Picture Imperfect - By Nicola Yeager Page 0,38
of her lipsticks.
‘I mean, have you no eye for colour whatsoever? Look at your shoes. Now look at that necklace and now…’ she pauses dramatically ‘…look at that shade of lipstick you’re wearing. It’s almost bloody orange!’
She takes three of the wipes out of the pack and rubs my lipstick off. I feel like a silly schoolgirl who’s been caught wearing makeup by the headmistress. She holds my jaw steady and carefully applies some of her own lipstick to my mouth. It’s a deep red which is exactly the same colour as my shoes and necklace.
‘That’s better. Now you look more like a human being.’
She steps back and takes a good look at my hair. She runs her hand through it and nods her head.
‘Whoever did that, they’re not paying them enough. You look absolutely beautiful, sweetheart. I had no idea you had cheekbones. Right. Now. We’re going to wait in Charlie’s office for half an hour or so, and when the place starts to fill up a little more, I’m going to walk into the front gallery with you and tell everyone who you are. Be nice, talk to people, make eye contact. It’s a terrible thing, but if some of these old farts who may buy this stuff see that they’re buying a piece of a sex bomb, then it often puts the price up. In their heads, it’s like they’ll be getting you as a free gift with one of your paintings. But remember; you owe them nothing, nothing at all. The new stuff is fantastic, by the way. Did I tell you that already?’
After a nerve-racking wait, I’m finally walked into the gallery. It’s now pretty full, with roughly thirty people milling around, all walking into each other and spilling Champagne and canape crumbs onto the floor. I don’t know who any of them are. Rhoda claps her hands and does a little speech about who I am and what I’ve done. Most people there are aware of my work anyway, so her speech isn’t very long and the whole thing is a lot more painless than I’d imagined it would be.
As I walk around the gallery, sipping my drink and grinning at people I don’t know, I feel a poke in my ribs. I turn around and it’s Kristin, grinning like an idiot and chain-eating sushi like there was no tomorrow. I give her a big hug. I sent her a couple of invites, but I wasn’t sure she’d want to come.
‘So, missy! You think you can steal my hair style now you’re a big famous artist!’
‘Do you like it?’
‘I hate to say this, but it really suits you. Have you lost weight? You look like some bloody supermodel!’
‘I’ve lost a bit, yes. Did you bring anybody?’
I look around, expecting to see one of her adoring hunks trailing behind her like a lost puppy.
‘Na. Just split up with, um, Zlatan. He was becoming a pain. Talking about getting married and settling down. I told him he’s got the wrong girl! What about you? I should think you’d have been snapped up by now looking like bloody Helena Christensen in her short hair period.’
‘I’ve been too busy with work. I think that this is probably the first social thing I’ve been to since we went out and got hammered about four months ago.’
‘Yeah, I remember that night. Three bloody cabs in a row wouldn’t take us!’
She laughs loudly. Some old guy looks at her disapprovingly and she sneers at him.
‘So how much are these paintings? Can I buy one or are you out of my range now?’
‘I wouldn’t bother. My agent will only rip you off.’
I hear a small voice from behind me.
‘Hello, Chloe. Well done. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’
It’s Clementine from Rhoda’s office. She looks absolutely stunning, in a tight yellow top and very short black skirt. She has great legs, I realise.
‘Sure. This is Kristin, who I use to work with. She’s not South African. Kristin, this is Clementine who works in my agent’s place.’
They shake hands. Clementine’s eyes are out on stalks as she looks Kristin up and down. I decide it’s time to mingle.
After a while, I get stuck talking to some Finnish art collector and his wife. They both look like they’re about ninety and are drinking like fishes. They ask me lots of questions about the paintings and eventually start talking about where they would hang some of them. As if she’s got some sort