Sleep came fitfully that night. Joel couldn’t stay much longer after we cleaned up, and he’d been such a champ for me this and many other nights that I didn’t pester him, even though I wanted the company. Instead, my company was an unopened bottle of Cabernet and a long, hot shower. Hours passed, tossing and turning, as I had imaginary conversations in my head with the arrogant asshole from the night before. What little bite I’d given him didn’t feel like enough.
The next day, I was too tired and down to worry about changing out the paintings in the gallery for the general public. The curation I had done for the Sheikh was a bit different than what I typically kept hanging up, but that was a problem for another day, I decided once I came downstairs.
The gallery opened on time at 9am, and as usual, no one was pounding on the doors to get in. At least the warm sunshine spilling across the floor and white walls seemed to be lifting my mood. After running through my opening checklist, I made a pot of burned coffee in the kitchenette in the back room and stood in the hallway, where I had a good view of the gallery floor, while I enjoyed the warmth.
Around noon, some looky-loos wandered in and planted themselves right in front of Constantine, a long horizontal piece brimming with hazy orange and yellow light, and the faint impressionist view of the Hagia Sophia’s iconic minarets. Keeping my distance at first, I let them take in the gallery and the piece before attempting any interaction. Some of these people were like bunny rabbits, and if I moved too fast, they’d be right out the door, and so would my rent money.
Before I could get to them, the gallery’s front door swung open and shut. Turning my head, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
It was the Sheikh, closing the gallery door gently behind him. The expression on his handsome face was nothing like the night before. There was no snooty power, no anger, no darkness. He was pale, his lips dry. He’d shaven cleanly and showered, and instead of a nighttime-style tailored suit, he wore a casual button-up and slacks. But he was clearly in the throes of a hangover. He took off his dark sunglasses and scanned the gallery until his eyes landed on me. His gaze softened so distinctly that I could see it from across the room.
Anger flared behind my eyes as I blinked in disbelief. I never expected he’d have the nerve to show his face around here again; but then, rich assholes obviously do whatever they want, regardless of whose days they ruin.
I looked back to the middle-aged couple near Constantine. They hadn’t noticed me approach and were still talking quietly with each other as they swept over the features of the work with pointed fingers. I changed course and headed for the Sheikh.
He stood waiting for me, and I crossed my arms as I came to a stop in front of him.
“What is it I can do for you now, Sheikh Al-Zayn? You already drank all of my champagne, remember?” I said lowly.
He cleared his throat. “I think I’ve lost the right for such respectful formality. Please, call me Rafiq.”
I didn’t respond.
Something almost wounded crossed his face, and he ran a big hand through his black hair. “Miss Pryce, I’m here to tell you that I’m truly sorry for everything that happened last night. May I ask for a moment to speak with you…” he gazed over to the couple, “in private?”
“You can speak to me right here,” I said. “Your performance last night didn’t earn you any favors from me.”
There was no way he was going to get me alone where he could intimidate me; he wasn’t the first arrogant jerk I’d met in my life.
He didn’t argue with me. “Very well. Let me apologize to you profusely for my behavior last night, and for the behavior of my… friends.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid things got a little out of hand at the engagement we had been attending prior, and I didn’t realize at the time that I was in no shape to make our meeting. I should have called and cancelled.”
“You should have stayed sober enough to make your appointments,” I said before I could stop myself. Some voice deep in my mind was warning me that my own behavior was crossing a line, but I was too upset to care. “I didn’t get as far as I am by letting people walk all over me, and you’re not about to be the first.”
Rafiq’s face fell, but he didn’t get angry. He only nodded again. “Fair enough. I respect that,” he said. “My behavior was selfish and indefensible. I hope you can forgive me.”
I fell silent. With a big sigh, I averted my gaze and watched the foot traffic out the window. “Your apology is appreciated,” I said, not without some bitterness. “Forgiveness, well—that might be a while.”
Rafiq didn’t press further. Instead he turned and tucked his hands behind his back as he began a sauntering stroll toward the nearest panting to his left. Actually, paintings, plural—the work was an amalgam of six smaller canvases painted with a single cohesive image. The separate canvases allowed me to create space in certain parts of the picture, but not others, and to change it at will. This was the fourth arrangement I’d tried since painting it years ago, but it was always titled Locusta.
He came to a stop in front of it and tilted his head as he took in the deep greens and royal blues, the way the strokes seemed to simultaneously suggest both snakes and rivers, while little white ruins of the Roman variety peeked out from beneath the darker tones, like cities hidden in the jungle. After watching him for a moment, I came up beside him.
“This is exceptional,” he said in a firm voice.
His compliment surprised me. “Oh?”
“Do you ever re-arrange the canvases?” he asked, shifting his hand around in the air. “Create different shapes?”
A smile rose to the corner of my lips. “In fact, I do. How did you know?”
“No reason,” he replied.
We made our way together around the gallery, and in stark difference from the night before, Rafiq stopped at each and every canvas and gave it a thorough, respectful analysis. He had nothing but glowing praise, and I found myself wondering if he was just trying to sweeten me up after last night. There was no way he didn’t know how charming his sparkling half-smile was when he flashed it at me. Even Joel, as mad as he had been the night prior, had pointed it out as we were cleaning up.
We arrived at Constantine and I realized the looky-loos from before had disappeared, empty-handed. A pang of guilt cut my heart; I probably should have paid them more attention.
Rafiq stopped short, as if stricken, when he turned his eyes to Constantine. Maybe it was the familiar landscape. He wasn’t Turkish, but surely as rich as he was, he’d been to Istanbul himself, and seen the great minarets.
After a few minutes of silence, he spoke. “Your use of color is very bold. I’m so tired of pastels and faded nostalgic tones. I don’t relate to this ache people have to live in the past.” He turned from the painting to look down at me, standing next to him. “Your work doesn’t live in the past, though, does it?” He waved a hand at the painting. “No, this is the color of the present, and the future. You may use old things in your work, but you’ve brought them from the past with you, instead of joining them there.”
Stunned, I had no response. It had been years—if it had ever happened—since someone had spoken in such a way about my work. Sure, plenty of my rich buyers gushed over the pieces they purchased, rattling off the lingo they remembered from their half-century-old Art History degrees as they talked about how envious their friends would be at the way it looked in the library.
But Rafiq’s words were different. The way he spoke about art seemed…genuine.
“I, uh…” I said. “Thank you. That is a real compliment.”
Rafiq’s eyes studied me for a moment, until I grew uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze. As if he could sense it, he smiled and moved on.
The last painting he had to see in the gallery was Oceanic, with all its swarming wet darkness and mythical monsters. Rafiq stood before this one for longer than he did any of the others, even stepping back to take in the fullness of the canvas. He pressed his face up close to get a good look at the monsters in the misty darkness, tracing the sea spray with a light fingertip.
“I must have this,” he said lowly. “It’s perfect.”
My heart seized up in my chest. I didn’t want to get my hopes up about what I thought I’d just heard. Oceanic was one of the largest canvases—and it was expensive.
“I’m sorry?”
Rafiq turned and repeated, “I must have this one.” He reached his hand in his fine jacket and pulled out a snakeskin wallet. From within it, he produced a platinum credit card, the likes of which I had only seen once or twice my whole career. “Please, charge this. Is your assistant here to help us wrap it for transport? I probably owe him an apology, too.”
“He’s not here at the moment,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “He only helps with special events.”
“Not a problem, my driver can assist us,” said Rafiq, pulling his smartphone from a different pocket. He sent a quick text as he simultaneously explained, “Ahmed has been with my family for years, and he has very delicate hands. He has helped me move fine art many times before. I would not suggest it if it would put the painting at risk.”
His forthright concern for the artwork warmed my heart. As angry as I still felt about the Sheikh’s behavior, I wasn’t about to argue my way out of this meal ticket. My rent would be paid for three months on this sale alone.
“Then I’ll be right back,” I said, rushing through to the back to fetch a step stool and the wrap for the painting.
When I returned, Ahmed had joined Rafiq. I recognized him as the driver from the night before, who had looked as stunned as Rafiq when I stood up to him. They were nearly the same tall height, but Ahmed was thin like a green bean, his bronze face wrinkled with age and sun, a thick black moustache neatly manicured under his nose. He and Rafiq spoke to each other in Arabic, pointing at the painting. Judging by the look on Ahmed’s face, he liked it as much as Rafiq did.
“Miss Pryce,” said Rafiq. He held out a hand to me, and reluctantly I took it. He planted a tiny kiss on the back before gesturing with his other to the driver. “This is Ahmed. Ahmed, Miss Evangeline Pryce, the artist.”
“Ah, madam,” said Ahmed, bowing his head politely toward her. “A fine job you’ve done here, a fine job. Your work makes my heart sing.” He held his hands up in a joyous gesture.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, blushing.
I watched with some reservation as the men carefully took the canvas from the wall. They were tall enough that the step stool was entirely unnecessary. They wrapped it until it was fully protected from any errant drop of rain or worse. My heart felt a little broken, as it always did when one of my paintings left. Somehow, it was like giving up a little part of myself.
Once the painting was safely loaded in the town car, Ahmed returned to the driver’s seat, and Rafiq followed me back inside the gallery to wrap up his transaction. He waited across the counter as the credit card machine ran his four-figure bill.
“Thank you for your business,” I said to him and held out my hand. “I’m glad we could find you a piece after all.”
Rafiq smiled, and this time it most definitely was a charmer. He took my hand and covered it with both of his. “Thank you for giving me a second chance.”
Heat rushed through my skin and up my neck, and judging by the glint in his eye, Rafiq could see it, too.
I nodded and pulled my hand away gently. “I’m glad you enjoy my work.”
“I enjoy it a lot,” he said. “In fact…”
Rafiq turned on his expensive shoes and marched around the gallery one more time, as if he was looking for someone or something. I watched curiously from behind the counter until he came back up to me.
“Actually, I’ve changed my mind about my purchase,” he said.
My heart sank. “You have?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’d like to buy all of them, please. And I’ll pay double your asking price.” He slid his platinum card back across the counter toward me.
My jaw dropped. “What? You can’t be serious!”
“Why not? Are some of them already sold?” he asked with a frown.
“No, no, it’s not that…” I shook my head and closed my eyes for a second, my brain unable to comprehend what was happening. “Did you say you want all the paintings….all of them, and at double the price?”
“That’s correct,” he said. He pointed to the card again and smiled. “I will have to send a truck for them, unless that’s inconvenient.”
My mom hadn’t raised a fool, and it wasn’t like I’d just blown into the big city from Nowhereville, USA.
Picking up the platinum card, I said, “I would love nothing more than to see all these paintings in a good collection, but…I just don’t believe you would drop that kind of money without expecting something more than paintings in return. I’ve been in this business long enough to know that, Rafiq.”
A slow, lazy smile spread across Rafiq’s handsome face. “Beauty, talent, and a sharp mind.”
He sighed and, from his other inner jacket pocket, produced a mahogany-colored flask. He unscrewed the cap with harsh fingers and took a swig, apparently unconcerned by me seeing him do it.
“Miss Pryce…”
“You can call me Evangeline,” I said.
“Evangeline,” he said softly. “I think it’s about time I found myself a girlfriend.”
His words were an utter surprise, so much so that we both began to laugh in absurdity and discomfort.
“I’m sorry, did I miss a step here?” I asked. “Weren’t we just talking about you buying my inventory outright?”
“And what I would require in exchange for such a gift, yes. I’m sure that kind of money would not be unwanted in your life, would it?”
I paused, but that in itself was the answer. “No, it wouldn’t,” I said, eyes cast down.
Rafiq sighed again and took another drink. He looked around to make sure we were alone, that no one had sneaked in the gallery unnoticed.
“Do you know who I am?” It wasn’t a haughty threat, but a sincere question.
I shook my head honestly, staring into his big brown eyes.
“Rich. Powerful. But not as rich and powerful as my father,” he said. “And at present you could say he is somewhat…displeased with me.”
“Displeased?”
Rafiq stood up straight and shrugged. “It’s a bit of a long story. Suffice it to say, the lifestyle you witnessed last night is more or less a common one for me, and it’s generated some unfortunate damage to my family’s reputation.”
“Really? I can’t imagine,” I replied dryly, unable to help myself.
Rafiq narrowed his eyes at me, but it was playful. “Indeed. And my father is coming halfway around the world just to scold me for it.”
Nothing about his family experience was relatable to me—not the wealth, not the power, and certainly not trouble with my parents. Though they wanted to see me stable and safe, they never shamed me for my lifestyle choices. I couldn’t imagine being halfway around the world from them, and then dreading a visit.
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked.
Rafiq rubbed his fingers against his full lips. “I would like for you to pretend to be my girlfriend while my father is in town; to make me look more respectable, more, what’s the word, traditional than I currently am. And, truly, there is no one my father will respect more than you, Evangeline. You are a perfect fit for the role.”
Heat flushed across my skin, and butterflies erupted in my stomach. I couldn’t stop my mouth from dropping open. Was he seriously offering to pay me to be with him?
“You are a gorgeous, successful American artist. Witty, strong and talented. I’ve no doubt he will see you as a perfect mate for his heir,” said Rafiq. He returned his flask to his jacket, and leaned his big hands on the counter, bending just slightly my direction. I could smell his musk, and his expensive cologne, mixed with the sharp scent of rum.
For a split second, his proposition had almost felt flattering. On the surface, Rafiq was everything a woman like me could hope for: charming, handsome, intelligent, and rich. He was clearly interested in the arts, even if he was just a casual collector. Being by his side, even temporarily, would probably end up being fancier and more exciting than any vacation I would ever be able to take. Rafiq lived the fantasy life an artist like me would never be able to touch.
But critical thinking forced its way back into my mind and suddenly everything about the situation felt uncomfortable and wrong. I felt dirty.
I shook my head and pushed his platinum card back across the counter. “Look, I… I appreciate that you enjoy my work, and thank you for taking Oceanic home. But art is the only thing for sale in this gallery, Rafiq—the artist certainly isn’t.”
Rafiq pursed his lips, but said nothing, and only nodded. He shoved one hand in the pocket of his slacks, and came out with a business card, which he tossed next to the platinum credit card that was still on the counter. “Think about it, Evangeline. I really do love your work, and I’d love to be able to bring all of it home with me.”
Before I could respond, he turned and left the gallery.
FOUR