The Inspiration (10 page)

“Okay, I’ll go to the bookstore!” I say, exasperated.

Max smiles happily and offers a wave as he backs away from the car. He thinks he’s won, but this game hasn’t even begun.

“A
va!” Brian booms as soon as I step into the gallery Monday morning, and I laugh. Everything with Brian is big: his stature, his voice, his personality.

“You gotta see this.” He waves me over to his laptop and points to the screen. “Look, I finally got it, my fifteen minutes of fame!” He laughs loudly.

On the screen is a photograph of Brian with his arms draped across the shoulders of artist Jeff Koons and a guy with silver hair I don’t recognize.

“Was this at the Prada opening last night?”

“Yup! Everyone was there.”

Brian travels in some pretty hip circles.

“And who’s this?” I ask, pointing to the silver-haired guy he has his arm around.

Brian grins. “Thomas. He works for one of those entertainment shows.”

“And…” I taunt him, smiling.

“Yeah, I’m seeing him tonight.”

“Cool. Where are you guys going?”

“He has to cover a movie premier, but we’re meeting afterward.” He grins, looking very pleased with himself.

“Okay, I want to hear all about it tomorrow.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

It warms my heart to see Brian happy. He hasn’t been himself since Christopher broke up with him and moved back to England late last year.

We discuss some business issues, including a schedule conflict with some installations. Two of our clients have tricky setups Thursday afternoon, and Brian asks if I can oversee the one in Bel Air while he takes care of the Weitz’s in the Hollywood Hills. I note all the information, and he agrees to let the client know in case I need some type of security clearance.

By Wednesday, all of my experiences in New York and even my Sunday in Malibu feel like a million years ago. I’m surprised midmorning when I receive a text from Max.

So he hasn’t forgotten our meeting, but his text feels businesslike.

I respond likewise.

“6:30?”

“Hennessey & Ingalls, 214 Wilshire between 2nd & 3rd, I’ll be in the back.”

I slide my phone screen closed.

That’s the shortest text I’ve ever sent and I feel disjointed. On the other hand, I’m not sure what I expected.

This is a business arrangement. That was a business text.
I remind myself that a professional demeanor would probably be a smart way to approach him this evening. I got distracted by him and all his gorgeousness in Malibu, but I’m determined to regain my focus.

As I pass through the doors at Hennessey and Ingalls, a wave of delight pours over me. I could hang out here all day in the presence of so many wonderful art and design books. I note that I should do just that the next time I have a chunk of free time.

Max is in the back, as promised, surrounded by several piles of books. He’s so completely engrossed in one, he doesn’t even notice when I walk up to the table.

“Hey, Max,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t look up, but waves me to his side. “Look at this book about Gerhard Richter. Man, I’d love to hang out with him for a few days,” he says with awe in his voice.

Max appears so comfortable that I get the impression he spends a lot of time here. I also remember seeing the piles of books in his house, so he must be a good customer as well.

He finally looks up, smiles and then pulls the chair out next to him and pats it. “Hey Ava, I pulled a bunch of books for you to look at.”

I take the one off the top and examine the cover: Richard Prince. I open it and skim the pages.

Before moving to the next book, I look up and ask, “How long have you been here anyway?”

“I don’t know, a few hours. I always lose track of time when I’m here.”

We remain quiet for another twenty minutes, and I’ve almost gone through the first pile when Max stretches.

“I think this Francis Bacon book’s good. I like the Jackson Pollock one too. Of course that guy was a lot more interesting and colorful than I’ll ever be.”

I laugh. “Well, let’s hope so. He didn’t have a very happy ending.”

Max looks thoughtful. I wonder if the art groupies he hangs out with actually know anything about art.

“I guess it’s up to you how you want to be perceived. It’s your book after all. It’s not my job to do a critical analysis of your work. My job is to tell your story.”

“Hmm,
my
story.” He gives me a big smile. “Hey let’s get out of here. You want to grab something to eat?”

I grin. “Sure. Let me just pay for these two books.”

He sweeps them out of my hands. “I’ll get them. Shopping here is my retail therapy. Hmm, Kenny Scharf and Roy Lichtenstein, interesting choices.”

“Yeah, well, I like the writing and the way the author presented the artist’s life. I want to study them in more detail.”

As he approaches the register, I know I have to make a decision about whether I’m going to continue working on his book. His behavior at the bookstore indicates that it’s a given, but perhaps this is calculated to influence me.

My gaze travels across the displays of books, and I try to imagine a book I’ve written on a shelf here. This is such an unbelievable career opportunity. I would be a fool to walk away at this point. I can’t deny the pull to spend more time with Max only makes my decision more resolute.

Outside, we wander toward the promenade and decide on a nearby Thai restaurant. We’re seated next to the big picture window. After the waitress brings our bottles of Thai beer, we order
tom kha gai
soup, spring rolls and pad Thai noodles.

We talk about his experience four years ago when he was chosen for the Whitney Biennial at such a young age. His eyes light up when he talks about it. Clearly, it was a very exciting time in his life. I pull out my small notebook and take notes while we’re talking, and he looks partly amused and somewhat impressed by my actions. I have specific questions I intend to get answers for.

“Why did you come back to Los Angeles when you were done with art school? Don’t you think New York is the home base for any contemporary artist aspiring to the elite level in the art world?”

He tips his head to the side in thought. “Yes, I did think that way for a long time. I lived there my first few years after school but New York really overwhelmed me and I was always on edge. Then around that time, more and more cutting edge artists were setting up shop in L.A. I eventually came to see Los Angeles as the city of the future. Anything new is embraced here, and that was the spirit I wanted in my art. You can’t fight new here. You’re spurred on to go with it, to live it.”

I scribble on my notebook furiously.
He’s good at this stuff; it just rolls out of him.

We’re almost done with dinner when a couple strolling by the restaurant stop and point at Max in the picture window. The guy makes a silly face, and Max laughs and motions for them to come inside.

“You know them?”

“Yeah, it’s Genna and Ari. They’re old friends.”

They approach our table and give Max a hug before asking what he’s been up to, how his work’s coming along and so forth. Judging from the smell of booze and the way they sway as they talk, they’re ahead of us on the buzz patrol and have had a few drinks already.

The woman finally turns to Max and hits him on the shoulder. “Max, don’t be rude—introduce us to your date.”

Max looks at me as if he’s just realized I’m still here. “Oh no,” he says, a little loud for my taste. “Ava isn’t my date. We’re working together. She’s helping me with my book.”

My heart gets heavy with a weird sense of rejection, but I immediately recover, irritated with myself for even feeling that way. “Yes, I’d never date
him
,” I say, playfully making a face as I reach out to shake their hands. Max looks at me with an expression I can’t read. Maybe he isn’t used to girls not fawning over him.

“Well I can’t blame you,” the woman agrees. “The way he cats around, I’d never know where his tail’s been.” She crinkles her nose in distaste. “That gets old pretty quickly.”

“Speaking of which…” Ari turns to Max. “We ran into Sheila last night and she asked about you. She’s back in town and looked hot.”

Genna elbows Ari.

“Ow!” He grabs his side. “Babe, you remember the last time she was in LA.”

Ari looks at me and grins. “Sheila and Max were in bed more than out of it.”

Max looks down. Is he embarrassed? I hope so because I’m embarrassed for him.

Genna rolls her eyes. “From the way she goes on about you, I can only imagine.”

How lovely
. I try to cover my smirk by taking another sip of beer.

Max says. “Well, if you think of it, text me her number. I tried to call her recently, but it had been changed. Maybe we can all get together.”

The wallflower thing no longer works for me, so I excuse myself to make a pretend phone call. I step outside and the cool air soothes my burning face. Waves of nausea roll through me. What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I really attracted to this player who will fuck anything in a skirt…except me?

Except me
, and that’s the crux of the matter.

Despite some flirting, he doesn’t seem the slightest bit interested in actually taking me to bed. Considering his lack of discretion with women in general, it’s starting to bruise my ego. A girl wants to be desired, even if she has no intention of following through.

When Max’s friends prepare to leave, I press my phone back to my cheek and pretend to talk as they walk away from the restaurant. I feel like an idiot reciting “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” into my phone, and then I notice Max observing me through the window.

Damn, he better not be a lip reader.

I say a pretend good-bye to my pretend friend on the phone and head inside. The waitress has just delivered two fresh beers.

“So, who’s this Sheila?” I can’t seem to help myself.

“Oh, just a girl I see once in a while. We met at one of Ari’s parties a couple of years ago, but she lives up north, so I don’t see her often.” He takes a long swig of his beer.

“I’ve been wondering…how much of your girl action do you want me to put in the book?”

He looks surprised and then pissed. “Girl action?”

“You know, this parade of women you seem to have following you.” I look down and draw some swirls on my pad.

“Just because I don’t follow convention, pretending to date just to get laid, doesn’t mean I’m a player. Anyone who’s with me knows there are no strings attached, so it’s not sleazy.”

I want to argue with him, but I bite my tongue. In fairness, though, I have to wonder if I’m being judgmental because I’m fighting feelings for him.

He narrows his eyes as he watches me. “Well, what about you, Ava? Do you have a boyfriend or do you just sleep around?”

“How about neither?” I fold my arms over my chest.

“What?” He looks amused now. “Are you trying to tell me that you pitch for Jess’s team, that you’re an official member of the girl power posse?”

Such a man; of course he would go there.
“No, I just prefer to be intimate with someone I’m really into, and I just haven’t met anyone that has earned that distinction for a while.”

Why am I even having this conversation with him?

“So…you want to be in love, hear the violins and get cupid’s arrow up your ass.”

“So romantic, really.” I take several gulps of beer, which emboldens me. “A girl can dream, can’t she?” I look into his eyes. “I hate that empty feeling after meaningless sex. Don’t you?”

He stares at me for a moment and then looks away. He presses his fingers to the tabletop as he looks out the window. After a long moment, he looks at me again and shrugs.

“I guess I always feel kind of empty. I’m used to it. I’m not even sure I could feel anything else.”

“Haven’t you ever been in love?”

His eyes cloud and the memory plays out painfully across his face.

“Well, I thought I was in love once. It became my everything, and when it was gone, it completely fucked me up. No thanks. Never again.” He shakes his head.

For the first time since I’d met Max, I feel sorry for him. Although, in many ways, I’m afraid to fall in love, it seems that he doesn’t even know how to anymore, and that just feels worse.

He must’ve cast some magical spell, because my resistance to the book project has now completely waned. As we part that night, I agree to work up a preliminary outline by the end of next week.

I have the entire drive home to think, so when I get to the apartment I’m ready to spill.

“Hey Riley, what are you working on?” I ask, as I squint at her computer. She’s moving around little jeweled crowns and flowers on the computer screen.

“I’m trying to finish this pattern for princess pajamas. We have a presentation tomorrow, and my designer—you remember Erin—she went home sick.” She glances up. “How’d the thing go with Max?”