False Impressions (10 page)

Madeline looked at me curiously, openly. And that made me like her even more, the attitude that kept her constantly attuned to new information in her galaxy.

She nodded. “Okay. I’ll consider that. But I just
know
Syd. I
know
he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t steal my artwork. He couldn’t be responsible for the forgeries. He wouldn’t try to bring me down like that.”

“Would he have the expertise to copy the pieces?” I asked, my voice determinedly casual.

“Yes. He’s highly educated in the art world and is an interesting artist himself.”

“Okay.” I tried not to sound a little triumphant. “And you said he had access to the galleries. Do you mean he still has keys?”

Her lack of reply said it all.

Madeline paused. She seemed to be weighing the import of this. And I held my breath, because while there certainly were a lot of “danger points” in the transporting of Madeline’s artwork, who had more time and accessibility than an assistant?

“I should tell you something else about Syd,” Madeline said. “We dated. We were lovers.” She pulled out her cellphone and showed me a photo of a man with dark skin, haunting dark eyes and cut cheekbones beneath shiny black hair. He looked like an Arabian prince.

“When did you date? Before or after the move to Michigan Avenue?”

“Before and during. He was a fantastic assistant. He researched acquisitions and kept records. He wrote catalogues and organized exhibitions. He helped me budget. He gave presentations to groups and schools to raise awareness about openings and eventually the new gallery.”

“How long were you together?”

“Three years.”

That sounded pretty long for Madeline Saga.

“It felt like such a partnership,” Madeline said. “And then it became a real one. We fell in love.” She let out a long breath. “It was wonderful.” She gazed up then as if she could see, above her, the pages of the story of her and Syd.

I thought of Mayburn telling me that Madeline lived only for art and love. “That must have been amazing for you.”

“It was the perfect romantic situation for me. Except for one thing. I knew he desperately wanted to have children, and I did not. I’ve never wanted kids.”

“I haven’t, either.”

She looked at me, surprise in her expression. “Really?”

“Really. What’s that look?”

She blinked, appraised me. “You’re different than I thought you would be.”

“How did you think I would be?”

“More…typical. A typical Chicago girl.”

“There’s no typical Chicago girl. We’re all unique.”

She laughed. “Maybe.” She sighed. “But kids were very important to Syd, and I simply couldn’t be the person to provide that. So we ended things.”

“And you broke up after you moved?”

“No, we’d broken up during the planning of the move. But he stayed on to help me complete it.”

“Who did the breaking up?” I asked.

“I did,” she answered.

I said nothing. I didn’t have to.

Madeline shook her head. “It’s not what you think. He wasn’t mad.”

“What was he?”

“Sad. Our breakup killed him in a way. But he would never want to hurt me.”

I must have made a disbelieving face, because Madeline spoke with a defensive tone. “If you met him, if you saw us together, you’d understand. He wouldn’t do that.”

“So maybe I should meet him,” I said.

“I agree.”

“When?” I said.

She reached for her phone, typed something in.

Seconds later her phone dinged and she read a message. “Tonight,” she said.

21

W
e landed at a secret club that night.

“What is this place?” I asked Madeline as we disembarked from a cab at a bizarre location near the soon-to-be closed Belmont Police Station. The building hunched under two highway overpasses. There was no sign on the front door, and the glass blocks in front of the establishment had been painted black.

“We try not to give it a name,” Madeline said.

“We?”

“A group of my friends have owned it for years and included all of us in the planning of it. Sometimes we change the place a little, sometimes a lot. The patrons tend to be art types.”

“Like a joint piece of art,” I said.

She gave me an appreciative smile. “Yes. But we have found that when we put labels on the place—when we say it’s a champagne bar or an art bar or a dance club or a salon or…” She shrugged. “Or anything. Well, then it’s not as good as when it’s organic.”

“Ah, so, it’s an organic bar. It’s green.”

My sarcasm didn’t seem to affect Madeline. “Come in, friend,” she said to me.

And at her words, I felt welcomed.

Inside, the place was draped in velvety fabric—the walls, the banquettes, the front of the bar, the chairs.

The manager greeted Madeline with a hug. As at Toi, a reserved sign was flicked off a table for us to take a seat.

“Sydney Tallon will be joining us,” Madeline told the manager.

In the meantime, Madeline and I launched into an easy discussion. Once again, I found Madeline fascinating to talk to. It wasn’t that she spoke a great deal or that she told funny stories, it was more to do with how she listened. I hadn’t exactly noticed it when we were out last week, but it occurred to me that I might never have felt that
listened to
before. Madeline leaned in a little when I spoke; she cocked an ear toward me as if unwilling to miss even a syllable. The way she’d listened made you feel at the center of a comforting bubble. That bubble expanded when she contributed something. Usually it was a small phrase.
Life is made of many things to desire, but we still have to choose only one at a time.
Or
I like how you said that.
Or she might murmur,
Hmm, yes, interesting, interesting.

I excused myself to go the bathroom at one point. “You’ll be here when I get back, right?” I said to her.

She laughed. “Yes.”

The bathroom was bizarre, as if the whole room were made of black patent leather. When I came out of the stall and went to wash my hands, the unending look of patent leather made difficult to know where to step. And where the hell did the floor stop and the counter and sink begin?

Another stall opened. “Isn’t that counter the most impossible thing?”

I turned, surprised. “Oh, hi. You’re—”

“Jaqueline Stoddard,” the woman said. She wore the same peach-orange cashmere coat and a scarf around her neck. She reached out her hand. “And you’re Isabel.”

“Yes.” I shook it. “Please, call me Izzy.”

“Well, Izzy, let me show you how this works.” She pointed at my clutch purse. “May I?”

I handed it to her. She reached out, then down at an angle. “It works best if you just walk at it.” She took a few steps, stopped when her hand hit something, then placed the clutch down. And right then, it was apparent exactly where the counter was, leading up the sink.

“It’s an optical illusion,” Jacqueline said. “Neat. But frankly, a pain in the behind.”

I laughed, thanked her.

When we reached the table, someone else was with Madeline. Syd.

Madeline had told me in the cab on the way over that Syd’s family was from Pakistan. As I’d noticed in the photo of him, he resembled a prince from a faraway land. His sleek hair was long, black and in a ponytail. He was a very handsome man.

He stood and greeted Jacqueline warmly. When she left, he turned his gaze to mine. It was a powerful one.

Jacqueline and Madeline talked in some kind of art shorthand about a phone call they needed to have tomorrow, then Jacqueline excused herself.

“Syd, didn’t I tell you Isabel was gorgeous?” Madeline said as we sat.

“You did, Maddy,” Syd said. “And you were right.”

“I think it’s the hair,” Madeline said. “I’ve often wished I could be a redhead.”

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“It’s true.”

“Maddy,” Syd said again, laughing. “Your hair is gorgeous.”

“Well, so is yours.” She looked at me. “Sometimes Syd and I used to wear our hair the same.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Madeline pulled up some pictures on her phone. In them, Syd and Madeline both wore their long black hair the same length, in the same style. I couldn’t tell if I found the image disturbing or beautiful.

As I gave Madeline her phone back, I felt Syd looking at me again, but not in the way Jeremy had. It made me feel a little uncomfortable, as if I were being studied as a specimen of…what? I didn’t know. And I didn’t really enjoy the feeling.

Madeline caught it, too. But when she spoke, her voice was filled only with interest. “What are you thinking, Syd?”

“Have you ever had your portrait painted?” he asked me.

“No.”

“Who would you want to paint her?” Madeline asked.

Syd looked at Madeline, a huge smile covering his face. “Axel Tredstone,” he said.

Madeline blinked, then again. She looked at me, looked me up and down. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh, my God.”

“What?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Axel Tredstone paints women.”

“Okay…”

“No, like he really paints them,” Syd said.

“Right, I get it,” I said. “He paints portraits.”

“No,” Madeline said, and somehow in that one word her voice was even more intrigued. And definitely sultry. “He puts the paint on your body. Covers you in paint.”

“She’d be perfect,” Syd said. “At least I think so. She’s so his type.”

“I agree,” Madeline said.

“What’s his type?” I was almost afraid to ask. What if his type was “vacuous gingers”?

“Intriguing women. Women he finds mysterious. He clearly sees something in each of the women he paints, sees something in their personalities, their souls.”

“He started out painting traditionally,” Syd said. “As he became popular, his fame led him to a lot of women.”

“He’s a lothario,” Madeline said. Appreciatively.

They talked more about Tredstone, explaining his artistic evolution. As they spoke, Syd stopped studying me. Instead, he gazed at Madeline as if mesmerized. He glanced at her constantly, even when I spoke, as if wanting to register all her reactions. He smiled appreciatively, almost wistfully, when she said something funny.

“In painting portraits of these women, and often bedding them,” Madeline continued, “eventually he felt like he had a new understanding of women. So his art changed. His work became more abstract, bold and linear in parts, soft and gentle in others.”

Now Syd’s gaze was locked on Madeline. And instead of studying her, as he had me, his look held awe.

“Tredstone has said that the women are wonderful,” Syd said, speaking up. Still, his gaze was on Madeline’s face. “But certain women, he says…certain women have something else entirely. Something so complex that they don’t even see it.”

“He began painting on their bodies,” Madeline said, seemingly unaware of, or perhaps simply accustomed to the adoration Syd appeared to be sending her way. “And after he paints the women,” Madeline said, “he photographs them.”

“He’s been wanting to do Maddy for over a decade,” Syd said. Now he didn’t sound exactly adoring. He sounded jealous.

“Why wouldn’t you do it?” I asked Madeline.

“Axel and I have been friends and business partners since I was young and just starting out. We know each other on a very deep level.”

I glanced at Syd. His eyes were slightly hooded now.

“And I love that relationship,” Madeline continued. “I don’t want to change it because it’s already so multilayered and beautiful.”

At that, Syd looked down.

There was a pause that, to me, felt awkward. “Why would you think
I
would be right as a subject for this kind of thing?” I asked.

They both looked at me now, almost as if they were seeing something that they knew I never would.

“What?” I asked.

Syd smiled, shrugged. “Your asking that question is what would make Axel consider painting you.”

“Absolutely,” Madeline said. “I’m calling him this week.”

Syd’s attention, less intense now, shifted back to me. “You look uncomfortable.”

“No. Well, maybe a little. I’ve…” I faltered, about to say,
I’ve never been involved in the arts before,
but that would lead Syd to wonder why in the hell Madeline had hired someone with no experience.

“I can’t quite imagine standing naked in front of someone who is a stranger to me and letting him cover me in paint.”

“Maybe you should be a part of different kind of installation first,” Syd said. “Something…easier.”

“I could get her into Pyramus,” Madeline said.

“Perfect,” Syd said. “You always know the perfect thing to do, Maddy. Who would you put her with?”

Madeline shrugged.

Syd looked back at me. “Pyramus is a huge installation that’s taking over a whole gallery.”

“The
whole
thing,” Madeline said.

“It’s essentially a pyramid with a treehouse kind of space inside. This structure will be built into the gallery.”

“And two people at a time,” Madeline said, her voice slowing slightly, as it did when she told an interesting story, “will climb up the pyramid and into the treehouse and spend an hour together.”

“Doing what?”

“The time the people spend together could be the genesis for anything. Would you do it?”

I felt a little overwhelmed by the idea. But I might as well be a good sport, and I might learn more about the morphing concept of “art.” Meanwhile, sitting in an adult tree fort for an hour seemed an easier route than being painted naked.

“Sure,” I said.

“Actually,” Madeline said, “I think I might be able to get you in tomorrow. And I think I know who I’d put you with.”

“Who?” Syd and I said at the same time.

Madeline jutted her chin at Syd. “You.”

When we left, I still didn’t understand exactly what I was getting into the next day.

But I did understand two things. One, Syd Fallon was still very—
very—
much in love with Madeline Saga. And two, I’d have him to myself for an hour.

22