Page 27 of Dirty Money
Whoa, she realized then.This guy really does like me.
Aullie wasn’t sure how to express her guilt without making it sound like pity, so she just smiled and thanked Gerald again for all his help.
He smiled as he got into his Prius and drove away. Hoping to not be too far behind him, he did have a point she was going to have to be there early to make sure everything looked right.
She started to really freeze and jogged up the rickety stairs to her apartment. Bruce waited for her on the landing, rubbing the door and meowing like he’d been cast out into the cold.
“You little brat,” she said. Aullie opened the door and they both went back into the apartment.
Grabbing a coat and slippers this time, Aullie hauled the rest of her paintings out to her car. She packed a few into the truck, a few in the middle seat, and before she realized it, she only had one painting left.
It looked like Weston’s painting was riding shotgun, she realized, bitterly. She still wasn’t sure she even wanted to bring it, but she didn’t really have more time to come up with something else.
She set the painting on the seat. The self-conscious part of her still recovering from her last art show flop convinced her the painting wouldn’t sell anyway, it wasn’t like she was going to lose it.
And why did she care if she did?
With a mix of nerves, confusion, and hurt, she made her final trip to her apartment, strapping into a pair of maroon suede high-heeled Mary Janes. She double checked her haunting, romantic charcoal eye makeup and touched up her burgundy lipstick. Aullie had to admit, she looked pretty good, and despite the drama surrounding the day and the stigma surrounding the painting, she finally felt ready.
‘Let’s do this’, she thought as she snatched her keys off the counter.
Time to show the world what she, Aulora frickin’ Greene, was made of.
Even after the hour-plus she and Gerald had spent organizing her showcase, Aullie still wasn’t completely happy with the way it looked. Something was off, but the problem was, she had absolutely no idea what it was.
“It’s fine,” Gerald had insisted about a hundred times. “That’s how every artist feels. From an outside standpoint, it looks great. Just try to relax.”
His soothing voice had done nothing to relax her, though, and neither had the two hours that had passed since then. Or the two and a half glasses of champagne. Even with a slight buzz, Aullie felt wildly on edge.
She cursed herself, internally as she realized she was making the same mistakes she had at the last show. Instead of standing in the corner glowering at her own work, she should be walking around, talking, meeting other artists and trying to find and charm gallery collectors.
‘Alright’, she decided. Drowning the last half of her glass of champagne, she rolled her shoulders back and drummed up the courage and confidence to do what she needed to do.
Social anxiety and introverted nature be damned, she wasn’t about to let another opportunity slip through her fingers. This was her life, her passion, and she needed to be ready to make it happen.
Aullie placed her empty flute on a passing tray and grabbed a fresh one. She smiled a genuine smile at the poor, tray-toting waiter. I know how you feel, she wanted to tell him. She did know how he probably felt; so much running and work for so little money, so little respect, that feeling of disdained invisibility. She felt almost guilty about the surge of motivation the exchange had given her, she was one hundred and ten percent ready to be done with serving forever and her first stepping stone was right under feet.
As she wandered through the exhibits, she felt the knots in her stomach begin to unwind. There really were some talented artists there. It must have been a real honor to be chosen to show alongside them.
Aullie stopped in front of a particularly interesting piece, a gigantic canvas hung unframed from a wire in the ceiling, the gentle draping of the un-stretched canvas seemed to make different pictures depending on the viewer’s perspective. She paced back and forth, admiring the impressive and extremely innovative work.
“What do you think?”
Aullie turned to see a short, curvaceous girl about her age with blond hair cropped to her chin and a pair of slim, black framed glasses. She wore wide-legged slacks, a colorful blouse adorned with flowers and a little bit too much flowery perfume.
“I think it’s incredible,” Aullie said, honestly. “Such an innovative piece of work.”
“Well, thank you,” the girl said, modestly.
“Oh, are you the artist?” Aullie asked, hoping she hadn’t offended her.
“Yes, I am.” She extended a hand. “I’m Maggie Griswold.”
“Aulora Greene,” she replied, shaking her hand. Though she loathed her birth name, it was too regal and pretentious sounding, she did like the artistic uniqueness of it when it came to the creative community. “Nice to meet you, Maggie.”
“Nice to meet you too. Pretty name,” Maggie replied.
“So, how long have you been doing art for?”
