As soon as Mara and I part ways, I make an excuse to the panel and I head back to my own office on the top floor of the building so I can watch what she does next.
All the studios have security cameras mounted above their doors.
The feed from Mara’s streams directly to my computer. When she’s working, I can see her every move.
I watch as she paces the studio, freaking the fuck out.
She held it together in front of me, but now she’s hyperventilating, pulling on her shirt and biting at her nails.
I savor her distress. I want to see her break down.
Or at least, part of me does.
The other part wants to watch her fight.
I enjoy her stubbornness. And I want to crush it out of her.
She pauses in the middle of the studio. Slaps herself hard across the face. The crash echoes in the empty room. I think I am witnessing the moment of fracture.
And maybe I am.
Because Mara cracks. I witness it. But something else steps out from her shell. Someone who stands still, not fidgeting, not tearing at her nails. Someone who doesn’t even glance toward the windows or the doors.
She grabs the half-finished collage and yanks it off the easel. In its place, she throws up a fresh canvas, double the size, and flings a dark wash across it, the paint dripping down onto the floor.
She goes to work, rapidly and rabidly. She’s feverishly focused, paint streaked across her face and down her arms, her eyes fixed on the canvas.
I watch the composition take shape.
She has an excellent eye for proportion, everything in balance.
It’s rare for me to admire other artists’ work. There’s always something to criticize, something out of place. But this is what I noticed about Mara from the moment she dyed that dress: her aesthetic sense is as finely honed as my own.
Watching her work is like watching myself work.
I’m glued to the computer screen, watching for hours as she sketches out her composition and begins to block in the color.
Sonia’s knock on the door startles me. I sit up, frowning as she pokes her head inside.
“You can come out now.” She grins. “The panel’s gone.”
“Good,” I say. “I hate that whole rigmarole.”
She steps into my office, almost tripping over the golf bag set directly behind the door.
“You don’t actually enjoy that game, do you?” she says.
“It’s a game of the mind, not the body. So yes, I enjoy it. You should take it up yourself. You know damn well how much business gets done on the golf course.”
“I know,” Sonia says rebelliously, giving my clubs a venomous glare. “Do you want to look over their scores for the finalists?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve already decided.”
Sonia grips the stack of folders containing all the applicants I’m supposed to review, her expression resigned.
“Let me guess . . .” she says.
“It’s going to Mara Eldritch.” I nod.
“Hm,” she says, lips pursed. “That’s going to irritate the panel. You know they like to have their say . . .”
“I don’t give a fuck what they want,” I snap. “I’m funding the grant and half their budget for the year, so they can suck it up and do as they’re told.”
“Alright, I’ll tell them,” Sonia says, amenable as always. She knows that the primary points of her job description are obedience and discretion.
Still, she lingers in the doorway, her curiosity too powerful to restrain.
“For what it’s worth, I would have picked Mara, too.”
“That’s because you have taste,” I say. “Unlike the rest of them.”
“How did you find her?” Sonia says with pretend casualness.
“She was recommended by another artist.”
I can tell Sonia is dying to hear more, but she’s already pushing the limits of my patience.
“I’m excited to see what she comes up with for New Voices,” she says.
I’ve already turned back to the computer screen, watching Mara’s slight figure bend and stretch to cover the vast canvas with paint.
Sonia hesitates in the doorway.
“By the way . . . Jack Brisk increased his offer for your Olgiati. He’s willing to pay 2.4 million, and trade you his Picasso as well.”
I snort. “I bet he is.”
“I take it that’s a no, then?”
I gesture to the gleaming solar model hung in pride of place directly in front of my desk. Where I see it every minute, every day, without ever tiring of it.
“This is the only surviving piece by the greatest master in Italian glass. His techniques have yet to be surpassed in the modern era. And besides that, it’s fucking beautiful—look at it. Look how it glows. I wouldn’t sell it to Brisk if he cut his heart out of his chest and handed it to me.”
“Okay, Jesus,” Sonia says. “I’ll tell him it has sentimental value and you’re not interested in selling.”
I laugh.
“Sentimental value? I suppose you’re right—I did buy it with the inheritance when my father died.”
Sonia falters. “Oh, you did? I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.”
“That’s right.” I smile. “You could say I was celebrating.”
Sonia looks at me, considering this.
“Great men don’t always make great fathers,” she says.
I shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know any good fathers.”
“You’re so cynical,” Sonia shakes her head sadly.
My eyes are already drawn back to Mara’s figure on my computer screen.
Tolstoy said that happy families are all alike, but unhappy families are unhappy in their own way.
Mara’s grungy childhood might be typical, but I want to know her history all the same.
She sparks my curiosity in a way that’s vanishingly rare these days, when I can’t seem to muster interest in anyone or anything.
As if she knows who I’m thinking about, Sonia says, “Do you want to deliver the good news to Mara, or should I do it?”
“You tell her,” I say. “And don’t let her know it’s from me.”
Sonia frowns. “Why are you always so averse to anyone knowing you’re a good guy?”
“Because I’m not a good guy,” I tell her. “Not even a little bit.”
