Cream of the Crop
Page 82

“Oh please, you’re spoiling for a fight.” I leaned across the table, my voice a low whisper. “What the hell is your problem? Is this because of the Brannigan’s thing?”
He just pointed at the waiter who had brought our drinks. He set them down quickly, obviously sensing the tension at the table.
Once he walked away, I leaned in. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Jesus, you’re so stubborn. It is about Brannigan’s, isn’t it? I know you didn’t ask me for help, but I—”
“I didn’t ask you for anything,” he said, cutting me off. Then he drained half of his beer in one draft and looked at me, daring me to say something.
I wasn’t playing this game. No way.
I smiled sweetly, ending the trajectory of the conversation. “So, Roxie told me that Polly ate so much of her Halloween candy the other night they’ve had to hide it and dole it out so she can’t OD on it again. Isn’t that funny?”
I was determined to save this night . . .
Stepping out of the car in front of Gallery O, I saw the usual photographers, movers and shakers in the art world, simpering debutantes with their equally simpering hedge fund manager boyfriends, blue-blooded matronly art patrons paired off with good-looking young hipsters, society hangers-on, and, in the middle of it all, actual artists.
I heard a sigh behind me, and when I turned to see Oscar, he was looking at the entire scene disapprovingly.
“You ready?” I asked, looping my arm through his as he came to stand next to me.
He grimaced, then forced a smile. “Sure thing.”
“You sure?”
“I love it when people ask me the same question twice,” he replied, looking like a man about to walk into the dentist’s office for a root canal.
I dug my nails into his arm as we walked past the photographers, here to snap a few shots for Page Six. “Play nice, please.”
“Oh, you want me to play?” he asked, a devious grin now making its way across his face. “Okay, let’s play.”
I saw my mother coming through the crowd, smiling and nodding and shaking hands, and I squashed every single thing I wanted to say: that I wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face, ask him what the hell was the matter, why was he being such an ass, and where was this all coming from?
I squashed, I centered, I smiled.
“Mother!” I called out.
She caught my eye and beamed. She looked radiant. Dressed head to toe in all black accented with a bright lime-green scarf wrapped around her shoulders, she looked like some beautiful exotic bird. Some artists were notoriously shy, but my mother thrived under the spotlight and loved to show people her latest piece.
And behind her, as always, was my father. Strong and solid, anchoring her crazy with his sensible, he was always content at her side.
“Natalie, I was hoping we’d see you here,” she cooed, slipping an arm around my waist and hugging me close.
“Of course, I wouldn’t have missed it. Looks like you’ve got quite a turnout already!”
“Crows, they’re all crows! Just here for the free food and drink, and to pick pick pick apart my work.”
“Which she secretly loves,” my dad chimed in, sharing a secret smile with me.
“I do, I really do,” she agreed, dropping a kiss on his cheek. They both realized there was a man on my arm at exactly the same second, and I stifled a grin when I watched them both tilt their heads up slightly to take in his height.
“Oh, and this must be the man who’s been keeping my daughter out of town so much lately. Oscar, isn’t it?” My mother offered a hand, which Oscar took. Her eyes widened at the size of his paw.
“Yes, ma’am, it’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Grayson. Looks like quite a show here tonight.”
“It really is such a spectacle,” she said, looking him up and down, taking the time to catalogue each feature. “And this is Natalie’s father.”
“Mr. Grayson,” Oscar said, shaking his hand firmly.
“I’m Al; that’s Anna,” my dad replied, taking it to a first-name basis already. An interesting development.
Then someone from the gallery came outside and asked my mother if she had a moment.
“Oh goodness, I’ve got to go—a few interviews. Will we see you later, Oscar?”
“I’ll be wherever Natalie is, I expect,” Oscar said, smiling smoothly.
I smiled and nodded, and as the two of them whisked away and melted into the crowd, I looked around for other faces I knew.
“I’ve got to make the rounds and say hello to some people. You with me?”
“Sure,” he said, “I’m with you.”
And he couldn’t have been more wrong. All night long as I introduced him to people I knew—some friends from school, some friends just from the party scene—he was more and more rude. At first it was little things: not listening when other people were talking, staring off into space when I was asking him a question to bring him into the conversation; but then it began to get worse. He was muttering snide comments under his breath, commenting on everything from the hors d’oeuvres to the photographers and finally my friends. I don’t know if they heard it, but I did, and it was enough.
Not that my friends didn’t have plenty to say about Oscar, too. Rich people don’t say what they’re thinking right out loud, but it’s right there on their face, in their eyes. They asked the right questions: where is your farm, how long have you been making cheese, how long have you been making Natalie (a particularly rude one asked by someone I went to high school with and never particularly liked); nothing openly hostile.