Page 12 of The Hampton Beach Café 2
“Yeah, well, I'm an old-fashioned gal,” Lucinda replied.
“An old-fashioned gal about to go to a Virtual Reality Gallery opening with an avant-garde artist?”
Lucinda laughed. “Don't worry. I'll be suitably appalled by any unseemly paintings or 3D scanned sculptures. Now, let's get this tidied up and you up to the roof.”
***
The house was stunning, even if she did think the architectural +style was more suited to a major city like LA rather than a little cluster of houses on the coast. The houses to either side were single-story and modest. She couldn't imagine whether her family loved the idea of some ridiculously wealthy temporary occupant coming up and partying for six weeks a year.
That wasn't her business, though. Her only concern was getting through the night and at least trying to have a good time. Lucinda and Vincent were driving a bit further up into Portsmouth to attend an exhibition one of his friends was hosting. It was partially to give them a reason to drive back past Frances on their way home to pick her up, but it was also so they could do some research into how they might want to organize a gallery opening. They didn't have long now.
As she ascended the stairs to the top floor, Frances gasped. There was a long table with a light linen tablecloth blowing in the wind, covered lanterns flickered a gorgeous soft glow over everything, and perfectly aesthetically mismatched jars held small posy's of wildflowers that lined the center of the table. The front of the room was floor-to-ceiling windows like Clarkson had said, but he had not mentioned that they were actually folding doors and the entire front of the building could be open to the balcony.
Two jazz musicians stood in the corner of the balcony, and when they noticed her, they started to play.
Clarkson's voice drifted up the stairs, and Frances turned to see him emerging. “And this is my favorite part, guys. Check out this epic vista! Oh––and the beautiful lady––she's not included in the sale price. You'll have to source your own.”
Blushing, she waved her hand at the group of people who had followed him. She noticed though that Clarkson was talking to the camera in his hand. Held high in front of him, he looked like he was taking a selfie but with a fully-fledged digital camera.
“No, you vultures don't get to see her yet…I haven't asked her if she wants to be in the video. If she agrees, you might get a peek.”
She swallowed hard. She did not want to be on the video, and that was not going to happen.
Clarkson greeted her with a soft kiss on the cheek, which in itself was a little unsettling. Not necessarily unpleasant...but somewhat unexpected.
“I'll do some b-roll and then get you introduced,” he whispered before capturing some of the other couples gathering at the glass balcony railings.
They were all taking selfies, it seemed to her. As they got their desired shot and moved to the table, they all introduced themselves to Frances on their own. As the third person in a row asked if she would be ok with being in their video or posts, she realized these weren't potential buyers. They were influencers. Living in LA, she had seen the epic rise of social media, and its preferred stars. This was an interesting mixed bag, though. There were several of the typical young and gorgeous with muscle-toned bodies in too-tight haute couture, but there were also a decent number of older people. In fact, one woman in a lime green power suit who was gesturing to the house with a cigarette in a long stem holder couldn't have been younger than sixty.
“Sorry, no, I really don't do online,” she said apologetically to the next person who asked.
The girl, maybe twenty-five, raised a perfectly plucked and micro-bladed eyebrow. “You don't do online, but you're dating the Property King? How's THAT going?”
“Oh, we aren't. It's not like that. We're friends.”
The flick up and down the girl's eyes gave her was loud and clear. It said, 'yeah, okay, sure.'
“Well, you look incredible. Who designed your dress?”
“Well, it's actually from a designer in LA. My friend Lucinda is connected with them, and she got this sent to me. Here I have their card.”
A tinkling bell rang, and they all assembled at the table, Clarkson appearing next to her as if by magic.
“First course,” he said, holding the chair out for her.
The meal was delightful, though a little breezier than she would have personally liked. The flaming croquembouche for dessert was a little over the top, but everyone had pulled out their phones to film it, so it had obviously succeeded in its purpose. Standing by the balcony edge, looking out at sea, Frances took a minute to enjoy the quiet now that many of the influencers had gone home. Clarkson had made it clear that this was a dinner and not a house party––but there was a minibus downstairs waiting to take them into town to a bar.
Lingering by the cocktail cart was the older woman in green. She sidled over to Frances.
“You're really not dating him?” she asked.
“I'm really not,” Frances responded.
“Good,” she said sharply. “I know he's the king and all that, but I say watch out.”
Frances watched as she downed the cocktail and discarded the glass. She sauntered off down the stairs leaving Frances feeling like she was the unwitting guest star on some trashy real-estate reality show.
Turning to face the sea once again, she heard Clarkson walking up behind her. She knew it was him because he was signing off from his video.
