The Last Little Blue Envelope (17 page)

The Dotted Line

The next morning was the first clear day since Ginny’s arrival. The sky was bright and vividly blue with big, puffy clouds. Ginny stood in front of the white chalk steps that lead to the front door of Jerrlyn and Wise. Occasionally, someone in a suit would pass by her and go up the steps. One or two of them glanced at her, perhaps knowing that she was the eighteen-year-old selling the artwork on show today, but the others passed without a look.

Ten minutes until the auction. Ten minutes, and no Keith. No Oliver either, for that matter, unless he was inside. She hadn’t truly believed that Keith wouldn’t come, but with every passing second, the reality set in.

She considered just going back to Richard’s, then she hurried up and pressed the button before she could entertain this thought for very long. Cecil’s assistant, James, opened the door, greeted her by name, and escorted over to Cecil. The hallway was packed with people—easily double the amount that had been there for the last auction.

“It’s so crowded,” Ginny said, rocking on her heels nervously.

“Yes, a good turnout, especially considering the short notice,” Cecil replied. “The last collection got a good deal of press in the industry, so we had a lot of interest.”

Ginny scanned the hall, but Oliver was nowhere in sight. In the middle of this crowd, over by the table of coffee and strawberries, was a figure she instantly recognized. It was impossible to miss the massive crown of wiry, long, black and orange hair, the mix of gold Spandex leggings, the black mohair sweater that came down to her knees, and the face with the tattooed stars around the eyes. Ginny wasn’t sure why she was here, but she definitely knew who it was. The woman gave a gasp and a wave, and set down a plate filled almost entirely filled with cream and waved.

“Hello, darling!” she called in her booming Scottish brogue.

“I think you know Mari,” Cecil said.

“Cecil told me about the auction,” Mari said, answering the unasked question. “He’s my art dealer down here in London. I put him together with Peg. I’ve know Cecil since he was just a pup. He didn’t look like this when I first met him. You were pure poor art student then, weren’t you, love?”

“I was indeed,” Cecil said.

“You’re going to take good care of this piece, aren’t you?” Mari pinched Cecil’s cheek. It looked like a hard pinch too. One that might leave a mark. Ginny couldn’t help but be impressed at the way he took it without wincing.

“We certainly hope to,” he replied. “Do you have everything you need? Glass of champagne?”

“Maybe just a small one, love. Virginia, you remember my Chloe, don’t you?”

Mari indicated a girl leaning casually against the flocked wallpaper, next to a painting of a tiny boy in blue velvet with a bug-eyed dog. Chloe was Mari’s assistant: part artist, part butler, part bouncer. She was dressed in biker boots, rolled jeans, and a shredded T-shirt that revealed a right arm tattooed from shoulder to fingertips in one large image of a mermaid splashing around in a purple and green ocean. The bleach blond mullet had been replaced by a shaved head with just a hint of peach fuzz.

An assistant stealthily put a glass of champagne in Mari’s hand. It was in one of those wide and flat old-fashioned glasses that sort of looked like bowls.

“Let’s go have a look at it,” Mari said.

She guided Ginny over to the door of the auction room. The auction room was such a strange place, so heavily carpeted, so padded. There were a handful of upholstered chairs and four long tables. A dozen people sat in front of computers, talking quietly into phones. The piece sat on an easel at the end of the room, clamps along the edges holding it all together. In this light, Ginny could see just how dirty the window was. They’d made no attempt to clean it. The layer of grime and the runny paint . . . it was all part of the piece.

“It’s always very strange to see them when they get here,” Mari said, taking a long, loud sip of the champagne. “A bit like an operating theater. Have a bit of champagne.”

Ginny felt a presence behind her—the hairs at the back of her neck tingled a bit. She didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Oh, hello,” Mari said. “Are you a friend?”

Once again, Oliver was formally dressed. He fit right in at Jerrlyn and Wise. Maybe the hair was a little too dark, the coat still a little strange fitting. “I’ll be outside,” he said to Ginny. “Just wanted you to know I was here.”

“Aren’t you going to stay for the auction?” Mari asked.

Oliver looked at Mari warily—processing the facial tattoos, the names on her hands and feet, the unnatural sunburst orange streaks emanating from her head. She saw him complete his analysis and decide that the best course of action was to walk away from both of them as quickly as possible.

“Oh, he’s shy,” Mari said. “He’s different from the last one. Where do you find them all?”

It took Ginny a second to realize that Mari thought Oliver was
with
Ginny—in much the same way that she thought Keith was
with
Ginny. She was about to issue a denial, but then decided against it. For one thing, it was nice to have someone who thought she was such a collector of boyfriends. For another, Oliver’s abrupt exit made her nervous.

People started to trickle past them into the room, taking their places at the tables, opening the computers and taking out their phones. Cecil put a hand delicately on Ginny’s shoulder.

“Forgive us,” he said. “Virginia and I just have a bit of business to complete. Please have a seat, Mari.”

“I think I’ll stand, darling. I like to think on my feet.”

“Of course. This way, Virginia?”

He escorted Ginny over to his office and quietly shut the door. He didn’t sit down, though. “Perhaps it’s best if I speak directly,” he said. “I don’t know who Mr. Davies is, but I don’t think he had anything to do with the creation of the work in the saleroom today. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I want you to know that that contract you signed does not bind you to selling this piece today. If you do not want to proceed, you can and should say so. We’ve pulled things from the block before. I don’t want to go ahead with this sale if there’s something irregular going on. . . .”

Before Ginny could react, there was a rapid knock on the door, and James poked his head in.

“I found him,” he said, ushering Oliver into the room. James shut the door behind them. Now they were all crowded into the tiny space by Cecil’s door. Cecil tapped his fist against his lips for a moment. Oliver pressed himself into the corner

“Virginia and I were just having a conversation about the contract,” he said. “I was explaining to her that it wasn’t necessary for us to—”

“It’s hers,” Oliver said, cutting him off.

“Pardon?”

Oliver had gone completely pale, and was pulling his coat tight around himself, as if trying to disappear.

“I’m withdrawing from the sale. All the money’s hers. Just sell it and leave me out of it.”

“What?” Ginny said.

Cecil moved over to his desk and produced a piece of paper.

“I thought something like this might come up,” he said. “I’ll just need your signature on this rider, which supersedes the contract, directing all profits minus commission to Virginia Blackstone. You forfeit any claim.”

“Good,” Oliver said. He squeezed between the two wingback chairs to lean against the desk and sign his name.

“We’re done here, right?” he asked.

“I won’t need anything further from you,” Cecil said. “If that’s what you are asking.”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

Cecil’s office was so small that it was impossible for him to exit without squeezing past Ginny. As he did so, he shoved something into her hands. She looked down. It was the last blue envelope.

“Now,” Cecil said. “We can proceed, if that’s all right with you.”

“Go ahead,” Ginny said, running out of the office after Oliver. He was moving quickly. He had already left the building, and when Ginny got outside, he was halfway down the street.

“Wait!” Ginny said, jogging after him. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Okay,” Ginny said, running around to get in front of him and stop his progress for a second. “You need to tell me what’s going on.”

He tried to step past her, but she blocked him again, putting her hands on his chest.

“Don’t,” he said simply.

“You need to explain. Why did you do this?”

“I don’t need to explain anything.”

He gently removed her hands from his chest and kept walking. She glanced at the letter in her hand. It started where the last part cut off in Ireland.

tell you.

Gin, do you remember how I used to drag you to the Museum of Modern Art all the time and make you stand in front of a crazy, huge painting of a woman on a sofa sitting in the middle of a jungle? Think back for a moment. I’ll wait. . . .

From her spot in the street she could look in the window. She saw Cecil take his position at the podium. The sale was starting. Cecil was nodding and pointing politely at people she couldn’t see, saying numbers she couldn’t hear. Then he stopped. A few minutes later, people started trickling out. It was over. The piece was sold.

Mari stepped outside. She looked at the sky first, then took the steps carefully, holding on to the brass banister for support. She looked up and down the street, waving Ginny over.

“Ah, here you are,” she called.

She carefully took a seat on the steps. She had to be over seventy, Ginny realized. Her joints were stiff. Ginny sat next to her.

“Did you two have an argument?” Mari asked, indicating Oliver’s retreating figure.

“Not exactly.”

“It seemed very dramatic, whatever it was. I love drama. But you missed the sale.”

“What happened?” Ginny asked.

“The person who bought it was passionate about it. A hundred and sixty-seven thousand pounds.”

A hundred and sixty-seven thousand pounds. Another large sum of money Ginny couldn’t really compute.

“You don’t seem excited,” Mari said.

“I am . . . I’m just . . .”

“I know,” Mari said. “Sales are strange. You make the art, and then suddenly, someone’s paying for it. Suddenly it’s a commodity. . . .”

“I didn’t make the art,” Ginny said.

Mari shook her head and patted Ginny’s knee with her gold-taloned hand.

“Cecil told me you did the assembly and the rubbing.”

“I just put it together,” Ginny said.

“You don’t just
put together
a work of art, love. It’s not a sandwich. You were trained. Maybe you weren’t aware of it, but you were trained. It’s a very good work. I’m quite proud of that girl. Proud of you both. That’s why I had to have it. There was a bidder from Tokyo who was giving me a hell of a time in there, for instance, but I was determined.”

She smiled and let Ginny take in that piece of information before she continued.

“I’m good friends with a curator at the Museum of Modern Art in New York,” she said. “I think that piece belongs there. So I’m going to speak to them about donating it. I think it should go home and be where lots of people can see it, don’t you?”

“You bought it? And you’re sending it to MoMA?”

The door opened again, and Chloe stomped past them, down the steps.

“I’ll get the car, yeah?” she said.

“Thank you, love.”

Chloe gave Ginny a firm nod then headed off down the street in long strides.

“Chloe took a real liking to you,” Mari said. “She doesn’t take to just anyone. She’s got good taste, does my Chloe. I’m going to get her paintings down here next.”

From behind them, Ginny heard a car starting in the small private parking lot behind the building.

“Thank you,” Ginny said.

Mari patted Ginny’s shoulder with her gold-taloned hand.

“Money is for doing things, my love. Don’t sit on it like a hen sits on an egg. It doesn’t hatch. I should know. I’ve made enough of it.”

A small, black sports car, some ancient model that was probably from the seventies, came pealing down the short gravel path and pulled blindly into the street, stereo pulsing.

“Make sure to come to see me in Edinburgh sometime,” she said.

Mari walked slowly to the car and lowered herself into the seat. It was just barely off the ground. She and Chloe gave Ginny a little wave, and then they pulled off to terrify London traffic.

The Conversation

Well, we’re done. But I have a little more to say. I don’t want to be dragged off the stage just yet.

Do you remember how I used to drag you to the Museum of Modern Art all the time and make you stand in front of a crazy, huge painting of a woman on a sofa sitting in the middle of a jungle? Think back for a moment. I’ll wait. . . .

Ginny sat on the sofa and glared at the letter. For the first time, she wanted the letters to shut up and stop asking her questions. What she wanted, for once in her life, was a letter that provided a simple list of foolproof instructions.
Would you like to succeed in life and love and not be a crazy person? Do the following.
. . .

Yes. That would be nice.

It was her last night in London. Richard was in the kitchen, talking on the phone about some work crisis. They were supposed to go to dinner in a little while to celebrate the sale. She didn’t really feel like celebrating. Yes, the piece had sold. Yes, she had more money. But aside from that . . . she had a ruined relationship and more questions than answers. She’d had the letter for hours now, and she couldn’t even bring herself to read it. Even the one stupid thing she had to finish while she was here—the essay—wasn’t done either. Failure on all levels.

Someone was ringing the front doorbell. Ginny almost fell over the coffee table in her haste to answer it. But it wasn’t Keith. It was Ellis, hopping lightly in the cold.

“Sorry,” she said. “I just wasn’t in any state to say good-bye the other day. I didn’t want that to be your last memory of me, chucking my guts up into a train toilet.”

Ginny held the door open for her to come in, but she waved this off. “I have to go,” she said. “I’m starting a volunteer job, doing an evening shift at a crisis call center. It’s quite bad around this time of year, apparently. I just wanted to see you before you were off. So . . .”

She stood there bouncing for a moment. A gust of cold wind came in and flooded the living room.

“I don’t want to interfere,” she said, “but . . . I think you and Keith should talk. I think you’ll both regret it if you don’t work it out. And I think it would be a shame if you didn’t take this opportunity to talk in person before you go. But . . . I suppose I’ve said enough. That was awkward. I’ll shut up now.”

She opened her arms and gave Ginny a hug.

“Anyway . . .” Ellis backed down one of the steps. “Hopefully you’ll be back. I’m glad I got to meet you.”

“I hope so,” Ginny said. “And . . . I’m glad I met you too.”

She shut the door quietly and looked around at the decorations in the living room, at the hole where the upside-down tree had been suspended.

“All set,” Richard said. “Hungry? You’re going to like this place.”

“Could I have one hour?” she asked.

Keith’s window was open, the lights around it being drawn inside by some unseen force. She thought about calling up, but then she decided to knock on the gold plastic door panel. David opened the door. That was lucky—Keith might not have done the same.

“Gin!” he said. “I heard you were here.”

It was good to see a friendly face. David indicated that she could go upstairs as she liked. She took the stairs softly, but Keith seemed to know she was coming. He had dragged in half the strand of lights and was fiddling with the bulbs. What he was attempting to do, Ginny had no idea, but he looked pretty intent about it. He didn’t even look up when she came in. “How was your auction?” he asked, not sounding very interested. “Are you rich now? More rich, I mean?”

“I can give you money for your car.”

“I’m not really interested in your money.” From Keith, that was a first—and definitely not a good sign.

“Why are you so angry?” Ginny asked.

“Angry? I’m not angry.” His face was utterly composed and calm.

“So why didn’t you come to the auction?”

“I was busy,” he said, pulling in a few more feet of the lights. “I do have other things going on in my life, you know.”

Though he wasn’t exactly welcoming, Ginny sat down on the red sofa, pushing aside a few books and shirts.

“Are you taking them down?” she said, gesturing at the lights.

“No. I’m fixing them.”

“I leave tomorrow,” she said.

Keith nodded and continued fiddling away with the bulbs. This was how it was going to be. If she wanted this to happen, she would have to shove it into existence. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “About Ellis. We talked every day. You never told me. And even after I came here, you never even told me. You never said a word.”

“Told you?” he said casually. “You met her. . . .”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “You said we were ‘kind of something.’ Why didn’t you just
tell
me?”

Silence. Just the sound of the television from David’s room. Keith yanked out one bulb and the whole string of lights went out. “Maybe I will take them down,” he said, yanking the plug from the wall. “Don’t want to start a fire.”

He began pulling in the lights with greater force, each bulb emitting little pings of protest as they were pulled over the radiator under the window. For a few moments, it appeared that he was never going to answer, but finally he spoke.

“I told you about my old girlfriend, Claire?” he said, coiling up the lights into a messy tangle.

He had, on a train ride over the summer. It was the first time he really told her anything personal, how he had been in love when he was sixteen, and his girlfriend had gotten pregnant and dumped him, unable to cope with the turn their relationship had taken. He’d gone off the rails. That was where Keith the thief started.

“She told me she wanted to be my friend,” he said. “Then I went out and stole a car. She’s the reason I have a criminal record.”

“You have a criminal record?”

“I stole a
car
,” he said, as if this was obvious.

“You didn’t say you got caught.”

“
Of course
I got caught. Several times. Allow me to show you my gallery of ASBOs.”

“As whats?”

“Anti-social behavior orders. The chav badge of honor.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My point,” he said, “is that none of this explains what you did. Making out with the guy who was exploiting you, then throwing it in my face while I was trying to help you . . . yeah. Well played.”

“You just said that when you and Claire broke up
you stole a car
.”

“That’s different,” he snapped. “There is nothing personal about stealing a car. It’s just a car.”

“It might be to the person who owns the car.” She was yelling now. “You took someone’s property. I kissed someone, which I am allowed to do, even if you don’t like him. Besides, he didn’t take the money, so you can let it go now.”

“He didn’t take the money?” This gave Keith pause. “Why? Did whatshisname with the hair, from the auction house, did he . . .”

“He just didn’t take it.”

Keith just shook his head, as if unable to comprehend this new information. Finally he looked at Ginny, square on, his face open and honest.

“I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want to ring you up and tell you I’d met someone. It seemed wrong to do that to you over the phone.”

“So you decided not to tell me
at all
?”

“You came here,” he said. “You met her. What was I supposed to say? She was right in front of you.”

“You were supposed to say, ‘This is my girlfriend.’
I
had to figure it out.”

“
That
would have been better? You would have wanted me to say, ‘Oh, yes, this is my girlfriend? Behold her.’ How would that have helped? I could tell from the expression on your face that you’d worked it out. I didn’t want to make you more upset.”

He had a point, sort of. Not the best point. Not a sharp point. But a kind of point.

“You had days after that,” she countered. “There were plenty of times you could have said something. I just needed to hear it from you, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “To make it official or something. I didn’t want it to be true, but it would have been better coming from you, because I had . . .
hope
, or something.”

Keith hung his head, his hair falling over his profile and hiding his expression.

“Gin . . .”

“You know what’s funny?” she went on. “I
like
Ellis. A lot. I’m glad you picked her. Half the time the last few days I liked her more than you.”

It took a lot of her to say that, but she felt better once she did. Stronger. She heard him laugh a little.

“That’s fair,” he said. “And you know how I feel. When I go old and stark raving mad, we can be in the mad home together. You’ll keep sneaking up on me, and I’ll keep taking your money, and your teeth. . . .”

Keith sat down next to her on the sofa and put his arm around her. This time, she knew why it was there.

“I have to get back,” she said.

“I can’t offer to drive you home, but I’ll walk you there.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I should take a cab, anyway. I promised Richard. We’re going to dinner.”

“I have a number for one.”

The cab was fast. He had barely called when there was a honking out front.

“They’re just around the corner,” he explained.

No more good-byes. It was time to go.

She would come back to this house, maybe. Keith was a student. He might move out. But if she did come back, it would never be the same. She would never look up at those black blinds with the same anticipation, or stare into that piece of patterned gold plastic in the door and think when the door opened, she would be greeted with a kiss. All of those little fantasies, so carefully cultivated, were wiped away. Maybe this was what Aunt Peg meant all along—returning was a weird thing. You can never visit the same place twice. Each time, it’s a different story. By the very act of coming back, you wipe out what came before.

Keith was watching from the doorway. She had to walk away, chin up. This was hard, but it was not impossible.

That was the amazing part. It was not impossible.