Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy (22 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Friday arrived. I borrowed a wig from Jenny: a short blond bob with pink highlights. I wore Irene's silk strapless draped red dress. Eleanor designed it, and I added the intricate pattern of sequins on the bodice. She loved the sparkle, but had the patience of a baby with a full diaper. Eleanor also believed in cleavage. If I had some, I would too.

Ben wore black which kept his fashion budget in line. Men had it easy. Women were checked for hair, makeup, clothes, shoes, weight, and date choice.

Stepping into the public eye never entered my mind. I had lived a quiet and boring life. Now with Ben at my side, all would change. We had decided I would stay with Mark. Eleanor, call her Elle tonight, in her jade green sheath would be the object of the camera lens. Watch out world, she was born for a close up.

We travelled in two separate cars. Mark and I were in a discreet sedan. Ben and Eleanor arrived by limo. The press waited, and the photo flashes blinded. I hesitated and Mark took my hand.

"Forget Ben and all the adoration. Check out the paintings, eat the food, and laugh at the clothes people wear. We'll cut out early, and drive your boy crazy," Mark said, kissing my cheek.

I felt the cold stare creeping down my spine. I pivoted and saw Ben watching as he closed the distance between us.

"That's one, and there will be no more," Ben said.

"Let's do what he wants, so we don't get fired or worse," I said.

We fell in step behind him.

"Is anyone here richer than you?" Eleanor asked Ben.

"I doubt it," he said.

"Okay, time to mingle," Eleanor said as she put her hand on Ben's back.

The Wellington Gallery, on Michigan Avenue, had a two-story layout similar to the main entrance of a gorgeous old house. All rich colors beautifully restored. Ben's work had been situated in the back.

Harold Wellington ran to greet Ben. He put his beefy arm around Ben and led him in. Ben shrugged off the hand on his shoulder. A hush fell over the room of seventy-five. Ben lifted his noble chin and returned their awe with his patented look of disdain.

"Everyone, I just want to say a few words. First, thank you for coming. Second, thank you, Ben, for allowing me the honor of having this show. Now please enjoy," Harold said.

A smattering of applause, then silence and anticipation. Would Ben address the crowd? He smirked and swaggered toward us. All eyes followed. He put his hand out and I almost took it. Eleanor sidled up to him and kissed him on the mouth.

My sister, call her easy tonight, enjoyed herself and my boyfriend way too much.

"How about some food?" Mark asked as he slung his arm around my shoulder.

"Okay."

We followed behind Ben and Eleanor.

"You should speak to these people. They came to see your work," I whispered.

"What would you say?" he asked.

"Thank you."

"That will be the day," Ben said as he laughed.

A tall handsome man in his forties approached our huddled foursome.

"Mr. Cobb, I'm Rich Crews. I work for Alan Lawrence in New York. He's interested in your work. If you ever do sell anything, please call him," he said, offering his card.

"Leave it with Wellington," Ben said, continuing to walk.

"Don't be rude," I said.

Eleanor leaned in and kissed his cheek. She asked for a mean pinch. As if reading my mind, she glanced at me.

"Sweetie, you're the one we're trying to protect. Play the game. Ben's arrogant and surly or charming and affable. He chooses what behavior to exhibit depending on the audience. Now run along."

Eleanor led Ben into another part of the gallery, leaving me alone with Mark. I took his arm and headed for the buffet.

"She's good," Mark said.

"Guys are a business proposition. Eleanor dates older affluent men. They can be fat, ugly, or dull. She especially likes ones who have unlimited contacts: invitations to any gala, opening nights, playoff games. She's never interested in the event, just the locked in audience. Her business cards will be floating around here like confetti before the evening is over."

"What business is she in?"

"She took her divorce settlement and opened a boutique. She designs sumptuous dresses to be worn at life changing events: weddings, charity balls, pie eating contests. Anywhere there is a camera, Eleanor wants one of her creations." I twirled around in Irene's dress.

A flash lit up the room. I hope I wasn't in that picture. This one would be named "Whirlwind Romance," or "When will Ben Cobb come to his senses and dump this babe?"

We got in the chow line. From where I stood, the delicious homemade goodies taunted me. I should have been a food critic or a caterer. Between Irene and Eleanor, I would have had a good base of customers. Then I needed a gifted staff, self-cleaning and well-stocked kitchen, major capital outlay, and thirty-hour days. Did I want to spend my life making petit fours and Swedish meatballs for eight hundred people a week? I picked up a plate and started to fill it.

Mark pointed to an empty spot away from the crowd. We sat and ate. Ben and Eleanor strolled up the stairs. The people parted, giving them free rein over the food. Eleanor picked up a grape and fed it to Ben. I felt ill. Ben caught my eye and winked.

I moved my chair closer to Mark and rested my hand on his thigh.

"Alexia, if you value my life, you will unhand me before…," Mark said.

"I appear and remove him from the face of the Earth," Ben said.

"If you can suck fruit from my sister's fingers, I can grab Mark's…"

"Pumpkins. We were pumpkins in the Thanksgiving school play in kindergarten. Sit on the stage and look pretty. How hard could it be? Miss Jealous over here picked her nose and ate it for an hour. You would have thought she had crude oil stuck up there the way she drilled," Eleanor said.

"Didn't you say something about never embarrassing your sisters?" I asked as I tried to melt into the floor.

"This is ridiculous. All he does," Eleanor said, pointing at Ben, "is crane around searching for you. I'm the most beautiful woman here, buddy."

"One of two," Ben said.

"I'm off to mingle and do my business some good," she said.

"Eleanor, do you see the redhead in the pink chiffon dress by the stairs?" I asked.

"Lovely, if she was starring in a 1960's revival of Girls a Go-Go," Eleanor said as she spotted her.

"Her name is Maisey Dale, and her boyfriend owns several car dealerships. Remember how you wanted to dress the models at the car show?"

She blew me a kiss and then scooted over to Maisey to compliment her on everything from her strappy sandals to her bouffant hair.

"Eleanor will have the boyfriend's number and a sale of at least four dresses in a half hour," I said with a hint of pride.

"She should be in public relations or an international assassin. Charming and lethal," Ben said.

"You know best—she is your date," I said as I hooked my hand around Mark's elbow.

Mark coughed and escorted me back into the gallery. A crowd formed around Ben, and he put his head down.

"What do they want from him?" I asked.

"The secret to happiness, the talent to create, and the enlightenment to dominate all," Mark said.

"You make him sound like the Dalai Lama."

"The money ain't bad either," he said.

Mark and I roamed through the gallery and admired the Cobb originals. Mark introduced me to a few people, and then we settled by the bar. Eleanor laughed on cue and had three men enthralled by the stairway. I raised my wineglass to her, and she winked at me.

After two hours, I couldn't stifle any more yawns. I wasn't cut out for schmoozing and being seen. My feet hurt after being squeezed into high heels and the bra contraption Eleanor strapped me into burrowed an extra indentation between my ribs. I leaned on Ben's shoulder as he spoke to Mark. Eleanor sashayed over to us.

"Do you own the car you drove here tonight?" Eleanor asked as she stood before Mark.

"No, ma'am."

"First of all, don't ever ma'am me," she said icily, but then her gaze became more interested as it flickered over him. "You work for Ben and drive his cars."

"Yes, ma'am—I mean, yes, Eleanor."

"Well, tonight that's as good as I'm going to get. Little sis, I owe you big. I handed out fifty business cards and collected at least as many."

Eleanor put her hand on Ben's chin and kissed him on the mouth.

"Not bad. Treat her well, or I'll do to you what Irene did in the Thanksgiving play. Ta."

She took Mark's hand and left with a flourish. Ben pursed his lips and frowned.

"I know I'll be sorry I asked, but…" Ben said.

"Irene was an Indian brave. She refused to be a squaw with a papoose. Aiming her bow and arrow during the wild game hunt, she missed the targeted turkey, and nailed the principal right in the gonads. The arrow was tipped with a magnet and stuck to his zipper."

"Should I laugh or cry?"

"Dealer's choice."

"Remind me to never enter a windowless basement with the two of them."

"I would hold your coat," I said, patting his shoulder.

"You're too kind. No more talk about any inflicted bodily harm. Care for a stroll?"

"Are there photographers in here?"

"Mostly cell phone enthusiasts. Lousy quality, but sellable."

"How's my makeup and hair?"

"Still on your face and on your head." He took my hand and kissed it.

"Thanks, I'd like to go back to your paintings and listen to the 'oohs' and 'ahs'."

We sidled up to the fawning horde. The biggest crowd gathered around the woman with the black fedora. Her age, nationality, and Ben's attraction were the hot topics.

"She's probably thirtyish, English, and a one-night-stand," said an overly cologned man in his fifties.

"No. Older, American, and a long-term relationship, possibly a mentor," said an ultra-thin, twentyish woman dressed in white.

The model's stare challenged the viewer. She wouldn't be a beautiful woman in person, but in the painting, her confidence oozed out. Not worldly, but in the picture, she knew everything. Her eyes laughed at others' inexperience. Ben shook his head in disgust.

"Amateurs," Ben spat and stormed outside for some air.

"Who was she?" I asked, following him out the back door.

"My Paris landlady. She claimed the fedora belonged to Marlene Dietrich. I asked her to pose for me. She brought the hat and nothing else. Close to ninety at the time and well preserved, wouldn't you say?"

"Stunning. You're right about the written explanations," I said.

"She was a cabaret singer and dancer in the late twenties through the early forties. The show went underground when World War II started. She showed me her dance moves and described the other acts. Some of the performers were nude and invited extensive audience participation," he explained.

I visualized the painting in my mind. I could see her using the hat as a prop and belting out a tune, moving those hips and striking a pose. Ben definitely loved all women. He captured this woman at the height of her appeal despite her age. In the painting, she stepped on stage again. Performing, seducing, enchanting. The spirit of her youth dominated all, and age became a number to her.

We stepped back in and headed for the food. Professional curiosity and courtesy, made me choose the smoked salmon, bite size garlic bread, strawberries, Cajun shrimp, and a massive turtle brownie.

We found a quiet spot to sit, eat, and watch the crowd.

"Tell me about art," I said.

"I know it when I see it," Ben said, helping himself to my brownie.

"I mean the business of art? What makes a painting sellable?"

"Artist's name, subject of the painting. It has to be appealing to the eye and senses. A painting must be untainted to be good." He snared a strawberry off my plate.

"Untainted?"

"Natural. From the artist's mind's eye. Or untrained or unpaid subjects. For instance, the painting of the woman sunbathing. She didn't care if anyone watched her—she enjoyed the day. If I had drawn her without her permission, it wouldn't have mattered. She melted into the scenery. I hate the transaction part of painting, but models are paid to come to the loft. Finding nude women roaming around Chicago is everyman's fantasy, but nonexistent in reality."

"Why didn't you go back to Europe to paint?"

"Guilt, rage, fear, money or a combination of the above."

"Are women less inhibited in Europe? You make it sound like public nudity is an everyday occurrence." I bit into a shrimp and wished for hot sauce.

"The pure spirit comes out when the subject is there of their own accord. Their own free will. The black fedora lady is making a statement. You can feel it. She wants you to see her and be drawn in."

"You told me you regret selling any paintings. You have no intention of ever selling again. Why do people come? Why have a show?" I bit into the other half of the luscious brownie.

"Demand without supply. Other artists, old friends, my father, all encourage me to share my work. People also hope they will catch me at a weak moment, and I will sell. Silly, but true."

More people came upstairs. We recessed deeper into the corner and shadows.

"I wish you would put a book out," I whispered to him.

"How many more paintings can I do of you? There a few angles I'd like to explore further," he said, nibbling my neck.

An older man lumbered up the stairs. Ben stood and greeted him.

"Finally someone worth meeting, Jerry White, Alexia Hale," Ben said.

"Hiding alone is cowardly, but with a beautiful woman, it's inspired," Jerry said as he bowed to me.

"Still teaching?" Ben asked.

"Yes, I have a student who reminds me of you."

"You poor man," I said.

Ben feigned shock as Jerry laughed.

"He has talent, but he paints too quickly. 'It's not a race,' I tell him over and over. But what do I know. I'm not a painter," Jerry said.

"No, you're a sculptor who takes forever to finish one piece," Ben said.