Until she pushed through the bathroom door, looked around the gallery space, and remembered. Every painting on the wall was hers. Lots of them had soft gray stickers on them to mark they’d already been sold.
Portraits of random people around Rosewood she’d quickly painted in the last few days were along the far wall. Colorful abstracts lined the space near the bar. The “dark series,” as Aria called the paintings she’d done after Nick’s attack, took up another wall. Each painting was numbered, and a discreet price list was available by request. Aria had been almost too afraid to look at the prices they’d set, but Ella had forced her. Her largest painting, one of her mother laughing, was for sale for two hundred thousand dollars.
It was unreal. As were the invites to underground art parties in Brooklyn, phone calls from indie bands who wanted Aria to paint their next album covers, and the fact that her name, all alone, had become a hashtag on Twitter. As in: Scored an invite to #AriaMontgomery opening tonite. Huge deal!
The gallery director, Sasha, dressed in black skinny pants and an asymmetrical, fashion-forward crop top that showed off her immaculate abs, glided toward Aria and took her hands. “Everything looking good, my dear?”
“Of course,” Aria gushed, gaping at the crowd that had begun to gather. It had felt like a dream to actually sign all the paperwork that permitted this gallery to give her a show. Aria had feared Sasha would sour when she saw Aria’s other works, but she whooped with pleasure as she unwrapped canvas after canvas. “Gorgeous,” she’d trilled, again and again.
Then Aria smiled at her father and Meredith, who’d also come. The two of them stood proudly near the bar, glasses of red wine in hand. “Thanks for getting my family on the guest list, too,” she said bashfully.
“Yeah, well, I would have rather let in a few more reporters, but I understand you need your people by you on tonight of all nights,” Sasha said, giving her a playful swat. “Speaking of which, there are, like, a zillion people who want to talk to you. Art agents, buyers . . .”
“Is John Carruthers here?” Aria asked. She’d heard he came to a lot of openings, and she was eager to meet him. And maybe even ask why he’d bought the portrait of Ali.
Sasha scanned the crowd. “Er . . . no. I think he’s still traveling.” She patted Aria’s arm. “But don’t worry. There are plenty of other people who want your work. You’re the next big thing, my dear!” Then Sasha’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I forgot to mention. A blogger has been asking about you nonstop. Let me just . . .”
“Harrison?” Aria asked, her heart lifting. He’d said he’d try his hardest to make the trip from Philly.
“No, a woman from ArtSmash.”
Aria’s eyes widened. ArtSmash was probably the biggest art blog around. It was so popular and influential, in fact, that the site hosted art events around New York, Los Angeles, and Philadelphia, and was often a sponsor of exhibits at edgy galleries in Brooklyn and Philly’s Fishtown neighborhood.
Sasha signaled to someone in a black suit at the bar. The woman raised an eyebrow and sauntered over. She stuck out her hand. “Esmerelda Rhea,” she said in a loud, bossy voice. “I’m with ArtSmash. I’d like to do a profile on you. An exclusive.”
Aria’s stomach dropped. “Um, it can’t be an exclusive. I’ve already given an interview with Harrison Miller.”
Esmerelda’s expression went blank. “Who’s Harrison Miller?”
“From Fire and Funnel?” Aria said tentatively. “It’s kind of indie. But really cool.”
Esmerelda looked unimpressed. “Well, we can just tell this Harrison person not to post it, okay? An exclusive with us will actually mean something.”
Aria blinked. “But it’s a good interview.” She’d read a draft last night: Harrison had called her art “fascinating,” “mature,” “soulful,” and “provocative.” He’d also said Aria was “enchanting in person, as artful, graceful, and deep as her paintings.” How could she turn that sort of press down?
Esmerelda chuckled. “You’re so green. It’s so sweet!” She gave Aria a condescending smile. “I’ll handle Harry, if you’d like.”
“Harrison,” Aria corrected.
As if on cue, Aria spied Harrison’s tall, familiar figure ducking through the front door. He had the same battered leather bag on his shoulder, and he had an earnest, eager look on his face. He gazed across the room and noticed her. His face lit up, and Aria grinned back.
“There he is now,” Aria said in a strong voice, motioning him over.
A few paces away, Harrison noticed Esmerelda and paled. “H-hello, Esmerelda,” he stammered when he was close. He looked kind of wary. “It’s nice to see you again. When was it last? That MoMA party?”
“Mm-hmm,” Esmerelda said tightly, her beady eyes narrowing. Interesting, Aria thought. Moments before, Esmerelda had pretended she had no idea who Harrison was. Then she let out a huffy little breath. “So. Aria’s been telling me that you spoke to her already. We want the exclusive, though. That can be arranged, can’t it?” She stared at him steadily, her eyes unblinking.
Aria’s mouth dropped open. She turned to Harrison. He looked cowed and miserable—maybe as if Esmerelda had done this to him before. She was nothing but . . . a bully, Aria realized. And Aria certainly knew how that felt.
She stood up straighter. “Harrison’s posting my story,” she said in a strong voice. “My exclusive is with him.”