Ruin Me Page 3

  “Okay, even if you fall in love and get married, please have your happily-ever-after back here in New York. I need you,” I say.

  Niffer is obsessed with the idea of true romance. She is in love with the idea of being in love, and thinks the fact that Brandt and I don’t say “it” to each other is strange. But unlike her, I’m uncertain what it means to be in love. I think I love him, but I don’t know.

  When I started seeing Brandt, I thought—this is going to be it. After the graduation party I thought about him nonstop. I fantasized about the way he kissed me, and imagined doing everything else with him. Just the thoughts turned me on.

  The first night we had sex, I was thrilled just to have him inside of me. Of course, I didn’t come that night. Everyone knows you don’t the first night with someone. I thought I’d just give it time. And now, a year later, I have never had an orgasm with my beautiful, sexy, talented boyfriend. And I’m starting to think something is wrong with me.

  Brandt has no idea.

  “I’m not accepting you bagging out of this trip,” Niffer says suddenly. “Come for just one week.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “No, I don’t. You have the rest of your life to work in that gallery. You need to live a little.”

  “I am living—thank you very much. And besides, things are getting serious with Brandt.”

  “Bollocks,” she says, with the hint of a fake British accent. “So where is the second coming of Julian Schnabel?”

  Niffer doesn’t like Brandt. I think it’s a competition—boyfriends and best friends can be like that. “There’s an after-party in Williamsburg.”

  She groans. “God, I am so over Brooklyn. Why aren’t you there?”

  “I have my last final tomorrow.”

  “You’re such a good girl.”

  “Would you feel better if I told you I almost got arrested tonight?” Sort of.

  “I would feel better, yes. But I don’t believe you.”

  I tell her the GoST story, describing the Snow White painting in detail. Niffer is a visual person. If she could sit still and focus on something for more than three seconds, she could probably be some sort of artist.

  “So who is this guy?” she says.

  I shrug. “His tag is GoST. That’s all I know. All anyone seems to know.”

  “Tag?”

  “His art name. You know, like, nom de guerre.”

  She nods, reaches for her army-green canvas Marc Jacobs bag, and pulls out a lollipop. Niffer quit smoking a few months ago and is now a sugar addict. “Let’s go find him,” she says, pointing the shiny red heart-shaped pop at me.

  “Don’t drop that on my bed.”

  “Are you hearing me?”

  “Yeah, and I’m ignoring you. I have a final tomorrow.”

  “But you could discover the next Banksy! Make a name for yourself! Then you won’t be so afraid to say no to your mother.”

  “I’m not afraid to say no to her. I’ve just always had a hard time getting her to take my opinion seriously.”

  She crunches on the lollipop, then coughs, spraying sticky red shards on my bed.

  “Niffer!” I say.

  “Find him,” she says. Then unceremoniously walks out of my room.

  Typical. Niffer sees life in bold letters. Find GoST, change my life. Go to Spain, fall in love. I guess I’m a just a die-hard realist, like my mother. I could do a lot worse than to follow in her path. And this summer is my first step.

  Chapter Six

  I’m already late for my first official day at the gallery, but I can’t help but make a quick detour.

  In the daylight, GoST’s Snow White painting is even more impressive.

  Standing in the same spot where I stood less than twelve hours ago, I snap a few photos and upload them to Instagram. Even though I am the last to the party—at least online—I need to have my own shots.

  If only I’d gotten a shot of GoST himself.

  There’s a fenced-off, gated cement stairwell on the corner of Broadway and Houston that I never really noticed before. I pause in front of it, reading the dinged up, blue metal sign: N.Y.C. TRANSIT—DEPARTMENT OF SUBWAYS. DIVISION OF INFRASTRUCTURE—MECHANICAL. HYDRAULICS SUB-DIVISION.

  It was less than a block away that GoST disappeared—seemingly into nowhere. As my mind goes to work, my lips curl into a smile.

  Suddenly my phone rings out. I answer quickly.

  “You’re late.”

  *** ***

  I’m at home in the Anna Sterling Gallery. Literally.

  My mother bought the four-story, French neo-Grec building at 133 Greene Street in 1995. She put the gallery on the first floor, and I grew up with a bedroom two floors above. I spent many nights of my childhood lying awake, listening to the music and voices below, imagining the day when I would be old enough to join the party.

  I follow my mother through the chilly front rooms to her office in the back. Her pace is brisk, her irritation with me obvious. Still, it was worth it to get those photos.

  “Is Inez here?” I ask hopefully. The day would be more fun with her as my guide.

  “She had a stop to make this morning. Not ideal that both of you are dragging your feet today, but so be it.” My mother sighs in exasperation.

  Walking behind my mother, I imagine Brandt’s work on the walls instead of Dustin’s paintings.

  To be honest, I was surprised when my mother offered him a solo show. I thought she’d say, “He needs time to mature.” Personally, I was thrilled. But while there was no question that he was talented, if I had to be objective about it, the gallery already had Dustin McBride and a whole stable of painters doing similar stuff. And there was so much else happening out there—art my mother turned a blind eye to. Stuff like GoST.

  I’d tried talking to her about street art, alternative art, things that really got me excited. But those conversations went nowhere.

  Then again, I had never been officially working with her before.

  She closes her office door and pulls a seat up next to her.

  “Actually, my final didn’t run long,” I say. “I lied.”

  She looks at me. “So where were you?”

  I show her the photo of the Snow White painting on my phone. “Look at this. His tag is GoST.” I spell it out for her. “His stuff is showing up all over Manhattan and Brooklyn. I know a lot of it is stencil, but if you look at it—not just this piece, but collectively—it’s so smart. And his use of color is spectacular—”

  “Lulu.”

  The word is a period, punctuation to a conversation that is never going to happen.

  “I’m just saying … ”

  “I need you to focus. All you need to worry about right now is what’s happening in this gallery.”

  I think of the name of the famous London gallery, White Cube. And that’s what it feels like I’m sitting in: a sealed white box that I can never get out of and will never be able to bring anything into.

  “I thought you wanted me to bring things to you. I mean, you could hire anyone to just help out. And I can do this, Mom. It will be good for the gallery. There’s so much exciting stuff going on out there.”

  “Let me worry about what’s going on ‘out there.’ This summer, you need to let

  Inez and me teach you how to cultivate the artists in our stable. Starting with Brandt. He is our number one priority right now. Don’t get distracted.”

  “I’m the one who brought you Brandt!”

  She nods. “And there is a world of difference between Brandt, and the type of flashy distraction you are showing me on your phone. I have built this business on the type of painters that my clientele buy. Don’t look to reinvent the wheel. Learn how to keep the wheel spinning.”

  “Got it,” I say, giving up.

  The intercom buzzes on her phone. “Mrs. Saroyin on line two,” Nadia says.

  “Ask her to hold for one minute.” My mother turns to me. Her look is all business. What is she so tense abo
ut?

  “One more thing, Lulu—and then you can go find Inez: I want you to move back upstairs for the summer while Jennifer is away. You know I don’t like the idea of you living alone.”

  *** ***

  Inez pushed through the revolving door of the palatial glass high-rise that was Brandt’s apartment building, and was immediately greeted (intercepted?) by a doorman in a uniform that looked suspiciously like a Marc Jacobs outfit.

  “Can I help you?”

  She was startled to realize that the doorman, young and Puerto Rican, resembled a guy she banged in high school. She averted her eyes, glancing down at the slate floor. There’s no way he’d recognize her. She looked like a different person. She was a different person.

  “I’m here to see Brandt Penn.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “And your name?’

  No, on closer look, it wasn’t the guy from high school after all.

  She wiped the perspiration from above her upper lip, careful not to smear her lipstick, a perfect red from NARS called Shanghai Express. She should not be here. If Anna found out, she was fucked.

  “Inez Elliot.”

  The doorman retreated behind a desk and dialed up to Brandt.

  The studio visit was technically scheduled for Thursday of this week. There would be a few more between now and the opening of his show. Anna would accompany her, and they would sit with Brandt and discuss how his work was coming together thematically. Then they would take a look at his canvases and prop him up or humble him, depending on which direction Anna felt the scales were tipping on that particular day.

  But her visit today had nothing to do with Brandt’s work, and everything to do with gaining his trust. If Inez was going to be pushed out of the gallery, she had every intention of taking Anna’s brightest fledgling star with her.

  “You can go right on up,” said the doorman. “Elevators to your left.”

  Walking through modern, showy, and aggressively luxurious lobby, Inez reminded herself of the advice Anna had given her over the years about dealing with the beast that is the artistic ego. Number one: All artists are insecure. Two: They all need a little ego stroking, sometimes combined with a push in the right direction. Number three: Never make an artist too comfortable.

  “Comfort is the enemy of genius,” Anna always said.

  Brandt was slow to open the door. When he finally did, it was evident to Inez that her little impromptu visit woke him up.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, more than a little dazed. “I thought you guys were coming Thursday.”

  “Consider this an unofficial prep visit,” Inez said.

  He stepped aside and let her in. His obvious hangover did little to dampen his outrageous good looks. Fortunately, his blue eyes, high cheekbones, and dimpled smile had zero effect on her. Brandt Penn would have to climb way higher on the fame meter to get into her pants.

  They sat in Brandt’s sunlit kitchen.

  “I thought you and Anna would be at the after-party last night,” he said.

  Inez shook her head. After Anna’s news, the last thing she wanted was a party. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to go just to do Anna’s bidding. Not anymore.

  “We were busy talking business.” She tapped her long acrylic nails. They were painted an OPI shade that almost exactly matched her lipstick. “And we should, too. You feel like you’re in a good place thematically?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I took what Anna said to heart—you know, about toning down some of the more violent motifs in the first few of the series.”

  Brandt’s paintings were neo-Expressionist, following in the tradition of artists like Eric Fischl. And like Fischl—whom Anna had always longed to snag away from her fiercest competitor, Mary Boone—Brandt’s work was very psychosexual.

  “Ignore her,” Inez said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, ignore that advice. Anna’s lost her edge. Don’t let her dumb down your work.”

  “Is this a joke?” he asked, clearly uncomfortable.

  Inez took a moment to compose herself. This was it—there was no turning back.

  “I’m dead serious. Anna is over. You heard it here first.”

  “Okay, I’m going to forget you said that.”

  “No, I want you to remember it. Who do you think runs that gallery? Anna? She’s off kissing collectors’ asses and lunching with museum directors. And she’s running on the fumes of what she did in 2002. She is completely out of touch.”

  “Inez, get a fucking grip. I’m not going to get you in trouble by repeating this to Lulu, but you can’t go around talking like this.”

  “Ah, yes. Lulu. You know, the only reason Anna brought you in to the gallery was to make Lulu happy.”

  Was that true? She had no idea. But it sounded good.

  “I don’t think so,” Brandt said. But his voice went up a notch.

  “Open your eyes. You want to be the next Julian Schnabel? Because you won’t be if you stick with Anna. The smartest thing Schnabel did was leave Mary Boone. It’s called a stepping stone. Art business 101.”

  Brandt shook his head.

  “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this. You’re stuck at Sterling at least through the fall until Anna makes back all the money she rolled into you. But I’m telling you the real deal, and the sooner you realize it, the sooner you can plan the next phase in your career.” She looked out the window, at the majestic view of the High Line. She tried not to think about the new gallery space, the one she’d imagined she’d be running one day soon.

  “You know, Inez, you really shouldn’t shit where you eat,” said Brandt.

  If Anna had her way, Inez knows she will be eating in Beijing this time next year. And yes, that would be better than ending up back in Astoria, where she came from. But it would still be a step back. And after coming this far, that was not acceptable.

  Growing in up Queens had, in a word, sucked. Like Lulu, she had grown up with a single parent. But that was where the similarity—and her empathy for Anna’s lucky daughter—ended.

  Inez’s father, Luis Manuel, was a Cuban immigrant who worked in maintenance at the Waldorf Astoria even though he wanted to be an actor. Her mother, Iris, was a Brit. They met at a club one night in the mid-nineties, when clubs were all about dancing and fucking, not bottle service and money. Iris was barely out of her teens—only in the city for the summer. When she got pregnant, she moved in with Inez’s father because her parents wouldn’t take her back. They weren’t married when she gave birth, and she gave Inez her last name. That was basically all she ever gave her.

  Six months later, Iris left—never to be seen again.

  Inez couldn’t imagine how far she’d have gone in life if she’d had a wealthy, powerful mother. She’d sure as hell be doing more to make a name for herself than that parasite Lulu.

  “Did you come up with ideas for the title of the show?” Inez asked.

  Brandt looked at her like she was crazy.

  “Did you?” she repeated.

  “Wanderlust.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Lulu likes it.”

  “Lulu might have gotten you this gig,” she said, and saw him bristle. “But she has no idea how to keep you in it. I do. Anna might want to occasionally throw her kid a bone, but that doesn’t mean she takes her seriously. My job this summer is to train Lulu—so what does that tell you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It tells me that Anna knows that Lulu doesn’t know shit. Get that?”

  Brandt didn’t say anything. He looked at her carefully. She felt like she was holding her breath. This was the point where he either told her to fuck off, or he bought in.

  “Okay,” he said. “So what do you think?”

  Inez almost choked on her relief. “I’ll come up with something harder-hitting. Just leave it to me. You focus on the painting.”

  S
he stood to leave, and felt Brandt’s eyes on her as she walked to the door.

  “And Brandt? Let’s keep this little visit between the two of us. If not, I won’t be able to help you. And trust me, you don’t want that to happen.”

  Chapter Seven

  Move back home?

  It’s the last thing I want to do. And the worst part was that I had to stew over it all day at the gallery, pretending everything was fine. I texted Niffer during lunch—no response. She was probably still sleeping. But Brandt didn’t respond to my text or voice mail. I hadn’t heard from him since he left me to go to Dustin’s party last night.

  At six, I burst out of the gallery, exhausted but happy to be free for the night. I check my phone, surprised to find nothing from Brandt.

  Okay, he knows my mother, and probably didn’t want to incur her wrath by distracting me. But he doesn’t answer his phone when I call on my way to the subway. I leave a message.

  By the time I reach his apartment building, still nothing. The doorman just waves me in.

  I knock on Brandt’s door. No answer.

  He’s probably closed off in his studio. I usually know when he’s working and try not to bother him. But his complete radio silence pushes me to make an exception.

  I hesitate for a minute outside the apartment door. I lean closer, my ear nearly touching it. Sometimes Brandt listens to music when he paints. I don’t hear anything.

  I knock twice—hard.

  It takes about thirty seconds for him to open the door, almost as if he’d been expecting me.

  “Hey,” he says. He is shirtless and barefoot, and his hair is tousled and specked with green paint. He has streaks of paint on his chest and his eyes are bloodshot. I can’t tell if he’s happy to see me or not. I follow him to the master bedroom, which he has cleared of all furniture and uses as his painting studio.

  “How was the party last night?”

  “Pretty beat,” he says with a shrug.

  “Is everything okay? I thought I’d take a look at your stuff. I know you wanted to talk about that larger canvas before the studio visit tomorrow.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just finishing up.”

  I frown. Brandt always wants my input. He asks my opinion on color, or perspective; on what he’s trying to say with each piece.