m a six-year-old who fell off my bike. Back then, she would pick me up, brush me off, and tell me it would be all right, that I had to get right back on. I don’t know what she can possibly tell me today. But I want to find out.

  I’m hoping she’s at the Greene Street gallery today, not the new monstrosity. I need the old gallery. I need home. Stepping through the glass door at 133 Greene Street—being greeted by the art—always cheers me, even on my worst days.

  The gallery is quiet mid-morning. The receptionist nods to me, and if she is surprised to see me for the first time in weeks, she does not show it.

  “Is my mother here?”

  “No, sorry, Lulu. She’s in meetings all day.”

  My disappointmen
t is overwhelming. It takes me a minute to realize I can just call her and leave a message. Maybe she’ll make time to see me between meetings, or at the end of the day.

  She surprises me by answering.

  “Where are you?” she says. Wherever she is, it’s loud. I can barely hear her over the background noise.

  “Greene Street. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “I’ll be back at four.”

  I glance at the receptionist. Now that I’m hearing her voice, I’m having second thoughts about talking to her. We’re just going to come to another impasse. Or worse.

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow or something.”

  “I’m at Balthazar. Meet me here. I’ll cancel my next meeting.”

  Cancel a meeting?

  *** ***

  My mother is sitting at her usual corner banquette. When the waitress puts a menu in front of me, I realized I am famished. I haven’t eaten anything since the hors d’oeuvres at the Maritime party. I order a burger.

  “They have excellent salads,” my mother prompts. Lord, she just can’t help herself. I stick with the burger.

  “I know you think I didn’t have confidence in you. But the one thing really holding you back was your lack of confidence in yourself. I wanted to show you that I took you seriously, and that’s why I signed Brandt.”

  “You signed someone you didn’t believe in?”

  “He has technical ability—very strong technical ability. But there are a glut of people with technical ability. The ones who set themselves apart are people with something to say. Unfortunately, Brandt seems to have exhausted his need for expression. In contrast, the best artists can spend a lifetime feeling they have never fully spoken.”

  “You can’t go around saying he’s the one responsible for GoST’s work. He’s stealing someone else’s creative identity.”

  “I’m not saying Brandt is GoST. I’m just not using my PR people to deny it. The gallery is what’s important, Lulu—not the reputation of some street artist. The expression ‘a dime a dozen’ exists for a reason. This gallery, however, is my life. And your legacy. So that’s what I’m fighting for. The press about Brandt and the other person—it’s already yesterday’s news.”

  “GoST is about to do something huge. It’s not going to be yesterday’s news. It’s going to be on the front page of The New York Times. Brandt will get charged again, and it’s going to be an expensive legal fight.”

  “It would be more costly if Brandt denies involvement. Not now, a week before his opening.”

  I press my fingernails into my palm.

  “What happened with my father?” I ask. I realize that is why I’m here. Sleeping under Rory’s sculpture, seeing him at the start of his career, how can I not think about my father at the start of his own? And my mother was a part of that, no matter how it ended.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did he kill himself?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that, Lulu. No one does except your father. Do you think I’ve been hiding that from you?”

  I shake my head. “No. I don’t. But I think you hid his work from me. Why did you sell it all off?”

  “I needed the money to keep the gallery going. He was my only client. I thought we were going to do it together. And he left me. He left both of us.”

  “I know you’re still so mad at him. I’ve always felt it, and it made me afraid to talk to you about him.”

  “I never said you couldn’t talk to me about him.”

  “Well, not in so many words. But the second I mentioned him—or anyone mentioned him—you totally shut down. I mean, you changed my last name to Sterling. You can’t erase him, you know. He’s always going to be my father.”

  “I’m aware of that, Lulu. And that is why I have been very careful not to let you shy away from working hard, from dealing with criticism, from having some ambition.”

  “My father didn’t have ambition?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. I’ve never seen my mother cry. And I don’t want to start now.

  “I thought I could let him be the artist, and I’d be the business person. I thought I had enough ambition for both of us.”

  “He didn’t want to sell his work?”

  “Only when it was easy. When it got hard, he didn’t have fight in him. And that’s also why I’m not interested in people who paint the sides of buildings. It’s very easy to pick up a can of spray paint in the dark of night. It’s another thing entirely to build a career. To deal with bad reviews, or no sales. That’s why I don’t want you to get too invested in someone who has style over substance.”

  “GoST has both.”

  “That’s your opinion. Or your hope. But believe me, it doesn’t make it so.”

  “You don’t have to worry. He doesn’t want my help.”

  “That’s a blessing in disguise, Lulu.”

  I roll my eyes. She’ll never get it. “Now that I’m twenty-one, I want to change my last name back to Holland.”

  She nods, almost as if she’s talking to herself. “Is that to punish me?”

  “No,” I say truthfully. “It’s because I want him to be a part of my life.”

  “He wanted to be a part of your life, too. He thought ahead to this year, your twenty-first birthday.”

  “Well, not enough to stick around for it.” Instantly I feel guilty.

  “Lulu, there’s something I need to show you. It’s at home.”

  *** ***

  I’m sitting on my mother’s gigantic bed. She’s digging through her closet, pulling out boxes.

  “He was a troubled person, Lulu,” she says from the depths of her closet. “I thought I could ignore that part while focusing on the art. It doesn’t work that way.”

  Is that what I’m doing with Rory?

  She finally steps back from the pile of stuff she’s gathered on the floor. There’s an envelope in her hand.

  “I’m not saying it to make you feel better. I’m saying it because it’s a fact. I didn’t give you this in June because I wanted you to focus on building a career of your own, to have a sense of urgency. I didn’t want you to be distracted. But he left you something.”

  She hands me the envelope.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s from him. For your twenty-first birthday.”

  My hands shake so hard I can barely get the envelope open. Inside, I find a handwritten letter on simple college-lined notebook paper.

  May 7, 1994

  My Lulu:

  The artist Elbert Hubbard said, “The sculptor produces the beautiful statue by chipping away such parts of the marble block as are not needed—it is a process of elimination.”

  And so it is in life, dear Lulu. Please remember that. I leave you with one more thought, from Kurt Cobain, who just left us all:

  The worst crime is faking it.

  I love you always.

  Dad

  I read it again and again. My mother is sitting beside me, reading it over my shoulder. A tear falls on the paper, and it’s not my own.

  I press it to my chest, and turn to her.

  “Why didn’t you give this to me on my birthday?”

  “There’s more. Your father left me a sculpture with instructions to sell it and put the money in a trust for you. You can legally access the money this year.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me on my birthday?”

  “Many young people would rather not work if they don’t have to.”

  “And you thought I would be one of them?”

  “Not necessarily. But I didn’t want to risk it.”

  “So you didn’t really need my help this summer? You just wanted to get me motivated before I found out about the trust?”

  She shakes her head vigorously. “No. I did need your help. And I still do. Will you come back?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t.”

  “I need you, Lulu. I can’t trust anyone else with the business.”

  I t
hink about Inez, her possessiveness about the gallery that I never noticed until recently. And I think of all the signs that she sabotaged me, wanted me out of the way. But none of that matters now.

  “My heart isn’t in it.”

  “Is this because of that graffiti artist?”

  “I love his work.”

  “You mean you’re in love with him.”

  I don’t answer.

  “Aren’t you curious how much money you’re going to get this year?”

  “Is it enough to buy back my father’s sculptures?”

  She sits back against the headboard, her face showing more emotion than I’ve ever seen.

  “That’s what you want to do with the money?”

  “Yes. Will you give me the names of the collectors? Help me get in touch with them?”

  I unfold the note again, my eyes drinking in the words.

  “Yes,” she says finally, smiling. “I’ll help you.”

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  The phone wakes me.

  It takes me a minute to figure out that I’m in my own bed. In my dreams I was still on the warehouse floor, sleeping under Rory’s statue. Waiting for him.

  I don’t recognize the incoming number.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. Can you meet me at the bridge?” He sounds breathless, excited.

  I sit up. “Where are you calling me from?”

  “A pay phone,” he says. There’s still a working pay phone in New York City?

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Meet me at the bridge.”

  “I’m done being your tagalong, Rory. Being close to your work … it’s been amazing. And a month ago, that was enough. It was more than enough. But now … I love you. And I can’t stand being on the edges of your life and knowing it will never be anything more.”

  “I’m here, standing across the street from the bridge, ready to do this thing. And I have this crazy feeling that it won’t be complete without you with me. Doesn’t that mean something?”