“You?” Ryan asks, unsure.
“Why not? Am I chopped liver or something?”
“Not at all,” he says, backpedaling. “But Maggie said you were obsessed with Bernard Singer.”
“I don’t have to see Bernard every night.” I fudge, unwilling to admit that Bernard and I are probably over.
“Okay, then,” he gives in. “I’ll meet you at the gallery at eight.”
Yippee, I think, when he’s gone. I’ve been hearing about this art opening for weeks, wondering if Rainbow would ask me, and if not, how I could wrangle an invitation. I kept telling myself it was only a stupid party, while secretly knowing it was an event I didn’t want to miss.
And since Bernard hasn’t called, why not? I’m certainly not going to put my life on hold for him.
Chapter Twenty-One
The gallery is in SoHo, a deserted patch of run-down blocks with cobblestoned streets and enormous buildings that were once factories. It’s hard to imagine Manhattan as a center of industrialism, but apparently they used to make everything here, from clothing to lightbulbs to tools. A metal ramp leads to the gallery’s entrance, the railing decorated with all manner of chic, downtown types, smoking cigarettes and discussing what they did the night before.
I push my way through the crowd. It’s packed inside, a mass of patrons forming a bottleneck by the entrance as everyone seems to have run into someone they know. The air is filled with smoke and the damp smell of sweat, but there’s the familiar buzz of excitement that indicates this is the place to be.
I take refuge along a wall, avoiding the circle of well-wishers gathered around a portly man with a goatee and hooded eyes. He’s dressed in a black smock and embroidered slippers, so I assume this is the great Barry Jessen himself, the most important artist in New York and Rainbow’s father. Indeed, Rainbow is standing behind him, looking, for the first time, lost and rather insignificant, despite the fact that she’s wearing a bright green fringed dress. Next to Barry, and towering over him by at least a head, is the model Pican.
She has the deliberately unself-conscious look of a woman who’s aware she’s exceptionally beautiful and knows you know it too, but is determined not to make her beauty the main attraction. She holds her head cocked slightly to the side and leaning toward her husband, as if to say, “Yes, I know I’m beautiful, but this night is all about him.” It is, I suppose, the ultimate indication of true love.
Either that, or it’s very good acting.
I don’t see Ryan or Capote yet, so I pretend to be extremely interested in the art. You’d think other people would be curious as well, but the spaces in front of the paintings are mostly empty, as if socializing is what an opening is really about.
And maybe for good reason. I can’t decide what I think about the paintings. They’re black and gray, with stick figures that appear to be victims of terrible violence or purveyors of injury. Hellish drops of blood drip from every angle. The stick figures are pierced with knives and needles while claws rip their ankles. It’s all very disturbing and quite unforgettable, which may be the point.
“What do you think?” asks Rainbow, coming up behind me. I’m surprised she’s lowered herself to solicit my opinion, but so far I’m the only person here who’s remotely close to her age.
“Powerful,” I say.
“I think they’re creepy.”
“You do?” I’m surprised she’s so honest.
“Don’t tell my father.”
“I won’t.”
“Ryan said he’s bringing you to the dinner,” she says, twirling a piece of fringe. “I’m glad. I would have invited you myself, but I didn’t have your number.”
“That’s okay. I’m happy to be here.”
She smiles and drifts away. I go back to staring at the paintings. Maybe New York isn’t so complic
ated after all. Perhaps belonging is simply a matter of showing up. If people see you enough, they assume you’re part of their group.
Eventually, Ryan and Capote appear, already in their cups. Ryan is weaving slightly and Capote is jovial, greeting everyone he sees like they’re an old friend.
“Carrie!” he says, kissing me on both cheeks as if he couldn’t be more pleased to see me.
A secret signal pulses through the crowd, and several people glide to the exit. These, apparently, are the chosen ones—chosen to attend the dinner, anyway.
“C’mon,” Ryan says, jerking his head toward the door. We follow the select group onto the street as Ryan runs his hands through his hair.
“Man, that was terrible,” he exclaims. “You’ve got to wonder what the world is coming to when we call that ‘art.’”