The Masterpiece (Work of Art #3) (27 page)

“But I thought you said that being part of that Pompidou show was a long shot.”

“It was, but now thanks to ArtOneWorld’s proposal, it appears to be decided. So, now our meeting will just be a formality.”

I’m speechless, and after all the upset of less than an hour ago, I’m still shaky and not sure how to process this news.

“Hello, Ava? Are you still there?”

“I’m here. I’m just stunned. Are you okay with this?”

“Honestly, I’d be an idiot not to be thrilled about it. Look, in many ways art is a business like any other business—people at the top doing deals and manipulating things for mutual benefit. ArtOneWorld had already planned a special on the Pompidou show, and they liked our taped interview, so perhaps they really did have plans for me. Honestly, this is easier to accept, knowing the Pompidou had already contacted me, and I was being considered. Who’s to say they wouldn’t have chosen me to be part of the show anyway?”

“That’s true.” My mood brightens.

“So, this means our trip gets pushed back several weeks, and ArtOneWorld has you when they need you during the most critical dates.”

“And you’re not even mad about it,” I say, teasing him.

“Other than not seeing much of you before Paris. Your initial schedule is going to be especially heavy, and I have a lot of work I need to get done for the meeting with them.”

“The price of success,” I say softly with a sigh.

“As I warned you, but we’ll figure out a weekend or two, and in the meantime, anticipating the week in Paris will take the sting out of the time apart.”

I love that he’s now the one talking me into how we can make our separation work.

“I’m so proud of you, and wish I was there so we could celebrate, Max. This is huge for you!”

“I’m proud of us both. Apparently, you’re my lucky charm.”

“And you’re mine.”

Bright and early the next morning, a young man gestures dramatically as I approach him in the hotel lobby. “The fabulous Ava Jacobs!”

“And you are?” I laugh. With his dazzling smile and devilish look, I can’t help but immediately like this guy.

“I’m William Remington Worthy the third, but you, my dear, can call me Billy.” He gives me a sweeping bow.

Definitely gay.
His blond hair is parted in the middle and pushed back by the sunglasses on top of his head—all adding to his slamming seventies look. He grins and snaps his gum. I’ve found my first new friend in New York.

“I’m your production manager and all around go-to guy. If you’re sweet to me, I’ll show you the best way to charm our moody director; I’ll tell you when wardrobe picks out something that makes your ass look big on camera, and I’ll steer you to the best salons for Brazilian waxes. In other words, I’m your flamboyant and essential right hand.”

I curtsy. “Well, how do you do, Billy? I’m so very pleased to meet you.”

He loops his arm through mine and walks me out to the waiting car. “I can tell already, we’re going to be best friends!”

Before he opens the door, he gives me my first piece of advice. “Be nice to Cecilia. If she likes you, your life will be as charmed as a Disney movie. If she doesn’t, it’ll be more like
Chucky Returns
.”

I slip into the car next to a woman with a tight ponytail and black thick-framed glasses. She’s texting on her iPhone. She finally looks up.

“Hi, Cecilia, I’m Ava. Great to meet you.”

She examines me over the top of her glasses. “You just earned brownie points for being on time. I can’t tell you how much I disdain waiting while the talent curls their eyelashes or whatever the hell they do while I wait.”

I give her a sincere look. “Well, I was raised to believe that being late is rude.”

“Great, then we’re going to get along just fine.” She turns back to her vibrating phone, and Billy nudges me and gives me a wink and a smile. And as we whiz along Fifth Avenue, the first blush of hope that things are going to be all right settles over me.

The day isn’t too rough. We visit the studios we will shoot at tomorrow. Cecilia confirms with the crew where scenes will be staged, while I continue my crash course on the artist’s work and history. I am already familiar with Jarod, the first artist, but the second, Astrid, not so much, other than the reviews of her work I’d read on the Internet.

Our first day of shooting is intense. With each new challenge, I have to fight back my inner terror. I can’t tell if Cecilia is happy with my work or not, and I try not to let that freak me out. The number of retakes she calls for don’t seem that excessive, but what do I know? I’m sure if I’m not cutting it, they’ll let me know. I just keep telling myself that if I keep my eyes and ears open and ask a lot of questions, I will learn more every day.

Travis stops by the studio at unexpected times and lingers like a virus you can’t shake. The way he stares at me is unsettling. I can’t get a true sense of what he thinks of me. During one visit to the craft truck to get a bottle of water, I find myself next to him.

“How’s it going, Travis?”

He gives me a small smile and cool stare. “You tell me, Ava.”

What an ass.
Can’t he say something encouraging?

My fingers tighten around the water bottle, but I give him a big smile. “Awesome. I think everything’s going great, thanks!” And then I turn on my heel and return to the set.

During a break later that day, I impulsively call Nick, my editor from Ransom.

“Hi, Ava. What’s up?”

“I just had a moment—it’s kind of hard to explain—but I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me? Are you okay? How’s the show going?”

“I’m okay, and the show’s going well.”

“Glad to hear it. Is this about the Mark Ryden article, because if it’s too much—”

“No, that’s not it. I’m excited about that job and so glad we’re still able to work together, even if it’s much less often.”

“So, what’s this about?”

“I want to thank you because, other than working for Adam in his gallery, you’re the only person who I’ve worked with that’s a straight shooter. There are no weird undertones, no hidden agendas, no flirting. You tell me what you want, and if I do it right, you tell me so, and if I do it wrong, you explain why and have me fix it. You do what you say you’re going to and, right now, I just needed to tell you how much I appreciate that.”

There’s a long pause. “Okay then. Not sure what brought that on, but you know what I’m about. This is business. If you do a great job on my projects, we both succeed.”

“Exactly! So, thank you for that. Well, I just felt compelled to tell you, so I guess I’ll get back to the set now.”

“Okay, the deadline for the Ryden piece is still November first.”

“Got it.”

There’s another pause, as if he wants to say something, but isn’t sure if he should. “Stay tough, Ava.”

“I will.”

“And you’re welcome.”

At different points during the shoot, the energy is intoxicating, and everyone is professional and treats me well. Jarod is a kick with a sharp wit and teasing tone, and we play off each other. Although his studio is a maze of projects in various stages, I manage to hit most of my marks, and only mess up my lines a couple of times.

At the end of the day, Billy is encouraging. “Wow, you did great, girl! I’m impressed.”

I grin. “Gee, thanks. It really helps that everyone has made me feel so welcome.”

“Well, I know you need to rest tonight, but tomorrow will be a shorter day, due to the location, so we’ll take you out for dinner afterward.”

“Sounds like fun. Thanks for all your help today, Billy. You’re so great.”

“You’re welcome, my dear. We’re going to have a great season. I can tell already.”

My next day in New York, I learn several important lessons. The first is that when I talk to Max on the phone about my new experiences, I’m going to need to edit, heavily. He was already in a funk when I called him after Wednesday’s shoot. But when I finally tell him about the temporary housing, he really comes undone and says he’ll come out if I need help finding someplace better to live. Just the idea of not being able to hang up art upsets him, but I know when he sees the tiny space and bleak view, he’s going to steam.

I try to ease his concerns, but by the time we hang up, I can tell he’s still worried. His anxiety about me leaving is going to manifest itself in many unexpected ways.

As for other lessons, I learn the following week that not everyone who works in television is brilliant. Consequently, my confidence in my own ability has grown exponentially.

I also quickly learn that being a television host isn’t nearly as glamorous as it sounds. The days are long and hard, and you’re expected to be ready to go and focused at a moment’s notice. Since everything is on location, it only exacerbates the situation, where the glamour of upscale porta-potties and craft services is pretty much non-existent.

I frequently wake up to my early morning alarm with my notes for the next shoot scattered all over the bed, after falling asleep while attempting to prepare myself. The days blur by, and I feel like a passenger on an unfamiliar train. We keep barreling ahead, but never stop, and I’m still not sure what the final destination will be.

Naturally, our production team gradually gets to know each other, becoming an odd but functioning family. Cecilia is still impenetrable, until I learn one evening at our production dinner that she’s a lot more fun and open after a couple of martinis. These moments are the times to win her over and secure my golden place in her production lineup of favorites.

Once she gets going, Cecilia’s stories of production mishaps told with her snarky edge have us all rolling with laughter. Her sauciest is the dramatic tale of her time as a line producer for the cooking channel. She went into the dressing room of one of the top chefs to leave a schedule revision printout. He was supposed to be on location, but when she walked in, he was inside changing. Boy, was she surprised to see him wearing women’s lingerie under his chef’s coat. And we aren’t talking just panties.

“A frilly corset and thigh-high stockings over his shaved legs,” she says with a shudder. “He was a big dude too—must’ve had the corset custom made. I’d bleach my eyes if it’d erase my memory. We made an agreement; he wouldn’t have me fired, as long as I didn’t reveal his secret. I figure, as long as I leave his name out, I’m still holding up my part of the bargain.”

I will always see male hosts of cooking shows in a completely different light from now on. I take a sip of wine and push the whole idea out of my head.

Meanwhile, after several weeks, life in L.A. marches along without me, and sometimes my time living there seems like a dream, as if I was never really there. Riley loves living with Dylan, and our emails have focused on what to do with the things left behind in our apartment, instead of daily chatter about regular girl stuff. I already long for the times where we’d pour glasses of wine and park ourselves on the living room couch to share our days. As awesome as Billy is, his chatter could never replace Riley’s, and I miss that time we shared. A lot.

At the gallery, they’ve hired a UCLA graduate as my replacement, and Brian tells me she’s a hoot. I’m pretty sure I was never a hoot. Maybe I’m hoot-deficient and they’ve realized how much they needed someone hoot-ish. I wonder if Brian will end up liking saucy Esperanza-the-hoot more than me.

Maybe I’m just wildly emo from working too many long days in a row.

Max is sweet on the phone and asks about the shoots, but by week two he seems distracted. When I finally ask him about it, he explains that he’s been in the zone with a new series of paintings inspired by the Pompidou show. But I wonder if I’m being paranoid or if he’s just preoccupied and wants to get back in the studio. I remind myself that it could be worse. He could be partying and putting himself in dodgy situations instead, but this idea doesn’t really help. My concerns heighten when he cancels his weekend trip to New York to see me.

“But I was flying there because you were supposed to have the weekend off. Then I find out you’re going to be shooting Friday night and long days on Saturday and Sunday. What’s the point?”

My shoulders tense up. “Where’d you hear that?”