Ruin Me Page 7

  “Catch you later,” he says, picking up my duffel bag.

  “Wait? Where should I go?” A police siren wails in the distance, and it’s getting nearer.

  “Just go where you said you had to be after this. Don’t lose your shit—we didn’t shoot anyone.”

  I stand there, immobile. Am I really supposed to just go to the party like nothing happened? My mother knows. She has to know.

  He holds out my bag.

  “It went great up there. Perfect. Now get out of here before the cops show up.”

  I watch him disappear into an alley, his hat pulled low. And for all of my worry about what just happened—about my mother having seen me, about the police—about the fact that this entire outing was about shaming the gallery with my name on it—all I feel is the sinking pit in my stomach that he is gone.

  *** ***

  Inez couldn’t believe her eyes.

  The shower of money seemed endless. By now, all forty guests had gathered on the sidewalk. She could see by their delighted faces they assumed this was some sort of performance-art stunt arranged by Anna for their amusement. Of course, one look at Anna, rigid with fury, would have told them otherwise.

  The photographers were having a field day, snapping away at the rain of green. Some were bent low to the ground, getting close-ups of the mysterious slips of paper.

  Inez shielded her eyes and looked up, trying to figure out where it was coming from. The sun was too bright.

  She looked over to see Anna talking furiously into her cell phone.

  “What is this?” Brandt asked

  “I have no idea,” Inez replied.

  “Have you seen Lulu?”

  “Lulu?” Inez said incredulously. “You think I care where Lulu is? Why don’t you go call her? Maybe go inside so I can start hustling the guests back in before Anna has a nervous breakdown.”

  That’s when she realized the spectacle of flying paper was luring people off of the High Line toward the gallery, like the Pied Piper’s flute. Tourists, parents with small children, teenagers with nothing better to do trailed after the fluttering paper, grabbing at it in delight.

  “Keep these people away from the gallery,” Anna said, ushering guests back inside.

  Inez knew she had to act—to capitalize on the bizarre incident. She pulled out her phone and shot off a text to Damian Damian, who had R.S.V.P’d that he couldn’t make it. The decline hadn’t bothered Anna—she had a disdain for bloggers. But Inez had known it wasn’t a good sign. Damian Damian mattered—maybe not to the Park Avenue set, but certainly to the influencers and tastemakers, to the people who perpetuate the art scene beyond the pristine walls of the Sterling Gallery. These were the people whose clout Inez would need if and when she jumped ship. Or even just to solidify her power and influence if she stayed.

  Inez had been looking for an opportunity to grant Damian Damian a favor. She knew that one day, maybe sooner than she’d thought—she’d need to call in one of her own. You missed a scoop by missing Anna’s luncheon. It’s not too late. Get here ASAP and I’ll fill you in. Or you can read about it later today on NYMag.com.

  She bent down, snagged a few fake hundred-dollar bills, and shoved them into her handbag.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I am jumpy and agitated as I wait in the line for the Starbucks bathroom.

  Once inside, I look in the mirror and feel instantly better: I had forgotten I was wearing GoST’s black baseball cap. There is a chance—a slim prayer in hell—that my mother didn’t see my face. I could be any female, twenty-something, roof-hopping vandal.

  Holding onto this slim shred of hope, I unzip the duffel bag and shake out the white dress. It’s hard to believe my mother gave it to me just this morning. It seems like another lifetime now.

  I shed my sweaty, dirty clothes and stuff them into the bag, knowing now that I have to ditch them.

  Strapping on my high-heeled Tory Burch sandals, I step closer to the mirror and use toilet paper in a futile attempt to help my face recover from the dipped-in-Crisco sweaty look I am currently sporting. Above all, I avoid looking at my phone.

  I can only imagine the messages.

  *** ***

  “Can you believe how those people behaved? Just running around and grabbing that paper? I have to say, Anna usually does everything flawlessly. But this neighborhood—I don’t understand why it’s so trendy.”

  Inez nodded, a captive audience to Nina Saroyin. Over her shoulder, she watched Anna outside, talking to the police. Barricades were being set up to keep the crowd of onlookers away from the gallery. A crew was already raking up the fake currency, piling it into evidence bags.

  A waiter appeared holding a tray of mimosas. They both took a glass.

  “It has always felt sketchy to me,” Nina said. “And look what just happened!”

  Once the police arrived, the guests realized that Anna had not staged the spectacular display for their amusement.

  “I had to call the authorities,” Anna told her. “If people feel they can get away with these sorts of pranks they will simply be emboldened to continue.”

  Nina looked at Inez for commiseration, shaking her head in disgust. Inez simply nodded along, because what could she say? The Nina Saroyins of the world never understand that you couldn’t pay for this type of publicity. An hour ago, Inez was on the phone with Page Six practically begging for a mention in tomorrow’s column. Now she would not be surprised to see Anna on the Post’s front page.

  One of the photographers called Nina aside for a picture with Joan Rivers and Dustin McBride.

  Inez dipped her hand in her Chloe bag, and surreptitiously took a peek at one of the fake bills. She bit her lip to keep from smiling at the sight of Anna’s photo. She turned it over for a peek at the reverse side.

  IN GoST WE TRUST.

  Why was that name so familiar?

  Lulu!

  What a coincidence—or not—that the street artist that Lulu tried to pitch to her mother showed up with a stunt like this. Inez was sure Anna would find it very interesting.

  “So when do I get to meet Brandt Penn?”

  Inez jumped in surprise. Nina was back, craning her neck to look around the room.

  “No time like the present,” Inez said, stuffing the fake money deep into her bag. She waved Brandt over. He trotted toward them. Good doggie.

  Just then, Anna breezed back into the gallery, smiling as calmly as if she had merely stepped outside for some fresh air. Inez was gratified to see Anna nod in her direction, probably the only acknowledgement or thanks she would get for having smoothly hustled the guests inside and away from the scene of the crime, so to speak.

  “There you two are! I trust Inez had made the introduction?” Anna said to Nina and Brandt.

  “Anna, you do know how to pick them! So handsome. Like a movie star. What happened to the days when the painters looked like Julian Schnabel? Not that I’m complaining … ”

  Inez felt an incredible sense of calm. Her world felt in good order. With Anna and Brandt by her side, with Nina Saroyin clutching her arm as she spoke, the idea that Anna would ship her off to Asia was unthinkable.

  “Isn’t that your daughter?” Nina said to Anna.

  And all eyes turned to the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A police officer stops me about twenty feet away from the entrance to the gallery. The whole perimeter is barricaded off. It’s as if someone called in a bomb threat. I wonder if GoST had any idea how much commotion he caused.

  “It’s my mother’s gallery,” I tell the officer. He asks for ID and I hand him my driver’s license. He talks into his radio and I wait and wait. In my wild imagination, my mother reports back that I am the culprit. He leads me away in handcuffs.

  “You’re all clear,” he says, waving me along.

  I push through the glass door, and immediately spot my mother and Inez and Brandt huddled together with my mother’s client, Nina Saroyin. I’ve never felt more like an
outsider. I can’t believe I just blindly walked into a near disaster. How long have I waited for my mother to take me seriously? This summer is my chance to prove myself to her. I can’t blow it over GoST—no matter how intriguing he is.

  And he really is.

  My mother notices me and beckons me with one finger. Her face is placid but stony—her public face. I have no clue if she recognized me on the roof. But I have already decided my strategy if she did. Niffer has a saying: Lie and Deny Until You Die. She swears by it, and says in high school she was busted by her parents for everything from smoking to sneaking boys into her room and that just by digging in her heels and denying whatever offense she was charged with, they eventually backed off.

  “Lulu, you missed all of the excitement,” my mother says with a small smile.

  What would be the normal response of someone who had nothing to do with the event?

  “Yeah, what’s the deal with all the police?” I ask. There, that was easy enough. Brandt moves closer to me, and slips his arm around my waist. I look at him, surprised by the affectionate gesture.

  Guilt courses through me. I had been busy running around with a guy—an artist—who was not my boyfriend. It’s irrational, but I felt like I cheated on him. At the same time, I’m still pissed at the way he reacted at lunch.

  Before my mother can fill me in on the drama, Nina breathlessly recounts the whole thing.

  “Really,” Nina says. “It was like terrorism.”

  “Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s crazy.”

  “Never a dull moment,” my mother says breezily. There is no tension in her voice—at least, no more than usual. And in that moment I know that she did not recognize me.

  “What’s crazy is that you showed up here just as all the police left,” Inez says, looking at me funny. “What timing.”

  “Yeah,” I mumble.

  I’m saved from an awkward pause when pretentious art blogger Damian Damian walks in the door.

  “Excuse me for a minute,” Inez says, rushing over to him.

  “Who is that?” Nina wrinkles her nose, pretending to be appalled by Damian Damian’s appearance, but probably secretly wanting an introduction. Damian dyed his hair pink since the last time I saw him. He’s wearing a black suit with a fuchsia tie that matches his hair. He does not remove his dark glasses.

  “Can I borrow Lulu for a minute?” Brandt says, to no one in particular.

  He leads me by the hand toward the back of the room. A photographer stops us to get a few shots. It’s the last thing I want to do—I still feel sweaty and disheveled from running around with GoST. But Brandt immediately agrees to pose, and doesn’t hesitate when two more photographers get into the mix. The whole thing probably takes no more than three minutes, but I can barely stand still.

  When we break free, I steer Brandt behind a thick column hoping no one will see us for a few minutes.

  “Are you okay? You seem kind of jumpy,” he says. He’s wearing a lightweight pinstriped suit I’ve never seen before. He’s not wearing a tie, so the look is pulled together but not too much for daytime. Brandt always knows how to dress.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Dentist appointment.”

  “You should have seen that crazy stunt out there. I can’t wait to find out who did it. Probably some loser artist trying to get your mother’s attention.”

  I can’t help but smile. If he finds my reaction strange—and he should—he doesn’t comment on it.

  “I’m sorry I missed it,” I say.

  “I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”

  “Why would I be avoiding you?”

  He shrugs. “Because things are shitty between us? Look, I’m sorry for the stuff I said. I want to get back on track.”

  “Are you just apologizing because you’re afraid of pissing off my mom? I mean, being in this gorgeous new gallery space must really remind you what it’s all about.”

  “Why are you being so cynical all of a sudden?”

  “You were pretty cynical the other day when I came over and you fucked me like that. And then suggested that my mother was repping you just to make me happy.”

  “It was a moment of weakness, Lulu. And I’m saying I’m sorry. I’m under a lot of pressure. You of all people should know what artists go through before their first major show. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  I nod. “I guess there’s some stuff we need to work out.”

  “Here,” he says, handing me a house key.

  “What’s this?”

  “A peace offering.”

  “Is this for your place?”

  He nods.

  I don’t want this fight to go on and on. But handing me a key to his apartment doesn’t change the fact that he acted like a total dick the other day. I told him something painful and embarrassing, and he made it all about him. I can’t deal with this right now. I need to focus on work. I need your support.

  Whether he likes it or not, he’s going to have to hear that I’m pissed. But now isn’t the time or place. So I just put the key in my handbag.

  “We should go somewhere after this. Just the two of us,” I say.

  “Agreed.” He leans in to kiss me, and I give in to it, telling myself we’ll work out the details later.

  He leads me by the hand back to the front of the gallery, where we’re immediately intercepted by my mother.

  “There you two are. Nina just invited you to join us at a little post-reception at her apartment. We’ll leave directly from here.”

  I look at Brandt. Is there a way for us to beg out of this?

  “Sounds great,” he says enthusiastically.

  *** ***

  “So what’s the scoop, Elliot? This better be good. I was in the middle of getting blown by a publicist for the Forrester Whitman gallery.”

  Inez led Damian outside and closed the door behind them.

  “Do you know the street artist GoST?”

  “I don’t know him. I’ve seen his stuff around. Very Banksy-esque. A tad cynical for my taste. Why? Is he hot now? Is Anna repping him?”

  Inez shook her head.

  “See that roof up there?”

  She pointed to the building across the street.

  “Yeah?”

  “Just as the guests were arriving for the party today, someone stood up there and used some kind of machine to blow fake money all over us.”

  “Bee-zar,” Damian said. “And you think it was GoST?”

  Inez pulled one of the bills with Anna’s photo on it from her bag and handed it to him. He took one look and started laughing.

  “I love it!” he said, jumping up and down. “Love it, love it, love it!”

  Inez pointed out the line IN GoST WE TRUST.

  “You didn’t get a look-see at the person on the roof?” he asked.

  “It was too far away, the sun was glaring.”

  “Can I keep this?” he asked.

  “No. But you can photograph it right now and then scurry back to your little lair and write about it.”

  Damian rolled his eyes and placed the paper on the sidewalk. He crouched over it to get a good shot with his phone.

  “The thing is,” Inez said carefully. “Not that many people knew about this luncheon. I mean, the gallery isn’t even open yet. I wonder why GoST targeted this particular spot. I almost wonder if it was some kind of inside job.”

  “Oh, that’s juicy. I’m kind of loving you right now,” he says.

  “You should,” Inez said, glancing back at the gallery. “I have to get back to the party.”

  “I hope it’s not too rude, but I’m going to skedaddle and get this posted.”

  “It’s totally rude,” Inez said. “But I’d expect no less from you.”

  Damian tensed at the comment, but then decided it wasn’t an insult.

  “Just one question: Why now? You’ve never given me anything but the same party invites you giv
e to all those pandering art journalists.”

  “Maybe things are changing. And maybe you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Damian.”

  “Oh, I’m not. I just hope this is the gift horse that keeps on giving.”

  “Absolutely. As long as the giving isn’t a one-way street.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  They shared a conspiratorial smile, and she slipped back inside the gallery.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nina Saroyin’s apartment is palatial and bursting with art. A massive Jeff Koons stainless-steel balloon animal—a pink dog—dominates the entrance foyer.

  Koons always makes me feel like I’m being mocked.

  My father, Shane Holland, was a sculptor. He did geometric abstract work from sheets of metal—stainless steel, copper, bronze, and titanium. There are about two dozen pieces of his work floating around in private collections. My mother has one in her living room. I saw another at the Whitney once, when it was on loan. When I walk into an apartment like this, I always look around hoping to see his work. I wish my mother had donated some of his sculptures to museums. But it’s as if she buried his work along with him.

  My phone is dinging with Google Alerts, and there’re only two things I have set for alerts: the gallery, and GoST. Today, the cyber alarm bells are ringing for them both at the same time.

  I ask the uniformed dude who answered the door to direct me to the bathroom. On my way down the hall, I spot another Koons—a major one. It’s his forty-one-inch-tall porcelain sculpture of blond bombshell Jayne Mansfield holding the Pink Panther. She is shirtless, and Panther has his arms around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. I once heard Koons tell my mother that the piece represented the Pink Panther as a masturbation aid for women.

  My mother is not a fan of Jeff Koons. Still, she probably would have liked the commission on that sixteen-million-dollar sale. But she stopped repping sculptors after my father. “They’re all crazy,” she told me.

  The bathroom is completely mirrored. This would be unsettling if I were actually planning to pee. But all I need to do is check my phone.