“I don’t go to a lot of modern art museums.”
“It’s contemporary art,” he corrects me.
I look at the dossier. “Aren’t they the same?”
Sam sighs. “Contemporary art is evolving and started around sixty years ago. It’s differentiated from modern art in that it’s more conceptually rather than aesthetically based.”
“Oh. Thus the screaming faces?”
“Thus the screaming faces.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“I can do it.” I’m confident now in the face of his doubt.
We turn a corner near a warehouse and then another before the car pulls up in front of a multistory building in the middle of what looks like an abandoned field. With a shock, I realize where I am. It’s right by the path where I go running. I must have passed this place a dozen times and only ever noticed the microbrewery next to it. This lack of awareness of my own surroundings saps my confidence and I grab Sam’s arm.
“You’re right. Let’s leave.”
He puts his hand on mine, I think to comfort me, but instead he shakes me off. “Too late.”
The door opens and we’re confronted by two strangers. Mei prepped me so I know they aren’t Fangli’s acquaintances, and I also know at this moment there is no way on earth I’m going to survive tonight.
“Showtime,” Sam says over his shoulder and gets out of the car.
I need out of here, now.
Fifteen
The two people from the art gallery introduce themselves, and I don’t even catch the names because I’m focused on my new plan. I stroke my throat as I mouth “laryngitis.” Sam turns wide eyes on me and I give him my softest and most beseeching Fangli smile, the one she uses when she’s apologizing. His return—and much more aggressive—smile says he’ll cover for me but we’re going to have one hell of a talk in private.
Sam has a gruesomely expressive face.
Our greeters burst out in polite worry, and Sam steps manfully into the breach. “Fangli refused to stay away,” he says. “She’s thrilled to see the exhibit, but of course you’ll have to forgive her for not speaking. She needs to recover her voice for the show tomorrow.”
The man darts away and I wonder if he’s off to spread the word. There’s a photographer on hand and Sam and I pose for some shots before going inside. Mei had given me instructions on Fangli’s favored pose, and I point my chin down and to the side with a slight tilt to my lips. The shutter clicks rapid-fire beside us, but unlike the scene with Mikey at the coffee shop, I don’t feel under attack. I might not be in control of the situation or have much of a clue what’s going on, but being dressed for the part and with someone who knows what he’s doing gives me a thin feeling of power.
Sam touches my bare arm to tell me we can stop and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Not bad.”
“High praise.” Even whispered, nerves give me a snippy tone that he ignores. The photographer was only one of tonight’s hurdles.
That familiar hush-and-buzz comes over the room when we enter, and I give my superstar Fangli smile as people come up. The first few minutes pass by in a blur as I refuse a glass of wine with great regret and nod my way through many introductions while immediately forgetting names and faces. I’m almost blinded by the beading on dresses, or more accurately gowns. These people are dressed fancier on a Tuesday night than I’ve seen at weddings, and one woman is channeling the excesses of the 1980s with sequined shoulder pads big enough for a linebacker and a suffocating dose of Dior’s Poison. I can’t tell if it’s her usual style or an artistic statement.
My jumpsuit seems almost too sedate. Then I see a woman cast a covetous glance at my earrings and feel better. Fangli thought I looked good and Sam considers me acceptable, which means I’m batting a thousand.
Sam hovers beside me to handle conversations, which at first are softballs about how we like the city and the unseasonable chill of the summer night. It’s nice to know that even with a well-heeled art crowd, the weather remains a go-to Canadian conversation starter.
As we work through the throng, I notice the many shiny jewels decorating ears, fingers, and throats. With a start, I remember that Fangli once paid a half-million dollars for a canvas of hands in various poses. I am in a room of people who consider it reasonable to buy a photograph that costs the same as a house.
They’re only people, I try to remind myself as I’m introduced to a woman with puffy lips and tight skin. She wears only a single jewel, a large pendant that I’m a thousand percent sure is not cubic zirconia. It’s only money. Money doesn’t make you better or more worthy of respect.