Still Lives(5)

Terrant expressed his deep admiration for Lord and her work, saying, “An artist of Kim Lord’s talent and generosity comes along once or twice a century.”



“Looks correct, but is this for real?” I say. “Nelson must be livid.” Gallerists like Nelson de Wilde earn a standard fifty percent from art sales, which means he will be out millions if he is not allowed to sell Kim’s work to collectors. He shelled out seventy grand for the exhibition costs, too, covering the publication of the catalog and the gallery guide. It’s not uncommon for gallerists to chip in on exhibitions (one of the many ethically murky practices of the art world), but in return they expect a reputation bump in their artist’s prices.

“It’s real.” Jayme produces a green-blue scarf and a pair of tall brown boots. Her hands flit over my shoulders, tightening a strap here, tugging the leather there, flowing the scarf. Gusts of tangerine drift over me.

“Too bad we can’t sell the paintings,” I say. “It would completely fix the hole in our budget.”

Something flashes in Jayme’s face. “Too bad we can’t send the release out if she doesn’t approve it,” she says after a moment, “and she can’t approve it if she doesn’t show up.” She points to the floor. “Step into the boots.”

I grip her desk to slide into them; they’re too tight, but Jayme bends and zips them up anyway.

“Maybe she’s already here, but in disguise. She loves costumes so much,” I say, unable to suppress my annoyance. Every time Kim Lord has visited the museum in the past couple of weeks, she’s arrived in a different camouflaging getup, complete with wig, sunglasses, retro dress, or boxy 1980s suit.

Jayme gives me an evaluating look.

“I’m a disaster, aren’t I?” I say. “I should wear my own clothes. Should I take out the earrings?” I touch the studs, tiny gold butterflies that used to belong to my grandmother.

“Can’t even see them. And you actually look almost fabulous,” she says shortly. “But you have no idea.” She unzips a bag on her desk, pulls out powder. “Close your eyes. I’m going to do your face.”

Something swipes my brows, dusts my cheeks.

The strokes tickle but feel tender, too. No one has touched me for months.

“No idea about what?” I say.

No answer. Jayme’s fingers grab my jaw, rub my cheekbones, but beneath their quick movements, I can feel her trembling. I have to struggle not to open my eyes.

“She thought she was being stalked,” she says. “Last week she called me three times to check the names on my media list.” Jayme’s words burn with emotion. “She says he sometimes sneaks into the openings through PR.”

“She told you that?” I didn’t know Jayme and Kim Lord had gotten so intimate. I’d thought Jayme had had too many irons in the fire.

“She said she was close to nailing who it was.” I hear Jayme sigh. “And now she’s missing.”

“Wouldn’t she have told the police, too? Or did she just tell you?”

Jayme dabs my lips.

“You’re done,” she says gently.

When I open my eyes, Jayme has already swiveled away, her slender back to me, her straightened hair falling to the tops of her shoulder blades. “I’ve got to get ready myself,” she says, zipping her makeup bag.

Jayme rarely divulges anything from her private life. I know she adores Prince and fish tacos, but boyfriends? Never introduced. Childhood? Nothing happened, apparently, before her halcyon years at UCLA. And her age? Late thirties? Hard to say. But after tonight’s worries and Jayme’s avoidance of the Still Lives catalog, I’m starting to think there’s a reason she never tells anyone about her past. There’s a memory of violence inside her. We might have more in common than I thought.





3

Bas hired big-time Hollywood event designers for the Gala. Their first proposal for the decor included red-spattered walls and body outlines chalked on the pavement. This caused a near apocalypse in Curatorial, where scholarly types organize the exhibitions and define the art of our time. Stranded in a city of endless boob jobs and crumbling adobe, our curators take to their jobs with special piety. You would have thought their skin was melting off from the howls that went up.

“Nothing squalid. Nothing cop-show. This is supposed to be high art,” snapped Lynne Feldman, our chief curator, earning her the nickname “High Art” among our fund-raising folks, as in “Hey, let’s tell High Art we’re serving Bloody Marys.” “Stiff ones, ha-ha!”

When Kim Lord heard of the controversy, she suggested moving the Gala out of the museum entirely and into the subterranean underpass used for truck deliveries to the skyscrapers: a street party literally in the street. There’s a good patch of the underpass behind the Rocque’s loading dock—a vaulting asphalt cavern that also connects to a staircase to the upper avenue.

Everyone agreed that Kim’s suggestion was the kind of brilliant and superbly impractical idea for which the Rocque was known, and the designers got to work. It’s turned out to be an amazing space for a party—fifty-foot-high concrete columns soar to the giant girders that hold the avenue above. Instead of gazing at L.A.’s orange night sky, patrons will look up into the beams that hold a living road. The usual white dinner tent, gargantuan florals, cocktail stations, and dance stage will intersperse with real-life street signs and dented guardrails. Thursdaynight rush hour will roar above the DJs, and the muted odors of tar and spray paint will mingle with champagne in the mouth.