Arrogant Bastard - Julie Capulet Page 0,80

have already been booked. It won’t be overly deluxe, unfortunately. A Super 8 or some such. The ticket is for carry-on only and if you exceed the weight limit you’ll have to pay for the extra baggage yourself. Rent-a-Wreck was very reasonable. You’ll be picking your car up at the airport. I wouldn’t have bothered with it if it wasn’t completely necessary but apparently Montana is …” James pauses, taking a step back to assess the alignment of the hook he’s hanging.

“Big?” I venture.

“Yes,” James says, dismissively. Something occurs to him and he glances briefly in my direction. “You can drive, right?”

“Um … yes, I have a license.” I’ve only driven a couple of times. There’s no need to tell him about that small fender bender I got into (actually it wasn’t that small but no one was hurt, which is the main thing).

“And if you can’t get Fleur to sign, well, I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay you past the end of the month.”

“I’ll get her to sign,” I hear myself reply. It’s the first day of August. If I can secure Fleur for October, that’ll give me three more months of employment. Plenty of time to find something else to pay my bills.

“I’ve left your ticket open-ended for now,” James continues. “You can book the return flight as soon as you get Fleur to sign, which could take a few days. Apparently she’s already refused two New York offers. She’s holding out for the big time, since she knows she’s got the street appeal.”

“I’ll pin her down,” I say. James and I both know it was me who not only found the artists for five of the past six shows, but also clinched the deals. The process of signing an artist can be a painstaking one. Wooing a moody, temperamental ego that’s being flirted with by pushy curators all over town can take weeks and involve pep talks, bribery and all manner of creative coercion. I don’t know if I possess a talent or just an über-determined enthusiasm, but for some reason I usually come out on top. I can be convincing when I put my mind to it.

“You’re going to make her an offer she can’t refuse,” James says. “And if she does refuse, you’re going to be persistent. You’re not going to take no for an answer.”

“Right,” I say.

Maybe a little jaunt to the outer reaches of the Wild West is exactly what I need, cowboys or no cowboys. Maybe Big Sky country will kick-start my life into new and fabulous directions.

The gallery phone rings and James answers it, then disappears into the back office to talk. Astrid’s looking at me with a soulful expression I can’t quite read. She shoots a quick look towards the office door, which is now closed. “Ella,” she says earnestly, like she’s been planning what she’s about to say for a while. “We both know the only reason I get to keep my job is because I’m sleeping with the boss.”

I silently agree with her but don’t say so. I want to hear where Astrid’s going with this.

“You’re really good at this job, Ella,” she says. “Really good. You’ve got a killer eye for this shit, and I mean that. Every artist you find sells for much higher prices than either my picks or James’s—and every single one of the exhibitions you’ve curated has completely sold out, with crazy-ass profits. River Ransom was your discovery, we all know that. You found his painting on that obscure website last year, remember? And I really don’t think he would’ve agreed to come to us if you hadn’t been the one to talk him into it.”

I’ve had these thoughts myself, of course. I even played around with the idea of asking for a raise at one point. Now that I’ve basically been fired I guess there isn’t much chance of that happening.

“Ella, you should borrow the money and start your own gallery,” Astrid says. “If you do, I’ll jump ship. If you’d want me, that is. I’d do it myself but I don’t have the same kind of talent you have. All it would take was one stellar opening show and you could make back all the money it would take to start the business. Look at River—his paintings are selling for twenty thousand dollars each. How much would it take to start a gallery? A hundred thousand? One fifty? Think about it, Ella. Twenty paintings at thirty percent commission and you’re looking at a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. For one show.”

I’m a little shocked by Astrid’s gush. She’s obviously given this a lot of thought.

“And you found Fleur Jensen, too,” she says. “You were the one who first saw her on that online gallery. Do you remember what you said about her? You said, ‘We should get her now before she gets too big.’ Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how lucky you are, to do what you can do? To just take a line-up of paintings and say: that one. That’s the artist that’s going to sell for megabucks, out of all these other millions of paintings and painters who are trying to get noticed. I can’t do that. James can’t even do that! We’re just guessing. But you know. You have a knack for it. You should totally capitalize on that knack.”

Wow, Astrid is worked up. She’s been plotting. Things between her and James must be worse than I thought. She wants out of her relationship, but breaking it off would also mean losing her job. I know how badly Astrid needs her paycheck, just like I need mine.

“At least think about it, okay? Go to Montana, Ella, and secure Fleur Jensen, if you can. But not for James. Get her for yourself. Or get someone else. Someone even better.”

Shit. Astrid is desperate. Until now, I’d never seen evidence of a vengeful bone in Astrid’s lithe, pale-skinned little body. But she’s serious. She’s practically pleading. As if I might be her salvation.

It’s a strange turn of events. Here I am, suddenly on the cusp of an impromptu journey that might turn out to be life-changing, in more ways than one.

“You really think I could do it?” I hear myself asking.

“Ella, I know you can do it.” We’re locked in this strange, intense little connection, with me sort of drinking in her encouragement and Astrid communicating a sparked urgency that practically shoots in flamboyant rays out of her eyes. I get the strange sense that Astrid is somehow relying on me. Which is weird.

Except that I realize she’s right.

Because the thing is: I know I can do it, too.

“Of course I’d want you on board.” I give her a heartfelt hug.

“Keep me posted, okay?”

“Sure. I’ll see what I can do. If I can sign her, we’ll work through all the details as soon as I get back.”

It’s a longshot, of course. About a million variables have to align in perfect symbiosis for my pipedream to even get close to becoming a reality. But, hell, I might as well take the first step. Which, after the dizzyingly outrageous events of the past five minutes, happen to be boarding my jet to Marlboro Country.

“He’s had a lawyer look at your contract, Ella. He found a loophole which means he can get out of paying you the small redundancy. If he fires you at the end of the month, that’s it. He didn’t even want to give you the two weeks’ notice. And even if you do convince Fleur, he might fire you as soon as the deal is signed. Go get Fleur, Ella. But not for him. Get her for yourself.”

“That—”

“Here he comes.”

That bastard.

So I say my goodbyes, receive another mini-lecture about the art of the deal from my slithery employer, then, still dazed, I walk out of the gallery and take a left, towards the travel agency on the corner. I pick up my e-tickets, go home to pack my carry-on, making sure to include my snazziest pair of high-heeled cowboy-type boots, no doubt perfect for the frontier.

Wow. I’m going to Montana. I’ve never been west of Cincinnati.

I’ve never packed up only what I can fit in my carry-on and gone on a wild, out-West adventure.

To a place where there might—just might—be the opportunity to see a real live cowboy in his natural habitat.

If such a thing even exists.

I guess I’m about to find out.

Look out, Bozeman. Here I come.

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