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

“I like my girlfriend fierce. But, please, that woman’s creepy. You know I have better taste than that.”

“Hmm, what is your taste exactly? I was under the impression that it was quite varied.”

“That’s where you’re wrong—I’m extremely specific. I only like fair-skinned, long-haired, gorgeous brunettes with big green eyes. Also, I like my girl to be extremely smart, strong, and talented…Oh yeah, and she only has eyes for me.”

“Wow, that’s quite a list, Mr. Specific. I know someone who fits the bill, and ironically, she has a specific list as well.”

“Really? I’d love to hear what’s on it.”

“She likes tall, gorgeous men with dark hair and wicked blue-gray eyes. She prefers a brilliant artist who will inspire and challenge her. He must have a chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and arms strong enough to carry her to his bed. And his kisses, have I mentioned his kisses?”

He sighs. “No, I don’t believe you have.”

I stop for a moment and imagine him pressed against me. I squeeze my thighs together and try to push back the desire this conversation stirs up. There are twenty-five hundred miles between us, yet I want him desperately.

“His kisses are heaven. With every kiss, she falls further in love with him,” I whisper.

“With every kiss?” he asks with a lingering exhale.

“Mmm,” I moan.

“She must be in deep.”

“I’ll make sure she shows you how deep next time you see her.”

The next morning, I wake up and remember the call with Max the night before. In the dark of my room, I took sharp breaths and clutched my phone with one hand, while my fingers slid between my legs as we shared all the ways we wanted each other. There’s phone sex and then there’s pure passion sizzling across satellites.

In contrast to last night’s surrender and contented collapse, the new day is the very definition of a whirlwind. I’m whisked out of my hotel at eight sharp to a waiting car.

Andrea’s loft is huge with large windows full of light, and the crew greets me warmly. The lighting guys have already done their magic, and I’m taken to the area where the makeup artist is set up.

It’d been suggested that Andrea have me become a subject in one of her films from the American Woman series. The stylist, hair, and makeup people transform me into a 1950s secretary, complete with a beehive wig and fitted pencil skirt. I feel self-conscious in this getup, but I push my discomfort out of my mind.

I come from the dressing room area and look for Jeff, the production manager. Before I can find him, an intense looking woman with thick black eyebrows and tightly pressed lips approaches me.

“I’m Veronica, Ms. Altman’s assistant. I’m taking you to meet her now.”

“Thanks, Veronica. Nice to meet you,” I say, as she walks down a long hallway.

She doesn’t reply, and I scurry after her, hoping Andrea is friendlier than her assistant.

Halfway down the hall, Veronica announces, “Take note that Ms. Altman does not shake hands. She’s always very focused before her shoots.”

Okay then…

She sharply knocks on the door at the end of the hall three times and then peeks inside. She waves me forward as she steps into the room.

A petite woman with a long braid trailing down her back looks up and regards me warily. She looks so different from the pictures I’ve seen that I almost don’t recognize her. She pushes away from the huge worktable she’s sitting at.

“Hi, Andrea,” I say brightly, despite the fact that my stomach churns. “I’m really looking forward to our interview.”

She narrows her eyes as she surveys me slowly from my wig all the way down to my shoes. She waves her hand. “Turn around.”

I turn and force myself to smile. “I love the outfit,” I lie.

She nods to Veronica, turns back to her worktable, and ignores me completely.

Veronica takes me by the arm and leads me into the hall.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, while I decide if I’m more pissed off or worried about how I will possibly interview this woman who just dismissed me like I was a dressed mannequin and not her interviewer.

Veronica gives me a blank stare. “Nothing.” She releases the top page of her clipboard and hands it to me. “These are the questions Andrea will answer.”

I scan the page of banal questions. This is a disaster. “Does she want to even do this?” I ask.

“That’s a complicated question,” Veronica says before walking away.

My heart races when I set out to find Jeff, the production manager. My eyes widen with horror when I see him in the corner talking to not just Nick, but Travis from ArtOneWorld too. Why did no one warn me that they’d be coming to observe what is now my spectacular failure of an interview?

As I approach the group, my costume undermines my position. I take a deep breath and step forward. “Well, hello, Nick and Travis, I wasn’t expecting you here.”

Travis appears to be fighting back a smile.

Nick gestures to the studio. “We were meeting nearby and decided to pop in to see how things were going.”

“Oh, they’re going great…awesome really.”

Travis’s eyes grow wide. “Really?”

“Indeed! Well, except for one small detail,” I say, as I rest my hand on my hip.

“And what would that be?” Nick asks.

“Only the distinct feeling that Ms. Altman does not want to be interviewed.”

“Well, that will make this challenging, then, won’t it?” Travis says with a smug smile.

What’s with this guy?
I really want to punch him in the face.

“Just a bit.” I narrow my eyes. I’ve been set up. He knew she would be difficult. For all I know, he encouraged it.
What the hell?

Nick’s lips are pursed together in a scowl, but he remains silent.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” Travis asks.

I shrug. “Not sure yet. Give me a minute to think about it.”

“You do that,” he says.

I turn on my heel and walk away before I say something I’ll regret.

While I wait to be called on set, I call Jess.

“Help, Jess!”

“Ava? What’s shakin’, girl? You okay?” she asks.

I groan. “Not really. I’m pretty sure this is going to be a disaster.”

“Why? Is Ms. Artist being an artist?”

“And how. She’s toying with me, and I think the studio is too. I’ve been set up, and it’s making me furious” I unload my fears on Jess and fight tears of frustration.

Jess’s response confirms my gut feeling. “Yeah, I’ve heard weird stories about her, but I was hoping they were exaggerated. As for the studio—that’s fucked up.”

“Any suggestions?” I ask.

“Sure. If they’re going to play with you, just fucking play with them right back. Gotta keep your dignity, girl. You may not get the job done the way they expect, but they’ll remember you, for sure.”

I smile with the comfort that my instincts are right. Jess was the perfect person to call. “Gotcha. Have I told you lately that you rock?”

She laughs. “Not enough. I never hear that enough. So, I’ll take it. Now, you go rock too.”

“I will. Thanks, Jess.”

“Anytime.”

I walk back to the set. Since we’re beginning the shoot with my part in Andrea’s film, I want to see how that goes before I decide how far to push back.

Veronica leads me to an area where an antique water cooler is perched against a beige wall. A vintage linoleum floor lays over the hardwoods, and there’s an actual 1950s calendar hanging on the wall. I pace back and forth, waiting for something to happen.

A few minutes later, Andrea sweeps in. She first walks up to the camera and studies the view screen before approaching me.

She positions me to lean against the wall and then steps back.

Does she think I read minds?
“What am I supposed to be doing?” I ask.

She narrows her eyes. “You’re on a break and you’re bored. When I say action, I want you to step up to the dispenser, take a paper cup out of the dispenser and pour yourself an inch of water. Then lean back against the wall again, drink the water, crunch up the cup, and drop it in the trash. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” I reply in an overly perky voice.

I wait for more direction, but she seems lost in thought. I twist my hands together.

“Is that it?” I finally ask.

She ignores me, and I feel like an idiot because the production company is filming us. Not having any idea what to do, I roll my eyes and raise my hands in a “what-the-hell?” look. I know it’s inappropriate, but at this point, I really don’t care.

After a few takes, Andrea nods briskly and addresses me. “Now I want you to look to your right and then your left as if you’re checking to see if anyone is observing you.”

I rest my hands on my hips. “Shall I stay bored? Because I think I’ve mastered that. I’m really in the boredom zone.”

I hear Nick sputter a cough off set.

Her brows knit together, but I swear she’s fighting back a tiny smile. The subtle movement at the corners of her mouth make me think perhaps this woman has a personality, after all. I have to wonder if she’s playing me, and if so, why?

“No. Now you’re apprehensive…not afraid, but cautious.”

“Got it,” I say.

She nods and moves back to her camera.

After the take, I raise my hand to get her attention. “Was that cautious and apprehensive enough?”

“Abundantly so,” she replies. She nods to Veronica, and suddenly some weird atmospheric music starts pumping in through the speakers to replace the mind-numbing elevator music. The steady thud of the base makes my heart pound. None of this is making any sense, but maybe that’s the point. I tap my pointed-toe shoes to the beat.

Nick looks over at me expectantly. I shrug at him.
Whatever.
This torture will hopefully be over soon.

When Andrea next explains that I’m to deconstruct the scene, she directs me to pull off my wig and hair netting and drop them to the floor. Then kick off my shoes and untuck my blouse before walking off camera.

It requires three takes, which involves refitting my wig between each take, until I get it right. I’m done with this woman and her attitude in more ways than one, but Travis’s laser focus on my every move forces me to not give up out of pride.

The production manager hired by ArtOneWorld leads us to an area of the studio where they have lights and two chairs set up. Andrea brings her hand-held camera over with her and aims her camera at the cameraman or me, depending on who is addressing her. Damn this woman is annoying.

I start with a question not on the banal list Veronica gave me. “So, Andrea, I was surprised to see that you don’t have a single painting in your loft. Have you ever painted?”

She shakes her head, apparently not concerned that I’m asking my own question. “No interest. Paintings are static, life is movement and energy…therein my art lies.”

Who talks like that?
I wonder how I can get her to loosen up.

“Is it important that your work be accessible?”

“Physically, of course. I’d like to see my installations in every major museum. The emotional accessibility of my art is irrelevant. Any reaction to my work is significant.”

I lean toward her. “But how can a greater mass of people become familiar with your work? That kind of broad exposure is tricky to get for installation film art. I mean, how are we going to buy postcards of your art in the gift shop?”

Her mouth falls open and her eyes grow wide. “Postcards in the gift shop?”

“Sure. In other words, how does the everyman, the masses, get exposed to your work?”

She wags her finger. “That’s exactly what Banksy told me!”

“Really?” I ask with a smug smile.

“Yes! Right after I told him that he’s an idiot for painting on the sides of buildings years ago.”

I scrunch up my face. “Well, that’s worked out pretty well for him, don’t you think?”

“Indeed, the bastard is so annoying.”

“You know, in regards to your work, do you think Banksy wasn’t looking into the future and the significance of social media? I’m compelled to challenge him. What has more exposure, the side of a random building or YouTube? Just about everyone has a smartphone or computer now, so the possibilities are limitless for exposure.”

“I’ve pondered this myself. Do you know what else I’m pondering?”

“Nope,” I say.

“Why someone with your spunk is wasting her time doing this?” She waves her hand at the crew. “You should be working with me.”

I look into the camera. “Hear that ArtOneWorld? Watch your p’s and q’s. I’ve got the spunk, and Andrea and I just may end up like this.” I lift my hands up with my fingers crossed. “Besties!”

I glance up at Nick and Travis as they stand off to the side with their arms folded. Travis arches his brow and whispers something to Nick. I bet he didn’t like what I just said, and frankly, I don’t care. I imagine this shoot is a colossal failure, so what do I have to lose?

By the time the director calls the final cut, I have no idea if they got anything usable. My gut tells me we got some unusual stuff, but the expression on the director’s face is hard to read.

“Ava, I can’t believe you got Andrea to try on that wig,” Nick says, when I join them after we wrap.