You're Not the One (9781101558959) (46 page)

Magda and I exchange glances. She looks like she's died and gone to Gucci.

“After you came to see me in the Vineyard, I did some research, asked around, and I liked what I heard.” He glances at Magda and she puffs out her already inflated chest. “So many galleries have sold out. They're not about the art anymore. They're not about giving art to the people. They're just about money and profits and making the rich richer.”

“Yes, it's true,” agrees Magda. “So true.”

“But you seemed different,” he muses, glancing at me. “You seemed to care about what I was doing, about the art, about the process.”

“I liked your story about the umbrellas.” I smile and he grins.

“I totally dig your philosophy,” he continues, turning to Magda. “Everyone should be able to enjoy art. It should transcend all social classes, speak to the proletariat, not just the bankers on Wall Street.”

“Absolutely,” agrees Magda, nodding fervently. “Those bankers.” She makes a disgusted tutting noise with her tongue. “All they care about is money. They don't care about people, their lives, their hopes and dreams.”

I can see she's thinking about her own apartment being foreclosed and the gallery being taken away.

“Yeah, exactly,” agrees Artsy. “That's why I'm so excited to be exhibiting with you guys. I've never felt the need to show my work before, never wanted to, but now I know this is totally the right home, totally the right thing to do,” he enthuses, flinging his arms around.

“Great.” I smile. Gosh, this is amazing. Finally something is going right.

“Yeah, I'm totally stoked about the concept of having an exhibition and not selling my art but giving it away for free. I mean, it's genius!”

There's a pause.

“Excuse me?” Magda looks suddenly confused. “Free?”

“Yeah, it's, like, your philosophy, right? Art should be for everyone, no matter if you've got a million dollars in your pocket or not even a dime.”

I feel a cold, creeping dread. He cannot be saying what I think he is saying. “You want to give your art away?” I venture cautiously, the smile freezing on my face. I hardly dare speak the words. “
For free?
”

Making a gun with his fingers, he points it at me and pretends to pull the trigger. “Bull's-eye!” He grins, looking pleased with himself.

“
Bull's-eye?
” croaks Magda in a strangled voice.

“Rather than sell it?” I persist, in dazed disbelief.

“Hell, yeah.” He nods, still grinning. “It's the future of art. Art for the masses.”

I'm trying to remain calm, but inside I'm that little figure on the bridge in Munch's
The Scream
. I swallow hard. OK, don't panic, Lucy. You've got to turn this around. You've got to change his mind. Think, goddammit.
Think
. “Yeah, it's an amazing idea, truly genius.” I summon my courage and take a deep breath. “It's just . . .”

“Just what?” Pausing from bouncing cheerfully around on his big purple Nike trainers, Artsy looks at me and frowns.
Temperamental artist
is screaming all over his pouting face.

I stall. It's just that this will mean that Magda will lose everything, because she's relying not only on the publicity that his exhibition will bring, but on the commission on sales to save her business, her livelihood, and her home. I glance across at her. Her face has paled and she looks slightly confused, like my nan looked when my granddad died, as if she can't quite comprehend what's going on.

I glance back at Artsy. How can I tell him all that? I can't, can I?

“It's just such an incredible idea of yours,” I say at last, forcing a bright smile. “Truly genius.” It's like flicking on the flattery switch.

“I know, right?” His smile snaps right back on. “OK, well, if that's all sorted . . .” He goes to high-five me and Magda. “Later, peeps.” And striding across the gallery in his lederhosen, he disappears out the door and onto the streets of Manhattan.

For a moment neither of us speaks. I'm still trying to absorb what's just happened. One minute everything seemed to be going so fantastically well and then the next . . .

Apprehensively I turn sideways to look at Magda. Crumpled into a chair, she looks tinier than ever, almost childlike.

“Magda, I'm sorry,” I begin falteringly.

For a moment I don't think she hears me; it's as if she's miles away, staring into space. Then her head tips slightly and she looks up. “Sorry?”

“About the gallery, about everything.” I wave my arms helplessly.

Her heavily mascaraed eyes flick around the gallery, as if taking everything in, before turning to face me. “Don't be sorry,” she says quietly.

“I know, but—”

“
Never
be sorry.” Her voice is still low, but there's a steeliness to it, and drawing herself up to her full height, she seems to summon an inner strength from somewhere. “So I lose the gallery? Lose the apartment?” Her eyes flash with determination. “So what? My relatives lost everything in the war. They lost each other.”

Our eyes meet and all at once I see a depth in Magda that I've never seen before. I've seen her being loud and outrageous, witnessed her exaggerations and dramatics, listened to her crazy stories, and been amused by her innate humor, even when she didn't realize it. But this is something else, something different. Something noble.

Something pretty goddamned special, I think, feeling a sudden surge of respect.

Seemingly galvanized, she takes a deep breath and stands up. “This is not a reason to be sad. This is a reason to celebrate,” she declares, beginning to pace around the gallery. “We are going to exhibit the hottest artist in town. In the world, most probably!” Flinging her arms out wide, she turns to me, her eyes flashing with exhilaration. “This is wonderful, Loozy, wonderful!”

Her enthusiasm is infectious, and despite everything I feel myself getting swept up in it. She's right. Artsy is the hottest artist out there right now. No matter what happens afterward, the fact that he's chosen our gallery to stage his first proper exhibition is a huge achievement. The publicity will be incredible.

“We'll have to have a really great party,” I say with a smile, “and this time we're getting real champagne.” Even if it means putting it on my credit card, I tell myself determinedly.

“Real champagne, real everything! It will be incredible!” cries Magda. Bending down, she scoops up Valentino and hugs him to her tightly. “People will talk about it forever. This gallery will not close quietly. Oh, no, we will go out in a blaze of glory! Like in
Titanic
!”

“
Titanic
?” I ask, slightly bewildered.

“The ship was sinking, but the band still played on,” she says, her lips quivering. “The band played on till the very end.” She looks at me misty-eyed, and reaching for my hand, pulls me into a group hug: me, Magda, and Valentino. “That's what we'll do, Loozy. We will play on till the very end.”

T
he rest of the morning is spent brainstorming ideas for the exhibition, which is going to be in three months' time, when Artsy will have finished his latest piece. That's if Magda can hold off the bank until then. Apparently they've issued her a foreclosure notice, as she's been defaulting on the mortgage for months.

That's not all. Now that her finances are no longer a secret, she tells me about how she's been racking up credit-card debt, remortgaging her apartment to free up capital, accruing interest on the interest with no hope of ever being able to pay back the loan. As if that wasn't bad enough, the whole time this has been going on she's kept it a secret from everyone. She didn't want to worry anyone. She didn't want to admit how it was all falling apart, not even to herself, so she shouldered it alone.

“Have you told your children yet?” I ask, as she finishes telling me everything.

For the first time she falters. “No, not yet.” She shakes her head. She's being remarkably upbeat and Olympian in her determination, but I can see in her eyes that telling her children is the worst thing, and my heart goes out to her. I have a great affection for Magda and I really respect her. I just wish there was something I could do, some way I could help.

But all I can do is be supportive and try to be positive. So, pinning on a happy face, I attempt to mirror her mood and be upbeat, but it's difficult. As soon as the gallery closes, I'll lose my job, and with it my visa to stay in America. I'll have to move back to London and say good-bye to New York.

At the thought I feel a stab of sadness and my mind flicks to—

I stop it, before it can even go there. Like I said, I'm not thinking about that stuff anymore. That's it. I'm done.

With Magda's blessing I leave work at lunchtime and head uptown to the hospital, where I've arranged to meet Kate. According to her, it's one of the best, and I don't doubt it. Knowing my sister, as soon as Jeff got his diagnosis, she went full throttle into research mode, finding out the best treatment, the best hospital, the best doctor. She would have made it her mission to become an expert on everything there is to know about testicular cancer.

Sure enough, she meets me in the lobby clutching several color-coordinated files and a briefcase that's bulging with paperwork.

“What's in there?” I ask, going to give her a hug.

“Research,” she says briskly, greeting my embrace with her customary statue-like stiffness. My sister's husband might have cancer, but there's obviously no need to get affectionate about it.

“Where's Jeff?” I ask, glancing around.

“He went to the bathroom. He's nervous,” she says in a way that couldn't seem
less
nervous. “I told him this was perfectly routine. I've got all the statistics.” She waves a green file at me. “According to a recent study done by the National Cancer Institute, if the cancer hasn't spread outside the testicle, the five-year relative survival rate is ninety-nine percent.”

But what about the one percent?
pipes up that tiny, terrified voice inside my head that likes to scare me with what-ifs. Determinedly I ignore it. “He's going to be fine.” I nod.

“Of course.” She nods back. “No question.”

“Hey, ladies.”

We both turn to see Jeff walking down the corridor toward us. He's lost even more weight since I last saw him; I try not to let the shock of his appearance show on my face as I move toward him and give him a hug.

“So, do you come here often?” he quips, injecting his easy humor into the situation as always.

I laugh. “Is that the chat-up line you used on my sister?”

“No, she was the one chatting me up,” he replies, throwing her a mischievous smile.

She tuts indignantly. “No, I was not. I remember it distinctly. It was at a Halloween party and you asked me if I'd ever kissed an Irishman.”

“And what did you say?” Amused by their quarrel, I turn to my sister. I've never heard this story before.

“I said, ‘Yes, several, when I worked for McGrath's law firm in Dublin.' ”

She says it completely straight-faced and I can't help laughing. That is so Kate. She has an answer for everything. Even cheesy chat-up lines. “So what did you do?” I look at Jeff, who's loving this.

“Oh, you know, I hit her on the head with my club and dragged her back to my cave.”

“You did not,” gasps Kate, her feminist principles visibly rising up within her.

“No, she's right, I didn't,” he acquiesces with a grin. “I told her that I'd never kissed a beautiful blonde English girl before, and could I?”

There's a pause as they exchange looks.

“You old romantic,” says my sister quietly, giving him a little squeeze.

I watch them. It's a tender moment: her keeping it all together with her color-coordinated files, sharp suit, and business-as-usual attitude; him looking ready to fall apart, his face unshaved, his eyes betraying his fear. Two people lost in one another while all around them the big busy machine of the hospital churns.

“Speaking of softies.” Jeff turns to me. “I hear you tried to rescue a cat the other night, got into a little bit of trouble.”

Oh crap.

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?” I swear my sister's ears are like a metal detector: They pick up the slightest thing and that's it, she's off, bleeping away.

“Oh, there was no trouble,” I say hastily.

“I have a couple of friends working down at the Ninth Precinct. One of the guys recognized the name, said it was a British girl and wondered if Kate was related.” He winks. “I didn't realize we had a criminal in the family.”