I’m about to continue this argument, when Bobby inserts himself and links his arm through mine. “Let’s get a drink and you can tell me all about your new play,” he gushes.
The huge open space has been hastily remodeled into something resembling an apartment by the addition of Sheetrock walls. The area near the windows is as big as a skating rink; along one side is a table, covered with a white cloth, that probably seats sixty. In front of the ceiling-high windows is a grouping of couches and armchairs draped with sailcloth. The wooden floor is worn, scuffed by the feet of hundreds of factory workers. In a few places, it’s actually black, as if someone set a small fire, thought better of it, and extinguished the flames.
“Here you go,” Bobby says, handing me a plastic cup filled with what turns out to be cheap champagne. He takes my hand. “Who do you want to meet? I know everyone.”
I want to extract my hand, but it seems rude. And besides, I’m sure Bobby is only being friendly. “Barry Jessen?” I ask boldly.
“Don’t you know him?” Bobby asks, with such genuine surprise it makes me laugh. I can’t imagine why Bobby would think I knew the great Barry Jessen, but apparently he assumes I get around quite a bit. Which only reinforces my theory: if people see you enough, they think you’re one of them.
Bobby marches me straight up to Barry Jessen himself, who is engaged in conversation with several people at once, and pulls me into the circle. My sense of belonging dissipates like a mist but Bobby seems immune to the hostile glances. “This is Carrie Bradshaw,” he announces to Barry. “She’s dying to meet you. You’re her favorite artist.”
Not one word of this is true, but I don’t dare contradict him. Especially as Barry Jessen’s expression changes from irritation to mild interest. He isn’t immune to flattery—just the opposite. He expects it.
“Is that so?” His black eyes lock on mine and I suddenly have the eerie sensation of staring into the face of the devil.
“I loved your show,” I say awkwardly.
“Do you think others will love it as well?” he demands.
His intensity unnerves me. “It’s so powerful, how can anyone not love it?” I blurt out, hoping he won’t question me further.
He doesn’t. Having received his kudos, he abruptly turns away, addressing himself to the lady in the silver coat.
Unfortunately, Bobby doesn’t get the message. “Now, Barry,” he begins insistently. “We have to talk about Basil,” at which point I seize the opportunity to escape. The thing about famous people, I realize, is that just because you can meet them doesn’t make you a famous person yourself.
I skitter down a little hallway and past a closed door, from which I hear laughter and hushed whisperings, then past another door that’s probably the bathroom because several people are lined up beside it, and right on through to an open door at the end of the corridor.
I pull up short, startled by the decor. The room is completely different from the rest of the loft. Oriental rugs are strewn across the floor and an ornate antique Indian bed covered with silk pillows sits in the center.
I figure I’ve wandered in the Jessens’ bedroom by accident, but it’s Rainbow who’s resting on the bed, talking to a guy wearing a knit Jamaican cap perched over dreadlocks.
“Sorry,” I murmur quickly, as the guy looks up in surprise. He’s shockingly handsome, with chiseled features and beautiful black eyes.
Rainbow whips around, startled, worried she’s been caught out, but when she sees me, she relaxes. “It’s only Carrie,” she says. “She’s cool.”
“Only Carrie” ventures a step closer. “What are you guys doing?”
“This is my brother, Colin,” Rainbow says, indicating the guy with the dreadlocks.
“You get high?” Colin asks, holding up a small marijuana pipe.
“Sure.” Somehow, I don’t think being a little stoned at this party is going to be a pr
oblem. Half the people here already seem like they’re on something.
Rainbow makes space for me on the bed. “I love your room,” I say, admiring the luxurious furnishings.
“You do?” She takes the pipe from Colin, leaning forward as he flicks the bowl with a gold lighter.
“It’s very anti-Barry,” Colin says, in a clipped accent. “That’s what’s so great about it.”
I take a hit from the pipe and pass it to Colin. “Are you English?” I ask, wondering how he can be English while Rainbow seems so American.
Rainbow giggles. “He’s Amhara. Like my mother.”
“So Barry isn’t your father?”
“Lord, no!” Colin exclaims. He and Rainbow exchange a secretive look.