Tricking people into giving back through the brokering of ostentatiously expensive art!
That’s what Gemma says, anyway.
Every penny made on sales will be funneled into public school art programs across the city. Thus, true to the gallery name, every purchase is an instant karma point — stocking classrooms with paintbrushes, supplying the salary for much-needed art teachers, changing the lives of kids who’ve never held so much as a colored pencil.
Apparently, Gemma came up with the idea while she was “lying around like a log in the hospital” — again, her words, not mine. That wasn’t even two months ago. I’m not quite sure how she’s managed to throw together the most exclusive event on Boston’s social calendar in such a short time. (Chase probably had something to do with it — that man has a way of making things happen.) With practiced trepidation, I eye the dozen or so reporters staked out on either side of the black carpet that’s been rolled from the doors to the curb. Velvet ropes are all that hold their questions and camera flashes at bay. I watch as a middle-aged couple steps from a town car a few ahead of ours in the queue, posing for a picture with fake smiles plastered on their lips. They wait a few seconds until the shutters click down, then move into the building, instantly replaced by another carpet arrival.
Snooze.
I’ve been to enough of these events over the years that the cameras and the questions don’t faze me much anymore. It used to be overwhelming — now, it’s mostly just annoying. I’ll glide by them, face set in a politely detached expression, and pause with my hip dropped and my legs positioned just so, ensuring the picture of me that appears on Page 6 tomorrow is flattering. And it will appear, no matter how much I wish it wouldn’t. In this town, being Milo West’s only daughter holds a certain amount of cachet.
Smile. Pose. Say “Oscar de la Renta” when they ask the inevitable, inexcusably sexist question about my attire.
Easy.
It wasn’t always. I still remember the first time they shouted, “Miss West, who are you wearing tonight?” as I moved along a red carpet, squinting against the strobes and trying not to sweat into my Chanel couture. It was the year my father took Parker and me to the TIME 100 gala as his plus one — the year Milo West made the list as the 10th most influential man in the world, when he perfected streaming technology that made all prior fiber optic carriers look like dachshunds at a greyhound race. The year we went from run-of-the-mill rich to oh-my-fucking-god-that’s-a-lot-of-zeros rich.
I was eight; Parker was twelve. He held my arm and moved way slower than he would’ve liked, just so I wouldn’t trip over the low heels I hadn’t quite figured out how to walk in yet. Without him to steady me, I’d have fallen flat on my face and disgraced the family.
As soon as we got back to the hotel that night he teased me about my bobbling gate, but he never said a word as he held me up on that damn carpet. Even though his own hands were shaking, he never let me waver. Silent, steady, strong. Always the good man in a storm, the one constant I could count on.
Trademark Parker.
God, I miss him. It’s been months, since I’ve seen him. He’s always loved to travel, but it seems his trips are getting longer and longer as we get older. Three weeks then three months then six months then a year. Galapagos, Croatia, Canary Islands, French Riviera. I worry one of these times he’ll hop on the WestTech jet with a backpack, fly off into the sunset, and never come back.
The thought makes my throat constrict and my chest ache, so I push it away. Just in time, too — we’ve reached the front of the queue. I slip on my game face, steady my shoulders, and force myself not to blink when the chauffeur pulls open my door and offers me a hand into the explosion of camera flashes.
Miss West!
Phoebe!
Look this way!
Who are you wearing?
Is that Versace?