“Fuck. He was right behind me. He should be here.”
She shrugged. He could’ve been in an accident, but she didn’t think so. He was distracted; he was squeezing a hundred things into the tiny space she’d marked out as hers. He was putting her last. It shouldn’t hurt so badly. It was eviscerating.
“He’s not coming, is he?”
Dillon took hold of her arms; in her heels she was almost able to eyeball him. “He was right behind me. The ugly son of a bitch is late and for that you should cut his balls off, but he’ll be here.” He jerked his head towards the window. “That’s him?”
She nodded. It was hard to find language in the war between heartbreak and fury.
“Yeah, like I said, ugly son of a bitch. You could do better.” He pulled his phone from his suit pocket and she stopped him. “What if I only ring hospitals?”
That shook her, but only for the second it took to recognise a false hope. “Do you really think we need to ring hospitals?”
Dillon frowned. “No. He’ll be here.”
At 7.30pm, she sold her first painting and not to Jay or anyone else she knew. It was unaccountably exciting someone with no ties to her thought enough of her work to want to take it home and put it on their wall. She’d led million dollar acquisition deals that were less thrilling, certainly less personally satisfying.
At 8pm, Tom arrived, fashionably late. She introduced him to Jay for the first time. She might’ve
introduced him to Mace as well. Time shifted, paintings were purchased. By 8.30pm, the whole exhibition was marked with red sold stickers and she had an offer, a great offer, on One Night. She thought seriously about taking it. It hardly mattered that she keep it, that Mace see it. Perhaps this was her fault. Had she taught him that art was only an amusing pastime she cared marginally about? That wasn’t how she thought about it now.
People were leaving, Tom then Bryan and Kath, home to relieve the babysitter, Jay, Ingrid, Agnes and Carmen. Alfie stayed and so did Dillon. Margaret had her shoes off. Her partner Julian, who owned the gallery attached to the school, pulled her aside.
“You know it’s unusual this is, to sell out like this. Your work is evocative. You have a future as an artist, but then you must know that.”
Not until tonight had she seen it, and heard it, eavesdropping on a dozen conversations where people considered her work and found it interesting enough to spend money on.
She hugged Julian. It was kind of him to say so. “Thank you. I’m a little shocked. Beginner’s luck I guess.”
“No, no. You come see me tomorrow. I want to talk about a commission.”
“You mean someone would pay me to paint?” It was a slightly hysterical notion.
He smiled. “Many of the right people will pay to have your art if we manage it well enough. Art is a business like any other, and you are a valuable commodity.” He must’ve read her scepticism. He gave a warbling laugh. “You’re thinking I say this to all Margaret’s students.” She nodded and he waved a hand dismissively. “They wish.”
At 9pm, Dillon pulled her into his side. “I will hunt him down and I will boil his scurvy flesh from his bones and bring you his inadequate skeleton.”
She hugged him back. “That’s very medieval of you.”
“Unless you’d like the honour of stabbing him to death? Ladies choice.” He tipped her head up with a finger under her chin. “How bad is this?”
“I’m disappointed. I wanted him to be here.” A sense of extreme sadness sat on top of her lungs, pressing down on all the frustration and anger, all the good will and good fortune of the night. It made it hard to breathe.
“That I’m disappointed crap worries me more than if you’d green lighted his slow and painful death. He is desperately in love with you. And I am appallingly, disgustingly jealous. You do know that, right?”
She searched Dillon’s eyes for the truth. He’d scalp anyone who came after Mace and he’d become a good friend to her as well. “He couldn’t keep his promise to be here, that’s all I know.”
Dillon kissed her forehead. “Anything I can do?” He inclined his head towards Alfie. “Want me to get rid of rock star hair?”
She smiled. “Rock star hair helped me get ready for this. Don’t tell Mace about the painting.”
“I won’t be able to tell him anything because if I see him before you do, he won’t be able to hear through the bandages.”
He kissed her again, and released her, gave Alfie the evil eye and the night was done. Julian turned the spotlights off. Margaret had disappeared but they could hear her off-key singing.
Alfie offered his arm. He was smart enough not to remark on Mace’s absence. “Supper, my shout?” he said.
Her feet were sore and she was horribly hungry. She was miserable and felt like crying and that was ridiculous, she’d just sold out her first exhibition. She could go home and work herself into a temper, break things, or sob till her eyes bled while she waited for Mace to front with his excuses, or she could celebrate with Alfie. Very little Mace could say would make up for his absence and she was in no mood for his excuses.