Page 5 of Trailer Park Billionaire
He chuckles to himself, with—what seems to be—genuine amusement, then bows down to me. “Miss Beck, say, will you be annoyed for the rest of the day then?”
“No, of course not.” I pause, a little shocked he noticed right away. Then I look at his phony happy face and forget myself for just a moment. “Only a little bit and only as long as you’re keeping me from my actual work, Mister… what was it again?” I pretend to not remember his name, dragging out said moment of forgetting myself just a little longer.
His smile is unwavering. “Ben. You can call me Ben.”
“Very well… Mr. Lyon.” I ruin my quip and refuse his offer as politely as I can, then point the way once more, trying to speed this charade along. “Now, if you’d please…”
In response, Ben Lyon laughs, displaying his pearly whites with the precision of a technical drawing. “You’re funny,” he says, then snorts unintentionally, turning that precision drawing into more of a doodle.
Whatever happened to time is money?
Isn’t that what rich people are supposed to live by?
I watch as his snort causes him to laugh even more. What looked like phoniness to me a second ago seems… carefree now. Quite frankly, it’s bewildering. Then again, if I were rich enough to call up the director of my favorite museum to ask for a private tour, I might be that happy too. I’d do a better job of hiding it, so as not to irk other people—but still.
“Well, should we look at the art then?”
“Definitely. And maybe after looking, we could touch some of the art just a little too?” Mr. Lyon pulls his hands out of his pockets, notices my empty stare, and quickly shoves them back in before finally following my lead. “Not that kind of audience. Got it. Now let’s see if my taste in art is as questionable as your humor, shall we?”
I ignore his teasing, so we can finally begin in the Renaissance wing and then make our way up a level to the Modern Art wing. So I won’t get in trouble with my boss, I make sure we stop at the most popular pieces that people usually come here for.
Maybe unsurprisingly, Mr. Lyon is among the more pleasant VIPs I have had the misfortune of having to show around, and I am not quite as annoyed as I could be when he prevents me from ushering him into a shortcut through the Impressionists to cut the Baroque—and probably another 30 minutes—off our tour.
In the sky lounge, we watch as the torrential rain that has been ongoing all day turns into white slush showering against the gigantic glass wall and ceiling.
“Ms. Beck,” he says while we stop for a second to observe the weather, “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you are in some sort of rush, yes? What kind of work in here is of such a time-sensitive nature that it can’t wait a couple more hours or days even?”
Just then, a group of rambunctious children pass by, forcing me to wait with my reply because of all the noise. While I cross my arms, Ben is busy complimenting one kid on her glasses, another on his braces, and a third one on her (hopefully temporary) face tattoo.
“Do you think I could pull off a face tattoo?” he whispers loudly in my direction once they’ve passed. “No, wait—answer the other question first. We’ll come back to the face tattoo later.”
“Right, well, if you must know, I am in a rush because we are preparing for a big exhibition—a traveling exhibition to be more precise.‘The Vindicta’, a painting by Artemisia Gentileschi, is going to stop by, along with some other works by her and related artists. It’s sort of a big deal, as those pieces have never been to this part of the world, which means that for the first time ever, people who can’t afford a trip overseas will have the opportunity to actually see them in person. Not to mention the fact that it was only discovered a couple years ago. And a newly discovered painting by one of the most important women in art history is incredibly exciting in itself.”
Mr. Lyon listens carefully, his full lips relaxed for once, allowing the crow’s feet around his eyes to do the heavy lifting with showing off his apparently still outstanding mood.
“I need to restore two more paintings before the exhibition gets here, since they’ll be used to thematically connect the visiting art with our own collection—which, of course, will have to be rearranged altogether to form a coherent experience for our visitors. And on top of that,” it sort of just stumbles out of me involuntarily, “it’s my grandpa’s 80th birthday today, which means I won’t be able to do any overtime. So…” I take a deep breath, extend my arm to get him to move again, and am surprised at myself. This is probably the longest I’ve talked all month.
“Oh, that’s adorable. Are you guys close, then? You and your pawpaw?”
I pause, debating whether to answer at all. “I call him Dada,” I say carefully. “And… yes, I suppose so.”
Mr. Lyon’s eyes light up like he just stumbled upon a treasure map. “That’s adorable. What’s the plan for the big day, then?” He eyes me suspiciously. “I bet you’re secretly the type who plans very thoughtful surprises for people, even though you don’t want them to know or acknowledge it.”
“Not really,” I mutter, hoping to leave it at that.
But he doesn’t move. Instead, he narrows his eyes more, tilts his head, and leans ever so slightly toward me—as if his proximity will crack me open. Certainly a move he has practiced numerous times before.
“Not even for Dada? Come on. Spill it. You’re probably hosting an incredibly elaborate birthday bash. I’m picturing balloons, a cake shaped like his favorite thing—which is probably you—and a heartfelt toast that will make everyone cry.”
I hesitate again and wonder whether I should really share more about myself, then decide that it’ll probably be faster that way (and that I need to at least debunk such ignorant accusations about my character). “I’ll have you know that I don’t evenknowany people I could do such things for… except for my grandpa. And all I have prepared is a tiny gathering.”
“A tiny gathering! What kind?”
I sigh, realizing he won’t drop it until I give him something. So, to avoid getting stuck here longer than absolutely necessary, I relent. “It’s an escape room/murder mystery. We do one every year. It’s sort of a tradition.”
Mr. Lyon straightens, for my taste a lot more intrigued by this whole conversation than he should be. “An escape room? Iloveescape rooms. How’d that become a tradition?”
I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat, wondering when this whole ordeal will finally be over so I can get back to my paintings. “It’s… just something we do.”
