Work of Art ~ the Collection (68 page)

“Oh yeah, as if!” I laugh lightly. But I’m charmed by his complete confidence in my future success.

“I really appreciate your support. I promise I’ll make you proud.”

He smiles. “Oh, Ava, you already have. But enough of this love fest. We could go on all afternoon. There’s something else I want to talk about. How are things going with Max?”

“Good,” I reply hesitantly. “Why?”

“I’ve heard from Brian that you two are quite the couple.”

“I know you aren’t Max’s biggest fan, but he’s been working hard on turning himself around after his time in Ojai, and he’s doing so well.”

“Could being in love with the right woman have anything to do with that?”

“I hope so. I’d like to think so.” I smile warmly.

“You love him, Ava. You don’t even have to tell me. It’s written all over your face.”

“Head over heels . . . head over heels.”

“As I suspected. Well, in that case, I wish you all the best. That boy better realize what he has in you.”

“He does,” I say, pushing the memory of our showdown on the beach out of my head.

Chapter Two / The Challenge

An artist never really finishes his work; he merely abandons it.

~Paul Valéry

B
y the following Thursday, I’m on a plane to New York for the shoot. Even though I’m being paid to do it, my world has fallen off its axis. I’m stunned on the flight as I try to figure out why all this amazing stuff is happening. I’m a nervous wreck, but I also feel like I’m holding the winning lotto ticket, and I’m determined not to screw it up.

After dropping my bags off at the hotel in SoHo, I meet with the ArtOneWorld production group for dinner in the Village, and we go over the schedule for the shoot in Andrea’s studio. Although the segment will have the same director as Max’s shoot, they are using a New York crew for the camera work, sound, and lights.

I can’t imagine how I’m going to be relaxed like I was with Max, but worrying about it won’t help. So, I drink some wine and try to push my anxiety out of my mind.

Later, I’m excited to get back to the hotel so I can call Max and actually have time to talk. I really miss him and need to hear his voice.

“Hi, love.” He sounds so happy, and it reminds me how relieved I am that we’ve weathered our rough weekend.

“I miss you so much already, Max. I know it’s crazy, since I just saw you yesterday.”

“I miss you too.” Despite his initial cheer, I can hear the loneliness creeping into his voice. His tone has less energy and spark than usual.

He asks about the plans for the shoot and the people I’m working with. I share all my excitement and anxiety, but I also frame all my answers, intent on keeping his jealousy in check. Before he even has a chance to ask more questions, I turn the tables and quiz him about his gallery event the next night.

“I have to warn you, mister, I’m sending Jess to the event to ensure the art groupies are kept at bay.”

“Are you now?” he asks.

“And I don’t like that gallery owner either. She better keep her hands off you too, or I’ll come rip them off her Barbie doll body.”

“I like my girlfriend fierce. But, please, that woman’s creepy. You know I have better taste than that.”

“Hmm, what is your taste exactly? I was under the impression that it was quite varied.”

“That’s where you’re wrong—I’m extremely specific. I only like fair-skinned, long-haired, gorgeous brunettes with big green eyes. Also, I like my girl to be extremely smart, strong, and talented . . . Oh yeah, and she only has eyes for me.”

“Wow, that’s quite a list, Mr. Specific. I know someone who fits the bill, and ironically, she has a specific list as well.”

“Really? I’d love to hear what’s on it.”

“She likes tall, gorgeous men with dark hair and wicked blue-gray eyes. She prefers a brilliant artist who will inspire and challenge her. He must have a chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and arms strong enough to carry her to his bed. And his kisses, have I mentioned his kisses?”

He sighs. “No, I don’t believe you have.”

I stop for a moment and imagine him pressed against me. I squeeze my thighs together and try to push back the desire this conversation stirs up. There are twenty-five hundred miles between us, yet I want him desperately.

“His kisses are heaven. With every kiss, she falls further in love with him,” I whisper.

“With every kiss?” he asks with a lingering exhale.

“Mmm,” I moan.

“She must be in deep.”

“I’ll make sure she shows you how deep next time you see her.”

The next morning, I wake up and remember the call with Max the night before. In the dark of my room, I took sharp breaths and clutched my phone with one hand, while my fingers slid between my legs as we shared all the ways we wanted each other. There’s phone sex and then there’s pure passion sizzling across satellites.

In contrast to last night’s surrender and contented collapse, the new day is the very definition of a whirlwind. I’m whisked out of my hotel at eight sharp to a waiting car.

Andrea’s loft is huge with large windows full of light, and the crew greets me warmly. The lighting guys have already done their magic, and I’m taken to the area where the makeup artist is set up.

It’d been suggested that Andrea have me become a subject in one of her films from the American Woman series. The stylist, hair, and makeup people transform me into a 1950s secretary, complete with a beehive wig and fitted pencil skirt. I feel self-conscious in this getup, but I push my discomfort out of my mind.

I come from the dressing room area and look for Jeff, the production manager. Before I can find him, an intense looking woman with thick black eyebrows and tightly pressed lips approaches me.

“I’m Veronica, Ms. Altman’s assistant. I’m taking you to meet her now.”

“Thanks, Veronica. Nice to meet you,” I say, as she walks down a long hallway.

She doesn’t reply, and I scurry after her, hoping Andrea is friendlier than her assistant.

Halfway down the hall, Veronica announces, “Take note that Ms. Altman does not shake hands. She’s always very focused before her shoots.”

Okay then . . .

She sharply knocks on the door at the end of the hall three times and then peeks inside. She waves me forward as she steps into the room.

A petite woman with a long braid trailing down her back looks up and regards me warily. She looks so different from the pictures I’ve seen that I almost don’t recognize her. She pushes away from the huge worktable she’s sitting at.

“Hi, Andrea,” I say brightly, despite the fact that my stomach churns. “I’m really looking forward to our interview.”

She narrows her eyes as she surveys me slowly from my wig all the way down to my shoes. She waves her hand. “Turn around.”

I turn and force myself to smile. “I love the outfit,” I lie.

She nods to Veronica, turns back to her worktable, and ignores me completely.

Veronica takes me by the arm and leads me into the hall.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, while I decide if I’m more pissed off or worried about how I will possibly interview this woman who just dismissed me like I was a dressed mannequin and not her interviewer.

Veronica gives me a blank stare. “Nothing.” She releases the top page of her clipboard and hands it to me. “These are the questions Andrea will answer.”

I scan the page of banal questions. This is a disaster. “Does she want to even do this?” I ask.

“That’s a complicated question,” Veronica says before walking away.

My heart races when I set out to find Jeff, the production manager. My eyes widen with horror when I see him in the corner talking to not just Nick, but Travis from ArtOneWorld too. Why did no one warn me that they’d be coming to observe what is now my spectacular failure of an interview?

As I approach the group, my costume undermines my position. I take a deep breath and step forward. “Well, hello, Nick and Travis, I wasn’t expecting you here.”

Travis appears to be fighting back a smile.

Nick gestures to the studio. “We were meeting nearby and decided to pop in to see how things were going.”

“Oh, they’re going great . . . awesome really.”

Travis’s eyes grow wide. “Really?”

“Indeed! Well, except for one small detail,” I say, as I rest my hand on my hip.

“And what would that be?” Nick asks.

“Only the distinct feeling that Ms. Altman does not want to be interviewed.”

“Well, that will make this challenging, then, won’t it?” Travis says with a smug smile.

What’s with this guy?
I really want to punch him in the face.

“Just a bit.” I narrow my eyes. I’ve been set up. He knew she would be difficult. For all I know, he encouraged it.
What the hell?

Nick’s lips are pursed together in a scowl, but he remains silent.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” Travis asks.

I shrug. “Not sure yet. Give me a minute to think about it.”

“You do that,” he says.

I turn on my heel and walk away before I say something I’ll regret.

While I wait to be called on set, I call Jess.

“Help, Jess!”

“Ava? What’s shakin’, girl? You okay?” she asks.

I groan. “Not really. I’m pretty sure this is going to be a disaster.”

“Why? Is Ms. Artist being an artist?”

“And how. She’s toying with me, and I think the studio is too. I’ve been set up, and it’s making me furious” I unload my fears on Jess and fight tears of frustration.

Jess’s response confirms my gut feeling. “Yeah, I’ve heard weird stories about her, but I was hoping they were exaggerated. As for the studio—that’s fucked up.”

“Any suggestions?” I ask.

“Sure. If they’re going to play with you, just fucking play with them right back. Gotta keep your dignity, girl. You may not get the job done the way they expect, but they’ll remember you, for sure.”

I smile with the comfort that my instincts are right. Jess was the perfect person to call. “Gotcha. Have I told you lately that you rock?”

She laughs. “Not enough. I never hear that enough. So, I’ll take it. Now, you go rock too.”

“I will. Thanks, Jess.”

“Anytime.”

I walk back to the set. Since we’re beginning the shoot with my part in Andrea’s film, I want to see how that goes before I decide how far to push back.

Veronica leads me to an area where an antique water cooler is perched against a beige wall. A vintage linoleum floor lays over the hardwoods, and there’s an actual 1950s calendar hanging on the wall. I pace back and forth, waiting for something to happen.

A few minutes later, Andrea sweeps in. She first walks up to the camera and studies the view screen before approaching me.

She positions me to lean against the wall and then steps back.

Does she think I read minds?
“What am I supposed to be doing?” I ask.

She narrows her eyes. “You’re on a break and you’re bored. When I say action, I want you to step up to the dispenser, take a paper cup out of the dispenser and pour yourself an inch of water. Then lean back against the wall again, drink the water, crunch up the cup, and drop it in the trash. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” I reply in an overly perky voice.

I wait for more direction, but she seems lost in thought. I twist my hands together.

“Is that it?” I finally ask.

She ignores me, and I feel like an idiot because the production company is filming us. Not having any idea what to do, I roll my eyes and raise my hands in a “what-the-hell?” look. I know it’s inappropriate, but at this point, I really don’t care.

After a few takes, Andrea nods briskly and addresses me. “Now I want you to look to your right and then your left as if you’re checking to see if anyone is observing you.”

I rest my hands on my hips. “Shall I stay bored? Because I think I’ve mastered that. I’m really in the boredom zone.”

I hear Nick sputter a cough off set.

Her brows knit together, but I swear she’s fighting back a tiny smile. The subtle movement at the corners of her mouth make me think perhaps this woman has a personality, after all. I have to wonder if she’s playing me, and if so, why?

“No. Now you’re apprehensive . . . not afraid, but cautious.”

“Got it,” I say.

She nods and moves back to her camera.

After the take, I raise my hand to get her attention. “Was that cautious and apprehensive enough?”

“Abundantly so,” she replies. She nods to Veronica, and suddenly some weird atmospheric music starts pumping in through the speakers to replace the mind-numbing elevator music. The steady thud of the base makes my heart pound. None of this is making any sense, but maybe that’s the point. I tap my pointed-toe shoes to the beat.

Nick looks over at me expectantly. I shrug at him.
Whatever.
This torture will hopefully be over soon.

When Andrea next explains that I’m to deconstruct the scene, she directs me to pull off my wig and hair netting and drop them to the floor. Then kick off my shoes and untuck my blouse before walking off camera.

It requires three takes, which involves refitting my wig between each take, until I get it right. I’m done with this woman and her attitude in more ways than one, but Travis’s laser focus on my every move forces me to not give up out of pride.