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 complicated 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.’”
“You’re a philistine,” Capote says.
“You can’t tell me you actually liked that shit.”
“I did,” I say. “I thought it was disturbing.”
“Disturbing, but not in a good way,” Ryan says.
Capote laughs. “You can take the boy out of the suburbs but you can’t take the suburbs out of the boy.”
“I take serious offense to that comment,” Ryan cracks.
“
“Of course you are,” Capote says, with a certain amount of disdain.
“And you’re from someplace better?” I challenge him.
“Capote’s from an old Southern family, darlin’,” Ryan says, imitating Capote’s accent. “His grandmother fought off the Yankees. Which would make her about a hundred and fifty years old.”
“I never said my grandmother fought the Yankees. I said she told me never to
“I guess that lets me out,” I comment, while Ryan snickers in appreciation.
The dinner is being held at the Jessens’ loft. It seems like ten years ago when L’il laughed at me for thinking the Jessens lived in a building without running water, but my early assessment isn’t far off. The building is a little scary. The freight elevator has a door that slides open manually, followed by one of those clanging wire gates. Inside is a crank to move the elevator up and down.
The operation of said elevator is a source of consternation. When we get in, five people are discussing the alternate possibility of finding the stairs.
“It’s terrible when people live in these places,” says a man with yellow hair.
“It’s cheap,” Ryan points out.
“Cheap shouldn’t mean dangerous.”
“What’s a little danger when you’re the most important artist in New York?” Capote says, with his usual arrogance.
“Oh my. You’re so macho,” the man replies. The lighting in the elevator is dim and when I turn around to take a closer look, I discover the speaker is none other than Bobby. The Bobby from the fashion show. Who promised me a reading in his space.
“Bobby,” I nearly shout.
He doesn’t recognize me at first. “Hello, yes, great to see you again,” he replies automatically.
“It’s me,” I insist. “Carrie Bradshaw?”
He suddenly remembers. “Of course! Carrie Bradshaw. The playwright.”
Capote snorts and, since no one else seems either capable or interested, takes over the operation of the crank. The elevator lurches upward with a sickening jolt that throws several of the occupants against the wall.
“I’m so happy I didn’t eat anything today,” remarks a woman in a long silver coat.
Capote manages to get the elevator reasonably close to the third story, meaning the doors open a couple of feet above the floor. Ever the gentleman, he hops out and extends his hand to the lady in the silver coat. Ryan gets out on his own, followed by Bobby, who jumps and falls to his knees. When it’s my turn, Capote hesitates, his arm poised midair.
“I’m fine,” I say, rejecting his offer.
“Come on, Carrie. Don’t be a jerk.”
“In other words, try being a lady,” I murmur, taking his hand.
“For once in your life.”
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.
