The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [81]
“The art,” she declared, as the lie began to take root in her mind. “I’m a collector, and I advise a few clients…” Alice gave a casual shrug that mirrored his own response. “This is only a brief trip: I came from London last night, and tomorrow I fly on to Miami.”
Rafael looked at her with interest, the kind her usual plain response of lawyer never received. “You were here to see an artist? Or acquire a classic?”
“Mmm.” Alice took another sip of her cocktail, buying time. She could see this Angelique take form, already vivid in her mind: a jet-setting woman who drifted between continents at a moment’s notice, armed only with red silk and flair.
“I deal in modern art, mainly,” she decided, giving Rafael a flash of smile. “I came to see a new work, by a friend actually, but, well…” She sighed. “It wasn’t what I’d hoped.”
“No?” The barman delivered Rafael a short, amber drink, and he tipped him generously from a silver billfold.
“No.” Alice straightened her posture a little. Angelique would never slouch. “His earlier paintings had such vibrancy, such life, but his latest series…They seem almost derivative.”
Rafael nodded. “I see that a lot with the companies I work with. In the beginning, it’s all innovation, you know? Then, as soon as they have the reputation, it all just gets flat and repetitive.”
“Exactly,” Alice agreed, exhilarated. He believed every word she said. Why would he not? She’d had no reason to doubt Ella’s casual untruths; she’d taken her at her word.
It was almost amusing, the trust they placed in perfect strangers.
He glanced behind them, to where his friends still sat. “I have some people with me. If you’ve got the time, I’d love to introduce you.”
“Of course.” Alice took the hand he offered to help her down from the stool, following him across the room with a swing in her step.
“Everybody, this is Angelique.”
The group greeted her with smiles and air kisses as Rafael presented her, moving to make space for them in the booth. There was Anton and Paolo and Lucia and several more besides: a blur of sleek hair, sparkling jewelry, and infinite ease. Ordinarily, Alice knew she would have been intimidated by a collection of such glamorous, foreign strangers, but this was no ordinary night. She made the introductions with light smiles and a careless air, settling beside Rafael as if it were her due.
“Jeannine works in the art world too,” Rafael helpfully pointed out, nodding to the voluptuous brunette across the table. She was exchanging hushed, intimate comments with one of the men, her head tilted close to his as she gazed up through her eyelashes. At the sound of her name, she broke off the conversation.
“Sì, at the Galleria Menata, in the Parioli.”
“Oh, the Menata.” Alice adopted a knowledgeable expression. “I’ve heard good things about the place.”
Jeannine smiled generously. “I like it, but not for long. I shall move soon, I think. It gets—how you put it?—monotonous for the while.”
Alice relaxed back into the space beneath Rafael’s arm, slung over the back of the seating. “I know what you mean,” she agreed, as if she really did. “That’s why I work for myself now. I couldn’t stand the hierarchy, all the petty politics.”
There were murmurs of agreement. “A toast,” Paolo declared, sweeping back his dark curls with one hand. “To independence.”
Drinks were refreshed, the old piano player made way for a sultry singer, and all the while Alice built on the impulsive foundations of this Angelique’s imaginary life. Rafael’s body pressed against her. She fed her alter ego’s history with details plucked from Flora’s schooling at St. Martin’s, and Cassie’s varied travels, and snippets from stories she’d heard at work or read in passing newspapers, until she was confidently debating the merits of national arts funding with