Picture This

‘Yeah, she had taste.’

‘Taste! She had no taste! I chose all those pieces for the collection – we’re talking years of emotional investment on my part, Harry. It’s no wonder I take these things personally.’

‘And you weren’t even married to her. What am I gonna do? The holes on my walls… ’

‘I’ll fill those holes, don’t worry. I think I have access to another Hopper, and you should see the guy I’m showing on the Upper East Side – Marc Tooplich. I’m telling you, this guy is going to be hotter than Gursky.’

‘I saw the show. I wasn’t crazy about it.’

Felix blinked in amazement. Dissent from Harold Weiss – and on the subject of art? This was a disturbing development. In the 15 years he’d been working as a consultant for the Weiss collection, he’d never known the guy to form an opinion of his own, let alone disagree with him. ‘Harry, is there something you’re not telling me? Is there a potential Mrs Weiss number four on the horizon?’

Harry laughed. ‘That reminds me: the Susie Thomas show – I checked her out online. Wild art, I want a piece.’

‘I can add your name to the list. Everyone who’s anyone is breathing down my neck—’

‘What did I just say? I want a piece – at any cost, you understand?’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘And a good seat at the artists’ dinner afterwards. She looks cute in the catalogue. Maybe I’d like to meet her.’

Felix reined in his immediate reaction – an impulse to punch the oversexed optometrist – and instead reminded himself of the extraordinary amount of money he’d made over the years from the Weiss estate. Forcing a smile, he told him, ‘I might be able to put you next to the critic from Artforum – that’ll be four seats away.’

‘You will introduce us though?’

‘Of course. An eminent collector like yourself? She should be so lucky.’

‘Oh boy, that would be so fantastic!’

‘But tonight is not about talking about art; it’s about making art.’

‘So you really think I should get up, go… exploring?’

‘What have you got to lose? Your virginity?’ Felix joked, now craving nothing more than his own company.

‘You’re not coming?’

‘Harry, I would only cramp your style. Go forth, young man, and conquer!’

He pulled Harold to his feet, then pushed him lightly toward the dance floor, beyond which a bewildering variety of sexual acts were being performed in a series of alcoves set in the far wall. There was something faintly satanic and primal about these tableaux that brought to mind Dalí or Goya. It was a world that appealed to Felix visually and, in a strange way, the brutal honesty of people seeking pleasure for themselves was refreshing to one who dealt in artifice so much. This had once been his milieu, but lately he had been reduced to voyeur only.

He watched as Harold glanced back at him, blinking short-sightedly like a lost child, before disappearing among the writhing figures. Satisfied he’d carried out the role he was expected to play, Felix relaxed against the cushioned seat and closed his eyes.

*

‘One Campari with orange… Hey, I know you. You’re that famous art dealer, aren’t you? F… something?’

The voice was female, young and provocative.

Felix opened his eyes. A cherry-coloured nipple mounted on a pale breast seemed to stare back at him accusingly. The waitress, to whom the breast belonged, was a tall redhead of indefinable age, somewhere between 20 and 40. Semi-naked, a pair of bronze feather angel wings strapped to her shoulders, she wore a bondage harness under which a G-string was visible. She stood balanced on her roller skates, peering down at him quizzically, the drink he’d ordered balanced precariously on a silver tray she held out. Pulling himself up out of the leather couch, he reac

hed for the glass.

‘What’s it to you?’ The drink was cool and soothing. After a long sip he held it to his burning cheek.

‘I’m an artist. And I believe in synchronicity, so this was meant to be.’ Her confidence was brazen; it gave her a certain beauty. But he’d seen it all before.

‘Like fuck it was.’