I let out a discernable grumble and October said, “You need to mingle anyway.”
“Me? Why do I have to mingle?”
“Joe . . .” She was sitting in a tall chair with her eyes closed and her head tilted up at Shelly, who was applying dark, sparkly shadow on her lids. I wasn’t used to seeing her with makeup on and thought she looked like she was wearing a theatrical mask of her own face.
“You built this thing,” she said. “You need to talk about it. Toot your horn.”
I mumbled something about not having a horn to toot, and she said, “Well, then toot your kazoo. You have to. It’s for charity.”
I sat on the couch with my arms crossed in front of my chest, and Rae said, “I think he’s pouting now.”
Moments later, Helen Driver summoned Rae downstairs to finalize the guest list, and she walked out just as Mr. P and his husband, Thomas, walked in. They were well-dressed men, late fifties, and though I’d seen them coming and going around Casa Diez, I’d never officially met them.
They greeted October with air kisses and loud affection. Mr. P was the more handsome of the two. Tan and fit, he looked like an aging surfer, not a Silicon Valley mogul. Thomas was tall and elegant, with smooth, shiny, almost pink skin unnatural to someone his age. He wore round, gold-rimmed glasses, and his teeth were glow-in-the-dark white like the walls of the gallery.
Thomas was carrying a small black vase filled with yellow lupine wildflowers. He held it up in front of October and said, “From Christopher.”
He set the vase on the table and handed October the card that went along with it, but she didn’t read it because Shelly told her to close her eyes.
Seeing the flowers from Cal reinforced my belief that I wasn’t good enough for October. If I were half the man she seemed to think I was, I would have been considerate enough to send her a vase of native wildflowers and a card too.
Neither Mr. P nor Thomas noticed me slumped over on the couch until October pointed her thumb in my direction and said, “Guys, this is Joe.” She paused, and then added, “My assistant.” I stood up just as she said, “Joe, meet Phil Pearlman and Thomas Frasier.” Only then did I realize that Mr. P’s husband was Thomas Frasier, the gallery owner.
When October said my name, their eyes widened, and when they shook my hand, it was with a suspicious amount of interest.
“Well, hello . . .” Mr. P said.
“We’ve heard so much about you,” Thomas added.
These were two of October’s closest friends. I knew by the tones of their voices that she’d told them what had happened between us, and I didn’t know whether to be flattered or humiliated.
“Joe doesn’t want to go to the cocktail party,” October said. “Will you guys take him downstairs and keep him company?”
“Of course,” Thomas promised, slipping his arm through mine. “You’re a cutie, aren’t you?”
I blushed, and Thomas said, “Look, he’s blushing.”
“Mr. Pearlman,” I said, trying to deflect the attention. “Have you seen the birdcage?”
“Oh, sweetie, call me Phil. And no. I’m waiting for the big reveal.”
“I saw it!” Thomas exclaimed. “It’s exceptional.”
Rae came back with the clipboard still in her hands and her snacks still on top.
“Good god with your trail mix,” Phil said to her. “There’s smoked Gouda, jamón, and Marcona almonds over there, and you’re eating bird shit.”
Rae was all business. “Ten minutes, and you guys have to clear the room.”
Thomas leaned down toward my ear and mumbled “bossy bitch” under his breath, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
In preparation for our exodus down to the party, I went to the bar cart and poured myself a double shot of whiskey. Phil saw what I was doing and said, “Make it two, Joey.”
I handed him the drink and fixed another one for myself.
Phil raised his glass and said, “To brilliant women. And the men who put them in cages.”
I mumbled, “To art.”
Shelly was in the middle of applying mascara to October’s eyelashes, but October managed to look over at me when I said that.
The whiskey never kicked in. No doubt I appeared aloof and composed to everyone around me. That’s my superhero skill in life. But inside I was a basket case. I wanted the exhibit to be a success. I wanted to fit in. I wanted October’s friends and colleagues to like me. And I wanted the mechanics of the cage to function without issue. All of that, combined with a roomful of strangers I assumed knew more about art than I did, triggered fear, anxiety, and feelings of inadequacy rooted so deep in me I wished I could summon the numb, checked-out Joe Harper to represent me for the night.
Downstairs, people were starting to arrive. Many were from the tech world, Phil told me: young, obscenely paid, and dressed like kindergarteners. Lots of colorful hoodies, sneakers, and slouchy jeans. I had on black pants and the black striped shirt I’d bought for Cal’s dinner party and felt overdressed.
“They look like they don’t have pots to piss in,” Phil said, “but they’ll pay thousands for these pieces, just watch.”
Thomas and Phil seemed to know many of the guests, and they introduced me to a handful, including the woman who ran the organization for which we were raising money. Her name was Julia, and she told me I was the spitting image of an actor from a TV show on HBO. When she walked away, Thomas claimed she had been flirting with me.
Thomas led me around the gallery, telling me about all the other pieces being auctioned off. Two in particular moved me. One was by a striking, livewire of a woman from Seattle named Jennifer, who became wide-eyed and animated when Phil told her I worked with October—I thought it said a lot about Phil that he used the word
