A Different Blue(140)

insistent.”

“Mr. Wayne is an owner of The Sheffield, Blue,” Tiffa said simply. I tried not to quake. Tiffa

turned back to Mr. Wayne. I wondered briefly if his first name was Bruce. He looked like he

could have a Batmobile stashed on the roof.

Tiffa continued, “The Echohawk pieces are going to be worth a fortune someday. The Sheffield

scored a major coupe in the art world tonight.” Tiffa oozed confidence. I felt like putting my

hand over her mouth.

[page]“I agree.” Mr. Wayne cocked his head to the side. “Well done, Tiffa.” He extended a

hand to me. “Would you show me your other pieces?”

Tiffa didn't even hesitate. “What a brilliant idea. I will be around, Blue.” And she was off,

moving on to another couple without a second look. Mr. Wayne smelled expensive. He threaded my

hand through his arm, the way Wilson did sometimes, and we moved to my next sculpture. Maybe it

was a British thing, the courtly manners. Or maybe it was something that rich, educated, men

did. I had had so little experience with any of the above. I moved beside him and tried to think

of something clever to say. My mind ran in dizzying circles as I groped desperately for

something – anything – to converse about. I suddenly realized Mr. Wayne wasn't waiting for

witty remarks but was engrossed in the sculpture before him.

“I think I've changed my mind. I want this one instead.” I noticed the sculpture in front of

me for the first time. 'Loss' bowed before me in anguished repose. I wanted to turn away. I had

been relieved when Tiffa had sent the truck to pick it up. I didn't respond, but looked beyond

it, hoping Mr. Wayne would move on.

“It's almost painful to look at,” he murmured. I felt him looking at me, and I brought my eyes

to his. “Ah, there's a story here, I can tell.” He smiled. I smiled too, but it felt forced. I

knew I should tell him about the piece, sell it, sell myself. But I couldn't. I had no idea how.

An awkward silence followed. He eventually spoke, saving us both.

“Someone told me once that to create true art you must be willing to bleed and let others

watch.” I felt a little exposed and suddenly wanted to melt into the shadows of the room where

I could observe without being observed.

“There is suffering in every line. It's simply . . . wonderful.” His voice was gentle, and I

berated myself silently. Here I was on the arm of someone who could be enormously helpful to me

in my career, and I wanted to escape.

“Then it's yours,” I answered suddenly. “It is my gift to you, to thank you for this

opportunity.”

“Oh no.” He shook his leonine head emphatically. “No. I will buy this sculpture. Thank you,

but a tremendous price was paid in the creation of this piece, and it should not be given away

for free.” His voice was both tender and kind.

My heart thudded painfully and emotion rose in my chest. “Thank you,” was all I could manage.

And we moved on.

The night continued, a blur of expensive clothing and heady praise. I lost my pain in the

pleasure of attention and moved from one effusive patron to the next, Tiffa always nearby.

Toward the end of the evening, Tiffa stopped and waved to someone across the room.

“He came, luv. Are you still miffed at him? Should I keep him away so you can make him suffer?