Page 14 of The Executive Assistant

I started to scoff but hastily turned it into a cough. Involuntarily, my eyes shifted over to Cameron, who was lightly laughing as Lindsey told him a story that I was only halfway listening to.

I took another sip. And another. A sip for every time that Russell tried to flirt with me. Another sip every time Lindsey touched Cameron’s arm. It wasn’t long before my face felt warm from all the alcohol I’d had.

“Next item up for auction. Confinement by Nicolo Ranallo. Acrylic on canvas,” the auctioneer announced from the stage as he gestured to a large canvas that I couldn’t quite make sense of. The background was green, and there was a red shape in the center that looked like a misshapen rectangle. Inside of that red shape was a smaller black shape that could’ve resembled a potato forall I knew. Tiny white dots littered the entire canvas like it had chicken pox.

“Wow. That’s fascinating,” Russell said as his hand rested on his jaw out of awe. “Look at the texture of that.”

Lindsey nodded in agreement. “That’s really nice.”

I couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from me and shook my entire body, the rest of my champagne nearly sloshing over the rim of the glass. This was my third flute. Or was it my fourth? Fifth? “Are we looking at the same thing? It looks like a preschooler made it with crayons.”

Cameron shot me a shocked look.

I glanced around, seeing that other people were looking in my direction. Oops. I might’ve said that a little too loud.

“Art is subjective, but you should really take the time to try and understand what artists are trying to portray in their works,” Russell told me.

“Let’s start the bidding at $1,000,” the auctioneer called out.

Russell lifted his bidding card.

“Got $1,000 right here,” the auctioneer said as he motioned in Russell’s direction.

More laughter bubbled from my lips that I tried to muffle with my hand. He was really spending $1,000 on a painting that he could do himself? Not that I knew anything about his artistic talents but come on.

“Okay,” I said to him. “What is this painting about?”

Russell blinked at me. “Pardon?”

“What is this painting about?” I repeated. “To me, it looks like a whole bunch of blobs and colors. They’re not even pretty colors.”

Cameron shifted closer to me. “Alison, what are you doing?”

I ignored him, keeping my attention on Russell.

“Well,” he said, eyes flicking around at the people who were looking at us. “It’s about confinement.” He tore his attention away to bid $2000.

“Confinement,” I repeated. “Wow, how insightful.”

Russell went red. “Look at the shapes, the way they are inside of each other. They’re confined by each other. It’s a metaphor.”

“A metaphor?” I echoed, trying not to laugh.

“Alison,” Cameron warned in a low voice.

“Yes, a metaphor for the prison industrial complex,” Russell said, then waved a hand. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Most people don’t get art — it’s nothing to feel insecure about.”

“Going once,” the auctioneer called out. “Going twice…sold! To Mr. MacArthur for $2000.”

Everyone turned around to applaud Russell for his win.

“I,” I began, waving a finger at Russell, “think you” — my voice was slightly wobbly, a bit slurred. I hadn’t had that much to drink, had I? — “are full of shit.”

“Excuse us,” Cameron spoke up as he placed his hand on my back firmly, ushering me away from everyone andout of the ballroom.

“What are you doing? I need to see Russell write that check,” I told him as I started to draw away from him.

Cameron wrapped his arm around my waist, anchoring me to his side as he brought me out into the hallway, and then into an empty conference room. He shut the door behind us, blocking me from leaving. The noise and voices from the ballroom were completely muffled from here.

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