I Married a Billionaire: Lost and Found(9)

"Doesn't matter," I said, through a yawn. "It's for me. I don't want to be one of those artists."

He shook his head, letting himself slump further into the sofa. "Well, I'm sure one of them will come to their senses eventually," he said. "It's only a matter of time."

"Sure," I said. I hated it when he took that "public relations" tone with me, telling me what I wanted to hear. But it wasn't worth fighting over.

The wait was killing me. I hadn't been able to draw anything new since I'd done my submissions; I was waiting on pins and needles, even though I knew, realistically, that I was buried under piles of unsolicited portfolios. The whole thing was an exercise in futility anyway. What did a gallery placement mean, anyway? One person's opinion. Maybe I'd sell my work, but so what? It wasn't like we needed the money. Selling one of my drawings was a dream of mine when I was a kid, but now that I no longer lived paycheck to paycheck and prayed my lights wouldn't get shut off, it just didn't have quite the same appeal.

Just my luck - when I finally grew enough courage to actually pursue a career as an artist, it didn't matter anymore.

***

"Can I get you something to drink?" Daniel drifted over to the sofa, absentmindedly pushing a few coffee table books a few inches to the left as he sat down. "Espresso? Water? Scotch and soda?" He switched on a smile, and the interviewer smiled back, then ducked her head down a little and pushed her hair behind her ear.

I turned back to my plate of leftover lo mein, letting my fork slip from my fingers and clatter against the plate a little more loudly than was absolutely necessary.

"No, thank you," said the interviewer, taking a seat at the sofa across from him and smoothing her skirt very carefully. She had a sort of soft, ingénue way about her that made me feel just slightly nauseous.

"I was just kidding about the scotch," Daniel said, still smiling like he was in an ad for a dentist's office. "Are you even old enough to drink?"

She was giggling. "Of course! But it's a little too early for that, I think." I was surprised I could hear her over the sound of my own teeth grinding together.

This was only the third or fourth time that Daniel had allowed himself to be profiled in his own home, but it should have been old hat by now. I still felt invaded each time - especially when they sent these young girls who looked like they should be modeling for Abercrombie & Fitch instead of interviewing a tech mogul.

Okay, that was unfair. And I wasn't a jealous person - really. It was just that the pattern had become so obvious that it was absolutely tiresome. Every single one of them had the same mannerisms, the same soft laugh, the same charmingly na?ve questions. And then, when I'd finally go and read the damn thing, I'd notice how they liberally reworded or sometimes completely changed the questions in order to shed his answers in a completely different light. It was a sickening process, really. I could understand why Daniel had avoided the whole thing for so long. Even now, he refused to look at the finished products and he'd shush me loudly if I ever tried to bring up the topic. He was certainly smarter than I was, just avoiding it entirely - but I couldn't understand where he got the will power.

This particular interview didn't go on too long, despite the girl stammering and hesitating over every question. When it was finally, blessedly over, and he saw her to the door, I let out an audible sigh just after the lock clicked back into place.

"I know," he said, shuffling in my general direction, sounding as weary as I felt. "I know - but that's it, for a while at least. I'm not saying yes to another one for at least a few months."

"That's what you said last month," I grumbled, rubbing my temples. "But you just can't resist the opportunity to talk about yourself."




"It's a whole new demographic," he said, completely ignoring my jab. "It's one thing to be profiled in another financial journal for middle-aged WASPs, but this was an opportunity to put myself in front of the people who will hold all the buying power for the next fifty-to-sixty odd years. They don't just want a device, they want a lifestyle - and they want a figurehead behind it, someone they can believe in and emulate."

I squinted at him. "You know you're not being interviewed right now, don't you?"

"Oh, God. Where am I?" he said, dryly. "I think I might actually have that scotch and soda - care to join me?"

"It's noon," I said. "You're going insane."

"The word is 'eccentric,'" he said, with the first genuine smile I'd seen from him all morning.

"Yeah, okay," I replied, picking up my plate and bringing it over to the sink. He caught me halfway through my journey with his arm around my waist, hugging me close to him and slowly breathing in the smell of my hair. I smiled, and relaxed against him, still holding the plate. "But if you start stacking tissue boxes I'm having you committed."

We didn't have any plans for the rest of the afternoon, so I wandered into my studio after a while and sat there with a pencil in my hand, waiting. For what, I didn't know. I knew enough from my years as a professional designer that I couldn't sit around and wait for inspiration to hit me on the side of the head, like a brick. I had to work for it. But every time I tried to make a single stroke, I would stop, thinking about how a gallery owner might judge it - when they looked at it, what would they see? Would they ever, in a million years, consider putting it on display? As I tried to form shapes in my mind, I could hear my inner critic poking holes in every idea that I had. Knowing that my work was out there, waiting to be weighed and measured and probably found wanting - it was just too distracting.