Forbidden French

Igrip the hard metal rail as the wind whips past. I’m standing on the balcony’s edge, trying to determine the distance between me and the concrete sidewalk down below. If I were standing on the second floor, I could maybe walk away from a jump unscathed, but on the third floor of my grandmother’s townhouse, the distance doesn’t bode well for my chances of survival, not to mention I’d likely land on one of the unsuspecting people strolling by, and there’s a difference between being suicidal and homicidal. There’s no need to take anyone down with me. Though, to clarify, I’m not trying to end my life. That’s not what has me standing here on the edge, looking down. It’s simply the idea of freedom that has me letting go of the railing and leaning a bit over the edge. It’s just enough to throw my balance off by a hair, enough to give me a taste of what the free fall might be like.

I swallow a squeal.

My heart is already pumping wildly, like I’ve fully made up my mind to jump. A cold sweat coats the back of my neck.

The bustling city block is completely oblivious to me standing up here. People race home from work to their loved ones.

I could join them.

I could be one of them.

A soft knock on my bedroom door has me twisting around in panic.

Margaret’s kind voice filters through the quiet room.

“Lainey, Tom will be here in thirty minutes to drive you to the club. Your grandmother wanted me to ask if you need any help getting ready?”

“No!” I rush out, my gaze flitting around my bedroom. I calm slightly as I realize there’s nothing nefarious in here for Margaret to find. There’s no crime scene to hide. She’s not privy to my inner thoughts. Thank god.

“I’ll—I’ll be done in just a minute. I’m just doing my hair now,” I lie, rushing over to my vanity.

It was foolish of me to stand out there for so long, letting my mind wander. I’m going to make us late, and if I do, I won’t hear the end of it for the rest of the night.

I sit and take a deep breath, meeting my reflection in the mirror.

I wince. The wind out on the balcony wasn’t kind.

My hair is as unruly as I’ve ever seen it. It’s curly by nature, my Brazilian roots striving in vain for liberation. Once, when I was a teenager, my grandmother told me when I wear my hair natural, it makes me look “positively feral”. So, for years, I straightened it into submission, topping it with that damn plaid headband. Now, I embrace the slicked-back bun trend, grateful for the time it saves me when getting ready.

Quickly, aware of the time crunch, I add Piaget diamond studs to each ear, the perfect understated size.

My makeup, too, is subtle. It’s the name of the game in our world. New money screams; old money whispers. When I’m done, I assess my work. I look fresh-faced and demure, but not really. My eyes will always remain upturned at the outside corners—siren eyes they’re called. My cheekbones will always cut. My lips are full no matter how much I wish otherwise, which is why I never wear lipstick shades that draw attention to them. Today, I use a balm called Enchanting Kiss by Charlotte Tilbury, a color that perfectly complements my skin tone.

The Herve Leger dress Margaret laid out for me earlier has a one-shoulder sleeveless neckline and an asymmetrical hem that falls just below one of my knees. My grandmother’s tailor has ensured it fits me like a glove. I like the dress; it’s beautiful. It was handpicked for me by my personal sales associate at Neimans, and Margaret has taken the time to lay out a coordinating pair of Tom Ford heels to go along with it. There’s a Cartier watch and an Hermès clutch as well.

Margaret and my grandmother go through my wardrobe once or twice a month, weeding out the bad apples: the clothes I’ve worn more than twice to a public event, a style that no longer suits me, a designer who is no longer in vogue. Then we make a trip to Neimans, or more often, our stylist just comes to us, accompanied with racks of garments. I haven’t lost touch with reality. I understand that for many people, these luxuries would seem spell-binding and intoxicating, or at the very least exciting, but a gilded cage is still a cage.

No.

I snap the lid on that thought, angry with myself for letting it fester for longer than usual. With haste, I add the Cartier watch to my wrist and pick up the clutch, repeating to myself how grateful I am for my life and everything I have until the words actually seem sincere.

There are dozens of private clubs in Boston, but only two of them truly matter, and my grandmother frequents both. The Somerset Club is the most exclusive, formed in 1826. Members are granted access only through legacy status. Legend has it that when a fire broke out in the 1940s, firemen were forced to use the service entrance to extinguish the blaze so as not to disturb the members who were dining in the front room. The Algonquin Club is new by the old guard’s standards, having only opened its doors in 1886. It hosts speaker series, member receptions, private dinners. Because it has slightly less stringent membership policies, in addition to presidents, heads of state, foreign dignitaries, and preeminent locals, I’ve seen my fair share of celebrities there. It’s where we’re headed tonight. Professor Rasmussen, an eminent botanist from the University of Copenhagen, is scheduled to deliver a lecture on orchids. My grandmother and I arrive early enough to have a drink in the lounge, and the room is crowded with faces I recognize right away. Names are drilled into my head, families of importance especially.

I’m sitting beside my grandmother, sipping a dirty martini. The conversation has turned to the Brahmins, which were to Boston as the Four Hundred were to New York City, prominent old families that seem to be forever on the lips of people in this room. Why talk about the present when you can dredge up the dead?

I keep quiet and listen, amused more than anything.

“She was absolutely abhorrent.”

“Who?”

“Isabella Gardner.”

“You all do realize that had John Lowell Gardner Jr. not given her entrée into Boston society, we would all be better for it, right?”

“Where was she from originally?”

I’m shocked they don’t already know the answer. I swear we’ve had this conversation a dozen times.

“She was a New Yorker whose father was considered the last of the East India merchants.”

“Why was she so bad?” someone asks.

My grandmother’s eyes practically bug out of her head. “She was a spectacle. An eccentric. She drank beer instead of tea, and there was a rumor that she used to walk down Tremont Street with a leashed lion.”

“Worse, she openly flouted the styles of the day.” My grandmother’s friend, Diana, chimes in. “She prided herself on wearing absolutely enormous diamonds. It was obscene.”

Short of the leashed lion—which just seems cruel—I like everything I know of Isabella Gardner. Flouting societal norms, paving her own way? She was brave.

“I enjoy her museum,” I say, speaking for the first time since the topic was broached.

Every gaze swivels to me as silence falls over the group.

What a feat—I’ve managed to steal everyone’s tongues.

In lieu of agreeing with me, they choose to stay mum and merely exchange glances, determining what the general consensus will be in response to my comment before they dare speak up, which just goes to show how annoyingly dull these people can be. It’s as if no one has a brain of their own. I’m not trying to defend Banksy’s contribution to contemporary art—though I would love to. I haven’t said anything controversial. The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is world-famous. It houses some of the finest paintings and sculptures in North America, featuring artists that range from Titian, Rembrandt, Michelangelo, and Botticelli to Manet, Degas, Whistler, and Sargent. For God’s sake, the very first Matisse to enter an American collection is there on display. To belittle its importance is juvenile and petty. It’s not as if Isabella can hear them chiding her. What does it matter now if we approve of her or not?

“I prefer the Museum of Fine Arts,” Diana says, shifting the conversation.

My errant remark is already forgotten.

The night whirls on.

The following evening, Margaret picks a Tom Ford dress with a Loulou chain bag by Yves Saint Laurent, along with Chloe heels. We attend a tasting hosted by the Boston Landmarks Commission. The chef, an up-and-coming name in the Boston foodie scene, tries to lure me into a flirtatious conversation, and my grandmother puts a stop to it right away.

“Lainey, come take your seat.”

Wednesday evening, we’re invited to a small concert at Diana’s home. She’s managed to pluck a quartet of musicians from the Boston Symphony Orchestra to play just for her and her invited guests. To enjoy the music, we crowd into her sitting room as waiters pass around hors d’oeuvres and signature cocktails. For the evening, Margaret chose a custom Valentino cocktail dress and Valentino heels that bite into my feet every time I take a step. I’m sandwiched between my grandmother and Diana, so even if I wanted to talk to the few guests in attendance closer to my age, I can’t.

Thursday night, I’m granted a reprieve. I stay up in my room reading a romance novel I have to hide from my grandmother. It’s not that she can forbid me from reading it, it’s that I don’t want to suffer the discomfort of a disappointed glare or reproachful shake of her head if I can avoid it. When the sun has fully set, Jacobs, my grandmother’s head butler, knocks on my door to deliver a tray of tea, and I tuck the book deep under my covers before I tell him to come in.

Friday is different, a day I’ve been looking forward to for months. Tonight’s event has nothing to do with my grandmother or her friends; it’s for my work.

Every week, I’m allowed eight hours of consulting work at Morgan Fine Art Gallery, usually on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. My grandmother arranged the position for me; she and Mr. Morgan are old friends. I’m not even aware of exactly what I get paid, if I get paid. For all I know, it’s a volunteer position, but I love it either way.

It allows me to utilize my extensive knowledge of the arts, applying my undergraduate degree in art history and my graduate degree in art management and curatorial studies. Every day is different. At times, I work directly with our signed artists, helping to curate and design their exhibitions for the gallery. Other days, I assist clients in helping to select works to build out their collections. I enjoy the logistics of packaging, transporting, and displaying art. Back-end or front-end—no task is too tedious or bothersome in the gallery. If I could, I’d be there seven days a week.

For the last month, I’ve been working with one of our artists named Aaron Pavlicek as he’s prepared for his contemporary art show that opens tonight. I really enjoy his work. He incorporates paper, fabrics, dry pigments, gold leaf, and found materials to create collages with depth and presence. He doesn’t shy away from color either—something I love in an artist—and I suspect he’ll be a raving success with the right collectors.

I’m practically giddy as I walk through the gallery that evening, surveying his pieces. I already have a few favorites that I hope will sell first. The doors only opened a few minutes ago, and already people are filtering in as waiters clad in black and white ensure everyone has a drink. A group of art critics and collectors crowd around Aaron near the front door. Mr. Morgan—his main dealer—stands by his side, fielding questions and ensuring Aaron doesn’t overdo it. With artist interviews, less is more. It’s better to let your art do the talking.

Aaron catches my gaze across the room and winks playfully. My cheeks heat, something that can’t be helped with as little experience as I have dealing with men. It’s sort of pathetic at my age. A man could merely look at me with intent in his eyes and I’d melt into a puddle on the floor. It doesn’t help that he’s handsome and roguish with messy blond hair and a scruff-covered jaw. All month, he’s been making it obvious that he would like to take me out to dinner if only I’d agree to it, and all month I’ve made it clear that I don’t like to mix work and pleasure, though that’s not really the truth. The reason I’ve turned him down is simply that Aaron is not for me. My future has already been arranged.

A man and a woman stand in front of one of his pieces and I stroll over, careful to approach in a mindful, gentle way so I don’t come across like an overzealous salesperson.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask with a smile.

The couple looks over at me and they both nod, though the woman doesn’t seem wholeheartedly convinced.

“Are you familiar with Mr. Pavlicek’s work?”

“I’ve seen a few of his pieces in Architectural Digest,” the woman responds, sounding a bit haughty. I get it; she doesn’t want to come across as a novice.

I make sure to seem impressed as I respond, “Yes, I think one of his collages was featured in the magazine just last month.” I glance between them, asking for their names, then I smile and introduce myself. “I’m Lainey Davenport, one of the art advisors here at the gallery. I’m happy to help if you need anything.”

I’m about to step back—to give them a bit of space—when the woman holds out her hand to stop me.

“Do you think this piece will retain its value? Fifteen thousand seems like a steep price to pay for an emerging artist.”

Though it might seem shocking, I’m quite familiar with this line of questioning. There’s a whole host of reasons why people decide to purchase art, least of which is that they appreciate the art. Sure, there are the enthusiasts, the ones who are in it purely for the enjoyment of possessing something they find beautiful, but those collectors are few and far between. Most often, clients who frequent galleries as exclusive as Morgan’s use art the same way people use designer clothes and jewelry: as a means to show off, and if they happen to be making a sound financial investment in the process, all the better.

I find it slightly amusing that far too frequently, the clients who spend unimaginable amounts in the gallery couldn’t tell me the difference between Manet and Monet; they merely want me to predict if their Magritte will accrue value and impress their friends as much as their Masson. Someone just last week asked me, while pointing to an abstract piece by Kandinsky—an artist known precisely for use of color in his compositions—if I thought the paint choices were “too garish”. I could barely keep a straight face as I assured him the colors were impeccable.

“Mr. Pavlicek is quite established in the art world,” I explain to the couple. “This is his third show at Morgan’s, and his pieces are always highly sought after. In fact, Saatchi purchased two pieces from his last show.” Their eyebrows jump at the mention of the famed art collector, so I decide to go in for the kill. “He was also deemed the darling of Art Basel last year by Faire Magazine. I have no doubt you’ll be pleased with the value of this piece over the years, and more than that—” My sentence comes to an abrupt awkward halt as my gaze catches on a man walking through the door of the gallery. I’m stunned, almost beyond repair.

The couple stares at me expectantly, obviously waiting for me to continue, and I eventually do with a forced laugh that hopefully conveys I’ve merely lost my train of thought and not my whole goddamn mind.

“This collage is one of my favorites in this collection,” I finish abruptly, already stepping back. “I apologize, there’s something I need to take care of…if you’ll excuse me.”

It’s horribly unprofessional to leave them hanging like that, but I have no choice—I feel like I might pass out or throw up or something else equally as mortifying.

I swallow down my nerves and press a shaking hand to my stomach, hoping to staunch the quell of unease building inside me. I edge around the side of the room, trying to put as much distance between me and the person who just strolled in as possible.

I wish I hadn’t recognized my old classmate right away. It’s been well over a decade since I last saw Emmett, so he should be nothing more than a stranger by now, especially considering the stark differences between the boy I knew at St. John’s and the man across the room. Even as I flee, I can’t help but peer back at him. He’s only grown more fearsome with age. It’s as if he’s taken a flame and burned off the edges of boyhood, only to step clear of the ashes wholly formed as a tall, confident man, the embodiment of arrogant grace.

He’s easily the most well-dressed man in the room clad in a black suit and tie with a decadently crisp white shirt. His sartorial accomplishments are mainly in the details though: the expensive tailored cut of his suit, the vintage black leather watch adorning his wrist, the gold cufflinks likely stamped with his family’s crest. I bet if I were to peer closer, there’d be two letters embroidered in cursive on the cuff of each sleeve: E.M.

It seems so unfair that he’s allowed to waltz into people’s lives like this.

I was able to detox from my infatuation with him once, but it was painful and exhausting. I’d rather not endure the agony of it all again, which is why I’m now lurking in a corner of the gallery like some ill-mannered recluse who’s only just stepped foot into society for the first time in her life.

I haven’t decided what I’ll do.

I could come up with some excuse and leave, but I don’t want to leave the gallery high and dry. We’re already short-staffed because Collette is out of town for a bachelorette party, which I now realize is a huge blessing. She’s a fellow St. John’s graduate who was—or is part of Emmett’s friend group. She would undoubtedly complicate this situation.

If Collette were here, I’d be forced into conversation with Emmett, and I haven’t determined yet if that’s something I want. The thought is intriguing. I’m not the same girl he used to know, but then…aren’t I? He knew me to be shy and quiet and, in large part, I still am.

I mean, look at me. It’s like I’m trying to become one with the wall.

If I’m not going to continue to flee (though I should), I have to leave this corner. I can pull off the eccentric loner look for a few minutes, but beyond that, I just seem weird. The waiters are already eyeing me curiously.

I pretend to straighten a piece of artwork on the wall near me.

There, that’s better.

Then I turn and step back into the throng, grateful that so many people have arrived for Aaron’s exhibition. As I wade through the crowd slowly, picking up a glass of champagne, I smile and nod to the guests I recognize. I get waylaid a time or two, chatting with some of Morgan’s most loyal clients, ensuring I pay respect where it’s due so they feel obliged to think long and hard about acquiring one of Aaron’s pieces.

Before long, I find myself near Emmett, and it’s not completely accidental. I’ve always been susceptible to his magnetism, this unyielding need to be near him, even back at St. John’s. All those nights I found myself creeping around the lake at night, I told myself I was just having trouble sleeping, but in truth, I was looking for him.

Tonight, he’s not alone.

He arrived with three others, all women. They’re dressed fashionably and all done up. I recognize who they are to him because of the logo embroidered on one of their bags. Pierce Waterhouse is an interior design firm known throughout the city. They are well acquainted with our gallery; we’ve sourced pieces for their clients dozens of times before.

It appears Emmett is in the market tonight, and these three are here to help him choose wisely. I watch in horror as one of the women pulls out a swatch of Schumacher fabric and holds it up to one of Aaron’s pieces to compare the fabric with the abstract work. It takes everything in me not to groan in agony.

They continue on, stepping in front of one of the largest collages in the collection, but Emmett lingers where they left him, checking something on his phone.

Impulsively, recklessly, stupidly, I step closer and lean in before common sense can grasp my neck and yank me back. I face away from him and speak as if I’m giving him some private piece of intel meant only for his ears.

“Tell your designers they should put away the fabric samples. Art should never be chosen that way.”

I’m already moving on, having done my civic duty for the day, but his voice stops me in my tracks.

“Excuse me?”

I turn toward him and feel my chest constrict with nerves. Up close, it’s impossible not to shrink in submission, just a little. There’s a French severity about him. It’s in the cut of his cheekbones, the mean set to his jaw, his dark brooding eyebrows. He’s all sharp angles and warning signs. Do not approach. Do not expect kindness. Or more simply, Beware.

Shockingly, I find my voice.

“It’s a mistake to try to ensure a painting matches your couch. If you want to create a space so maddeningly cohesive and mundane, why not just go to Hobby Lobby and grab a plank of plywood someone’s painted over? ‘Live Laugh Love’ stenciled right down the center.”

He looks like he’s fighting back a smile.

“You sound like a snob.”

I lift my chin, not the least bit upset by his assessment of me. “I am a snob…at least when it comes to art.”

He lifts one dark brow. “At least you’re self-aware.”

“I’m not kidding.” I point behind him to the women who at this very moment are withdrawing more fabric samples. “Your designers will have you walking out of here with the least interesting piece just because it happens to include a specific shade of blue that coordinates with some throw pillows.”

He deftly slides his phone into the pocket of his suit pants then turns to give me his full attention. His predatorial traits are suddenly emphasized, our height difference more apparent now than ever. I imagine this is what it might feel like to sit across from him in a boardroom. I’m surprised I don’t lose the contents of my bladder as he asks simply and arrogantly, “And what would you suggest instead?”

My eyes widen. “Me?”

“Yes. You, the girl who’s inserted herself into something that’s none of her business. I’d like to hear the rest of your advice.”

The fact that I’m able to keep my voice steady as I reply is only because we happen to be discussing the one field I feel fully confident in. Art belongs to me the way the rest of the world belongs to him.

“Very well…” I take a moment to compose my thoughts. “Truth be told, I would suggest you leave the interior designers out of it. They do their job well, but this likely isn’t their arena. Find an art consultant, someone who can help you choose pieces based on a multitude of factors. A man like you—”

“A man like me?” he asks in mock offense.

I wave a hand over his outfit, not quite prepared to admit I know who he is. This is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had, and I can’t tell if he’s only trying to amuse himself by dangling me on his line like this or if he truly doesn’t remember me. To him, this might just be some big game, but there’s no tell. He’s not given himself away. I genuinely don’t think he recognizes me.

“A man who clearly cares about appearances,” I reply quickly, not wanting to reveal too much. “No matter why you’re here tonight, to acquire one piece or many, you’ll want to build a collection that will endure, something that includes physical art: antiques, sculptures, rare books, even. Then you’ll need a mixture of paintings and drawings chosen wisely. You’ll want diversity. There’s no sense in scooping up a slew of Picassos and Degas, not unless you’re trying to control the market. One or two will do. In addition to that, I would encourage you to look to emerging artists to fill most of your collection. Mattea Perrotta, for instance.”

“Is this her work?” he asks, motioning to the artwork on the wall.

I frown. “No.”

Does he not even realize which artist he’s come here to see?

“Aaron Pavlicek is the artist-in-residence here tonight.”

His dark eyes assess me. “I see. And Mattea Perrotta? What does she do?”

“What doesn’t she do?” I retort, not even bothering to curb my passion for his sake. I’m not giving him advice so much as bludgeoning him with it. “Her abstract paintings are a balance between masculinity and femininity, the unconscious desire, and the female body. They’re evocative and timeless. In her most recent collection, she attempted to reinterpret mythological characters through the lens of contemporary female narratives, and she succeeded handily.”

There’s a beat of silence after I’ve finished, and I feel like a fool for rambling on like that. His gaze studies my face, slipping briefly down my body, quickly enough that had I blinked, I would have missed it.

Then he simply nods. “You’re hired.”

My jaw drops. “I—that’s not what I do.”

“Are you sure?” He seems almost amused. “You seem adept enough.”

It’s barely a compliment, but it’s enough to throw me off balance. “I’m not a personal consultant. I work for the gallery.” I motion toward the art on the walls. “My responsibility is to sell the works we have here.”

With this remark, he can no longer help himself. He unfurls a deliciously cruel smile before a rich laugh spills out of him. He whispers a French curse before speaking again.

“Please don’t take offense, but you’re doing a horrible job of it.”

My cheeks turn the oh-so-lovely shade of a ripe summer tomato. Embarrassed, I look down until I’m sure some of the red has faded.

I start to step back. “My apologies. You’re right. Aaron Pavlicek has quite a few pieces here that I think are worth your attention—”

“Then by all means, lead me to them.”

He extends his arm, motioning for me to walk so he may follow, and just as I suspected, his initials are handstitched on the cuff of his shirt sleeve. The realization sharpens our encounter, reminding me of the absurdity of this exchange. Emmett Mercier is truly here in Morgan’s.

“Your designers…” I say weakly, trying to remind him of his obligation. “I think they’re waiting for you to join them.”

They are. The three women are still a few feet away, staring at me with narrowed eyes and pinched mouths. Obviously, they’d like me to hand over their client.

Emmett pays them no mind, the weight of his full attention still resting on me.

He tucks his hands into his pockets with relaxed grace. “You’ve just explained to me that they’re a trio of bumbling idiots when it comes to art, and you were rather curt about it, I might add. Now you’re prepared to throw me back to them?”

He’s laid his challenge down at my feet: remain in his company and try to survive or flee and never cease to regret it for the rest of my life.

I hate that I still feel overwhelmed by him.

To calm my nerves, I smooth a hand down the front of my fitted Chanel dress as I take in the art on the walls behind him.

Aaron’s collages serve as a reminder.

This is my world.

Not his.

I nod, relenting. “Right this way.”