ZK effortlessly swept us through the throngs standing outside, who stared at us like deer in the headlights of an onrushing sixteen-wheeler of boho-chic wealth and status. Art openings were challenging for even the most dedicated celebrity stalkers because the superstar art attendees tended to be better disguised and more clandestine. We brushed past the Olsen twins, those trench-coated spies from the Kingdom of Anorexia.
Holding on to ZK’s arm, I felt content to be completely swept up in his graceful motion as he expertly navigated the gallery overflowing with guests.
Inside, boldfaced names were sprinkled generously throughout the crushing crowd. My heart skipped as I brushed past James Franco wearing a knitted hipster beanie and holding a plastic cup of white wine. Even Courtney Love struggled to get to the main gallery. She wore a strapless white Vivienne Westwood dress that she had crammed herself into, looking like she would spontaneously combust, and railed at a security guard for not giving her better access.
I noticed that ZK seemed to make eye contact with a few key individuals as we moved forward. Some seemed to be security and some didn’t, but his eye contact miraculously parted the waves of people, enabling us to smoothly enter the very center of the gallery without pausing for a second. He had so much grace and bearing, everyone seemed to make way for him.
We came upon a thin old guy in bleached-white skinny pants and a white shirt that matched his shock of white hair. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him at first. ZK offered a quick bow, and the man smiled approvingly, then nodded hello to me before we plunged farther into the exclusive back room.
“What an interesting-looking man,” I said. “He looks like an old version of that Talking Heads guy,” I whispered in ZK’s ear.
“That is the Talking Heads guy,” ZK chuckled.
“Oh,” I said, feeling instantly embarrassed.
How would I keep up with ZK? Despite Tabitha’s wealth and fabulous music career, she wasn’t particularly sophisticated. ZK, on the other hand, was utterly well educated and connected. He was a consummate player, moving in and out of every strata of high society. I simply didn’t have the background to play on his level.
My phone buzzed, and I took a quick glimpse to see who it was. Mom. I ignored it, turned off the phone, and buried it in my purse.
We reached the room within the room within the gallery. This space wasn’t actually part of the show. The walls were covered with huge canvasses and works of art of all kinds. It was so small it almost felt like someone’s office. It was the most exclusive place you could be in that moment. ZK and I were standing close enough to kiss. I took time to breathe him in, having dreamed of being this close to him ever since I saw him outside the Met, which now seemed like a lifetime ago. He smelled delicious, like apples and wine.
“You know, you’re bewildering,” he said with that self-amused expression of his. “In some ways, you seem far older than your years, and in other ways, you seem as if you’ve been in hiding your whole life.”
“Can’t I be both?” I asked.
He grinned and took my chin in his hand, lifting my head until I was looking into his eyes. I trembled, wondering if he would kiss me right there in front of everyone and what I would do if he did. A shrill cackle broke our moment, rising above all the chatter in the room. It was immediately recognizable as the icy laugh of Dahlia Rothenberg.
She wore a Hervé Léger bandage dress so sleek and minimal that it was hard to call it a dress. What does it feel like to be almost naked among so many people? Her admirers didn’t mind. Men flocked around her as she talked, the center of attention. I hoped to duck her scrutiny, but within seconds her eyebrows arched as she observed ZK and me standing arm in arm. I felt myself shrinking from her penetrating glare.
“Mr. Northcott!” someone yelled from across the room, mercifully diverting us. An attractive young man with an open face, ringed by Renaissance curls of brown hair, waved us over. I gladly followed ZK away from Dahlia’s intense stare. The two men greeted each other with a big hug.
“Good to see you, Mr. Schnabel,” ZK said. This was odd. Where was El Schnabel, the PJ-wearing master painter? This Mr. Schnabel was well dressed and elegant and too young to be a godfather. His eyes lit up as he saw me.
“And this must be the lovely Lisbeth Dulac,” he said. “ZK has told me so much about you.” I couldn’t help feeling a bit confused as he bent down for a hand kiss, barely suppressing a schoolboy giggle. ZK smiled broadly, hardly able to hold back his laughter.
“Do tell,” I said, withdrawing my hand. “What would you two find so humorous?”
“Maybe you were expecting someone older and perhaps wider?” the young man with the Roman curls asked, self-amused. I hesitantly nodded agreement.
“That would be my father,” he said gleefully. “I guess it would have gone over better if I had worn my PJs?”
“Sorry Lisbeth,” ZK said. “It’s an old joke of ours.”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said with a flourish. “Vito Schnabel. ZK and I have been best friends since Saint Ann’s in Brooklyn … playing hooky, getting high, and sneaking into a thousand crazy parties and openings, and … what can I say, making silly jokes.”
“Of course,” I said and managed to smile.
“Will you forgive us?” ZK said, putting his arm snuggly around me in a way that felt delicious.
“So are you a fan of my father’s work or is ZK just showing you off?” Vito asked, but then stopped abruptly and elbowed ZK.
“Um, Dahlia is … here.”
She was already upon us, looking as if she was about to crush the little plastic wine cup in her hand.
“Dahlia, it’s … so good to see you,” ZK began, dropping his arm from my waist. But Dahlia ignored him and turned her laser focus on me.
“You’ve been such a bad little mouse,” she said in a quiet voice that only I could hear. I could see in her eyes that she hadn’t forgiven me from the day before at Dolce & Gabbana. I struggled to sustain my poise. She leaned closer.
“Social climbing by nicking my boy?”
She waited for a response, but I didn’t have one.
“No clever quip this time? I’m not surprised. You’re out of your league,” she said and briefly glanced back at ZK. “He’ll be bored and unfaithful by the end of the evening.”
She turned to leave, and ZK grabbed her arm.
“Dahlia, be reasonable,” he said.
“ZK, I am always prepared to be reasonable when the situation demands,” she answered, then threw her cup of red wine across his shirt and casually walked away.
“Oops,” she said over her shoulder, smiling.
37
Swooping in, Vito whisked me away before I could say anything to ZK, who had scurried after Dahlia.
“There’s something I have to show you,” he said. I tried to track ZK as Vito escorted me across the room. “Have you seen Terence Koh’s white cock? It’s quite famous.”
“Pardon, I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He had walked me across the room. “Look.”
Gazing up, I saw mounted high on the brick wall the shape of a giant rooster outlined in neon tubing. I turned to catch a glance of ZK, but he was gone.
“Watch, it lights up!” he said, flipping a switch, and the rooster hummed, flickered, and flashed on, casting a white glow down on us. The joke was less than stellar even under the best of circumstances. To his credit, Vito seemed to know it was lame, but was intent on distracting me.