Page 66 of The Girlfriend Clause
First night of the Global Contemporary Evening Sale at Cranley House. Silentauction.
“It’s next week,” she said. “Chelsea Harbour. Christian’s going, of course. I’ll see if he can get you in.”
She went back to frantically typing on her phone.
“Dammit, Andy.” Eliza looked at me. “We have to get tickets. I can’t believe they’re not hosting you as a matter of course.”
I put a hand on the back of my neck. “Yeah, that would be cool. But I’m not exactly ‘a name.’” I knew the auction was coming up, but I’d put it out of my mind. That part of my life was behind me—no point living in the past. The tickets were probably worth more than my painting.
Everyone wanted landscapes or abstracts on their walls. Not portraits, and certainly not by an unknown. My piece was only included as a condition of the prize.
“So.” Mum put the phone down and pushed the olives toward me. “It’s the hottest art event of the year. Collectors, critics, celebs. Very swanky.”
“Can he get us in?” Eliza asked. “Christian knows people, doesn’t he?”
“Tickets are a thousand pounds each,” Mum said. “Charity thing, you know.”
“Holy crap, Andy, a thousand pounds just to getin?”
“Well, Christian’s happy to see if he can squeeze you in on the door,” said Mum. “It might be a waste of time. But nothing ventured, don’t you think?”
“Come on, Andy, let’s go,” said Eliza. “At the very least, we can hang with Christian and hear about his trip. Something different. Fun.”
She had a point.
“Imagine,” she added. “Listening to all those stuffy art boffins intellectually masturbating over your creative genius.”
“Do you remember that knob, Sebastian Wetherall?” I asked.
“Wasn’t he the one who described your piece as ‘naive’?”
“That’s the one.”
He’d said more than that, and he was probably right. I hoped he wouldn’t be there.
“‘Naive’?” said Mum. “What does he know? You won your bit, darling, never mind the Sebastian Wetheralls of this world. You are beingcelebrated. Youdeserveto be there. I say”—she paused for effect—“eff the establishment. If Christian can’t get you on the guest list, you should just break in.”
“Yeah, right. Disguise ourselves as waitresses and slip in via the kitchen with a tray of smoked salmon blinis?” I said.
“We could, you know. White shirts, black ties. Glitzy frocks underneath?” Eliza nudged me.
“Just show up with confidence and say you’re journalists?” suggested Mum.
“I wonder if Liam Roth’s going,” I said without thinking.
“Who, darling?” Mum asked.
“Oh. Nobody.” Why had Liam’s name popped into my head? Must have been all that talk of privileged arseholes rolling in cash.
Mum looked at me a second too long. “Okay. Well, you’ve got just under a week. Are you up for it?”
“I am,” said Eliza. “Worst-case scenario, we get forcibly removed.”
“True,” I said. “And if we do, so what? The paps aren’t exactly going to take a photo of two twats from Datchet getting booted out, are they?”
Mum raised a glass. “Nothing to lose. You two ‘twats’ needsome fun. And like I said, you never know who you might meet.”
I had no intention of meeting anyone, certainly not some stuffed shirt with more money than sense, but it would be a great distraction. And if it all went pear-shaped and we got kicked out, so what?
