Page 37 of I Love My Mistake
“Wonderful. See you tonight!” We blow kisses to each other and I stroll off feeling like happiness is in the air again, for both of us.
JF Gallery is a block up on the right and I stop and stand outside it, breathing the excitement into every cell of my being. Why has it taken me so long to get here? What have I been doing with all this time? I don’t even want to think about the five years I spent in college trying to find a ‘practical’ profession, coming out with no degrees to my name…just a lot of useless information toppled over by hangovers. After that I searched sculpture, graphic design, and cartooning for my passion, but it wasn’t until I picked up a paintbrush that I found home.
I take a deep breath, reach out, open the door, and walk in, my heels clicking news of my arrival on immaculate white tile.
“Mr. Fleming?”
Silence. There are no sounds of life, no papers rustling, no footsteps… nothing. He must have stepped out, so I take the opportunity to look at the space, standing in the center of the large, open, angular, white room. Floor-to-ceiling windows face the street, adding a great deal of sunlight to the recessed tungsten lighting. The walls are clear of scuffmarks or flaws of any kind. The current exhibit is of classy, clean, bright, modern art. Cement stairs framed by two glass railings lead to the second-floor loft, which is half the size of the gallery. In the back of the first floor is a partition that blocks my vision from what I’m guessing is a back room? I can’t be sure.
“Hello?” My voice bounces against the walls, and I subconsciously cross my arms at the echo. Did he go somewhere? Just as I step toward the partition I hear a backdoor opening on the other side of it. I smooth down my hair, and wait.
“Let me know how it goes,” a voice says, and instantly the hairs go up on my neck and my breath catches in my throat.
I recognize Jack Fleming’s voice from our phone call as he answers, “I can see by the look on your face, and your haste in leaving, that something is going on here, Michael. Did you have an affair with this woman?”
I stand very still, holding my breath, my heart breaking, knowing now that it was Michael who referred me.
“Jack, don’t be a dick,” he says.
Does he think I’m charity? How can I escape? These heels would betray my trying to sneak out of here. I’m stuck.
My fingernails press into my palms as I hear Mr. Fleming say, “No secrets. This is my gallery. I need to know if I’m walking into drama.”
Michael sighs. “There has been no affair. You know me better than that.”
My stomach lurches. Of course there’s been no affair! He would never. But what he would do is kiss me, hold me and break my fucking heart until I want to claw his eyes out!
“Did you send her my way because you wanted to get your hands up her skirt?”
I feel so pathetic standing here, so disappointed. Run! Run Nicole!
“Jack. I wouldn’t waste your time. Or mine. Her work is incredible. That’s the only reason.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Jack’s tone suggests more than a hint of skepticism. “You sure you don’t want to stay?”
I feel like I’m going to throw up right here on this pristine white tile floor.
He pauses and in that pause the world waits with me. Am I about to see Michael face to face? I look over my shoulder at the door, at how close it is, at how easily it would be to sprint away to safety. Mema’s voice sounds in my ears: Child, make them respect you.
Michael finally answers, but his voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear it. “No. I have somewhere I have to be. Tell me how it goes.”
“I will. I’m guessing you don’t want me to tell her you referred her,” Jack says, with a sense of humor.
The next sound I hear is the back door closing. Michael must have just nodded? Why do I care? Only one set of footsteps walks toward me as around the partition comes the type of man you’d expect to own a gallery in New York; sophisticated, intelligent eyes, salt and pepper hair, elegant black clothes. He carries a cardboard tray of three paper coffee-cups all bearing the stamp: Third Rail Coffee. I must have walked right by them, and maybe even twice. Maybe Jess ordered her coffee with Michael in line behind her. Never having met him, maybe she smiled at him, because he’s so beautiful. The thought makes me ill.
Jack Fleming pauses in surprise, but recovers quickly. “Nicole Henry, I presume.” He pulls a coffee cup from the tray and says, “Black with cinnamon, yes?” Michael must have told him how I take my coffee. Had I not heard him here, even this coffee would have made me still think Jess was the referral, or even Amber since they know me so well. I wouldn’t imagine that Michael had retained such nuances about me.
Shields up, I take it. “Mr. Fleming, it’s so nice to meet you.” He puts the tray down with one cup left in it. I tear my eyes from it as Jack Fleming takes a sip from his own cup. His head jerks back as he yells, “Ouch! Fuck, that’s hot! Ouch ouch ouch.” Then he turns to me, licking his lips, and says, “So… you heard us discussing you?”
His frankness throws me, but only momentarily. “I did. But it didn’t bother me.”
“Didn’t it?” He inspects me. He’s the type who sees no value in sugarcoating a conversation with banalities.
I say smoothly, my head held high with grace. “Not at all. I also won’t hold it against you that you asked if he’s trying to fuck me. This is your business and you’ve worked hard for your excellent reputation.”
Jack’s eyes light up and he lets out a loud guffaw. He wags a finger at me. “I like you.” While blowing on his coffee to cool it, he turns towards the stairs, and says, “Come.”
I follow him up and find his desk sitting in the middle of the floor. Filling the wall behind him like touching dominoes are stacked pieces from past shows waiting to be picked up by lucky buyers, or unlucky artists who did not sell. I expected the partition downstairs to be hiding an office, but this is a much brighter, open space to work. I sit down in the chair he motions me to. He sits above me on the corner of the desk, and looks at me through narrowed, amused eyes.