Hollywood Ass. (9 page)

“I’d like to start painting again, you know.”
B
said and eyed me unsurely, probably wondering how I was going to react to such a surprising comment. I knew she used to paint a lot as a little girl, after all she was of the same blood as her artist father, but I had no clue she ever wanted to get back to it. She had never mentioned it before. My immediate thought was that she was seeking his distant approval. Family relationships rarely make sense and we always feel the need to be accepted, even from people who treat us like dirt.

“Well, why not?” I said, in a chipper voice, “If you like it, it might help you to relax and clear your head.”

B
looked out over the buildings and seemed to ponder my reply. I could tell she wasn’t entirely sure what it meant for her or if she was going to start painting or not. It had probably just landed in her head as we sat there.

“I don’t know what I would paint though and I’m not sure I would ever want anyone to see my work. It would just be something for me to do to maybe figure things out. You don’t really have any hobbies do you, Dar?”

She had hit a weak spot in me, the lack of extra-curricular activities. I was all work and wine, and sometimes in combination. I couldn’t help but feel there should be something more, but I had never found something I could devote my heart to. Except for wine and books, maybe. But pretty much everyone drinks wine and reads books so I’m not sure they would qualify as a “hobbies”.

“No, I don’t. I guess I like reading and talking and wine. You know that wine bar I talked about? Something like that. Or even having my own vineyard would be cool one day.”

“Don’t you feel like your personality would be stronger if you had hobbies? That you would be more
you
?”

B
was now studying me, saying things she had probably thought about for a long time but never said out loud. I was worried that what was coming to me next wasn’t going to be good.

“I think my personality is quite clear, I don’t think hobbies necessarily have anything to do with your personality. Not having hobbies, is not a statement in itself, I think.”

“I mean that you are not so easy to categorize, sometimes I feel like I know you the best in the world and other times I feel like I don’t know you at all.”

We rarely talked about me and when she said this I had a feeling why, maybe
B
thought there wasn’t much to talk about. For a moment this made me very sad. Was I a boring person? I had never heard someone say this about me, but I could still understand her feeling that way, considering everything about me seemed to be about
her
. I had no real life outside the mansion.

“I think the best chance to get to know me, is just to ask more stuff. I’m not so fond of blowing my own trumpet as you know. I work for you so obviously our talks are mostly around you. It’s not strange when you think about it.” I felt hurt in my voice rise up, but I managed to push it down before it reached the surface.

“I don’t mean to be mean, Dar. I’m just saying I really like you and despite us working together for four years, I really don’t know that much about you. It’s partly my fault, of course. But I also think that, sometimes, you don’t let yourself come out. You’re so professional all the time.”

“I’ll try to be less professional then and we’ll see how that goes.” I tried to smile sincerely, but failed. I wasn’t used to criticism and definitely not good at receiving it and her words stung me quite badly. I was having a great time with her and it upset me that my presence wasn’t delivering more impact. Whatever that meant.

B
was about to say something, but then her phone interrupted her. “He’s here,” she said and rose from her chair.

***

We headed out to Matteo’s car for the evening, which turned out to be a dark blue Maserati parked just outside the hotel. I was suddenly very self-conscious and seeing the handsome Italian with his pinstriped suit and strong jaw, made me feel like an outcast, kind of like a retarded brother
B
unwillingly brought along to her lovely get-togethers for the bold and beautiful. I said hi to Matteo, who nodded at me with a fake smile, then I sat down in the back seat while he opened the door for
B
, who looked absolutely amazing in her black Prada dress. Sitting alone in the back seat didn’t make things better. I studied Matteo’s pitch black hair with the tiny pathetic locks on the end of the backslick. He was either mafia or a perfect character for middle-age ladies erotic novels. His dress-sense was impeccable and his skin free of blemishes. Besides my obvious and consuming jealousy, there was something else I didn’t like about him, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Could he really be gay? Wasn’t he too calm, too cool and too intimidating to attract other men? And he seemed far too interested in
B
, but of course everyone went gaga over movie stars. Whatever it was, something about him disturbed me and I promised myself to keep an extra eye on him during the party.

The air-conditioned leather chilled my hand as we drove off and the smell in the car took a hold of my senses, creating a mix of fresh leather and spicy men’s cologne.
B
was talking to Matteo and she sounded like a 15-year old girl who was about to go out on a date with the school hunk. Was it the alcohol or did she really have a crush on the guy? At that time it was impossible to tell, but I hated hearing her like this because I knew it was so far from the
B
I knew and liked.

Matteo said how excited he was that she had decided to grace the party with her presence. He said she had a big following in Italy, something which I took to be a white lie, and how much her love for arts would be satisfied by the collection we were just about to see. I felt slightly nauseous listening to their conversation and realized I was going to have to drink heavily to get through the evening.

After a short drive, we reached a large building that looked more governmental than residential. Matteo stopped the car outside a huge, black iron gate and picked up his iPhone. After a while someone picked up and
voila
, the gate started sliding open. We drove into a large courtyard, parked the car next to a white Bentley and headed out into the crisp evening air. Matteo put his hand on
B
’s back and ushered her towards the entrance, while I walked behind, feeling like a small dog. After climbing a long marble staircase we found ourselves in a huge space and in the middle of a lavish party.

Massive is an apt word to describe both the space, which I would call a loft, and the party. Elegant people were meandering around, carrying champagne glasses and speaking their native tongue in animated and excited tones. Everything was very white, so white you almost had to wear shades to see properly and the walls were lined with massive paintings full of color and strange shapes. It created a contrast that almost hurt your eyes and it didn’t take long to figure out that this collector was into the avant-garde, which was something I’d always had a hard time with. But art was the least of my concerns, because I felt like the loneliest guy on the planet, standing there next to
B
and Matteo.

Strange-looking furniture were placed in different areas of the loft, so oddly conceptual you didn’t know whether to sit on them, applaud them or throw garbage at them. I snatched a glass of pink champagne from a waiter with a silver tray and drank it in one swift, desperate motion.
B
gave me a strange look, but then her attention was caught by a short and bald man in black. It was Gianluca, the host. He looked like a slimmed-down version of Danny Devito and could compete with yours truly in the white teeth-department.

Gianluca broke out into a huge smile when he saw
B
and came up to cheek-kiss her, which awkwardly had him almost stand on toe, despite her not being much above average female height. He said something in Italian which included the word
bella,
which I knew in some form meant beautiful and then kissed her hand as well. His voice was thick and coarse and it sounded like his vocal chords ground against each other when he spoke and it took an effort to produce a sentence. He shook Matteo’s hand casually and told
B
in hampered English that he loved her work, which made her blush. She didn’t expect any compliments from artistic people for her chewing gum comedies and somehow she must have thought his comment was genuine. I had a hard time seeing why an art collector would be watching her movies, but maybe he had a secret crush on her or a soft spot somewhere under his black garments that made him extra sensitive to gooey and predictable story-lines? On the other hand, celebrity events always brought out the most outrageous lies, because the rich and famous simply had to compliment the other rich and famous for their glorious careers, even when they hadn’t really seen anything of the person’s work. It was all a game of
I scratch your back, you scratch mine.

B
hadn’t spoken to me in a while so I was surprised when she leaned over and whispered, “Pretty weird place, huh?” after which I smiled and nodded, happy we could agree on something. She wasn’t yet a natural in the art world, but I feared this was something she wanted to work on.

After the introduction an insane amount of hand-shaking began. It felt like you were attending a Parkinsons conference. Most of the people were Italian, but I recognized a British guy from some TV-series I couldn’t remember and also an American high-society couple who appeared at loads of these events without ever really talking to anyone or making any kind of mark on anything - like wealthy ghosts.

During the mingling
B
gave me pretty much zero attention so at a point I took another glass from one of the waiters and headed over to a corner to “study” the art there. From afar I witnessed people go all silly when they talked to her and in one way I could understand it. She had truly re-kindled her star glow and her body looked amazing in that dress. But she was in Matteo’s hands now and our interactions had stopped. A painful reminder that I was more her assistant than her friend.

I turned to the wall and let my eyes wander over a dark painting with a mystical object in the middle of it, looking a bit like a screw or some kind of tool. It was very gloomy and made me even more depressed while I tried to figure out what the artist meant by drawing what could easily be seen as a massive turd in a dark corner.

I threw a glance over my shoulder but I couldn’t see
B
anymore. She had probably walked off with Matteo.
Suits her right
, I thought to myself before I took a sip of my wine and let my eyes find the screw painting again. Then
I heard a voice from behind.

“Admiring the painting?” said the owner of the voice, a young light-skinned girl with red lipstick and a strong British accent. She was very pretty.

“Well...” I hesitated, “I guess I'm trying to figure out what the hell it is.” I realized too late that admitting you don’t
get it
at an “artsy” party wasn’t a good strategy.

“Don't ask me, I don't understand this stuff at all, I just came here with my boyfriend.” She looked at the painting again and added almost as an afterthought or like she was ashamed to admit it, “he's an artist.”

I let out a sigh of relief, happy to have been approached by a likeminded person. “So how's being in a relationship with an artist when you don't understand art?”

“I don't think anyone ever
understands
art, we just pretend to and the one who's best at pretending is an expert. Dating an artist is interesting; it all depends on what day Flavio has had - if he's productive and inspired he's quite wonderful and romantic, but when he feels like he's not getting where he wants to on a project, it’s not so easy.”

“I think that goes for all very ambitious people, on the flip side of the creative coin there's something destructive. Like me, I’m feeling creative, like I could paint something better than that,” I pointed to the screw painting, “And yet I feel like destroying it too. Creative and destructive - all in one!” The wine had relaxed me too much and the outspoken, lousy comedian Darryl was out of his straight-jacket.

The girl with the red lipstick laughed politely at my joke.

“You think it’s a screw? I thought it was a caterpillar,” she said.

“I actually think it’s a piece of shit. Literally. Like a turd.”

The girl laughed again. I was on a roll. “You should be an art critic,” she said and smiled, “You could have your own TV show where you roast famous pieces of art.”

I smiled back at her, “That’s actually not such a bad idea - Art fart with Darryl Glendale.”

This one didn’t net more than a grin. “So how come you’re here? Since you’re obviously not very interested in art yourself.”

“I’m a friend of
B
,” I said, “and we’re here for...” I was about to say vacation, but realized it would sound a bit weird, like why would she do that with a friend and not her husband? “we’re here to look at apartments actually. She’s thinking of buying a place here in Rome and I’m her second opinion.”

Mentioning
B
seemed to lift the girl’s spirits even higher. “How exciting! You’re definitely doing the right thing, because this is a truly fantastic city. I’m from London myself, but don’t see why I would ever move back.”

“Yeah, Rome is nice.”

“Since you don’t seem to like this modern stuff, why not have look in the room where he keeps all the classical pieces?” This caught me by surprise, because I thought this short but pleasant conversation was coming to an end and also because I had no clue there was another art room.

“What's your name by the way?” I said and stretched out my hand, thinking what a shame it was that all good girls were taken.

She shook it firmly and said “Geri” and like she could read my confused look, she added “Like the redhead in Spice Girls, G-E-R-I. Geri.”

“Aha, so you’re a Spice Girl. I’m Darryl and I’m one of the
Blackstreet boys
,” I joked badly, “let’s find that other room.”