Page 38 of Dirty Diana
When Alicia first discovered how much one of Justine’s pieces sold for, she hooted with laughter. “Holy shit! Fifty thousand dollars? Can you even walk on it?”
“It’s not a rug, Alicia. It’s tufted art.”
She smiled. “Fifty points if you get down with Justine on her new tapestry. A hundred if you somehow keep embroidering while you do it.”
I hear Justine coming up the back stairs, the familiar sound of gold bangles on her delicate wrists. I stretch out my fingers and get back to work. I haven’t done anything wrong, but my cheeks flush anyway.
We call hello to each other as Justine slips off her shoes and pads across the loft. I feel her hands on my shoulders and I know she’s peering over me, watching my fingers work.
She sighs. “I wish I could clone you.”
I smile to myself but don’t say anything.
She rubs my shoulders. “Are you cold? It’s freezing in here.”
She takes off the cashmere scarf she’s wearing and wraps it around me. It’s even softer than I imagined and smells like her tea rose perfume. “Thanks.” I pull it closer around my neck.
“You look exhausted.” She sits across from me and fingers the wool, flipping it back and forth to study the work. “Do you ever sleep at all?”
Justine looks healthy and well-rested. She’s got to be at least twenty years older than I am, but her skin is smooth and dewy. I once asked Alicia how Justine managed to glow like that. “Snails and leftover penises from circumcisions,” she said. When she saw that I thought she was joking, she added, “Seriously, she uses this crazy-expensive lotion with foreskin and snail slime in it. One of my dad’s ex-girlfriends uses it too.”
It’s not just Justine’s skin—it’s also her hair, her smell, her posture. The way she moves around the loft in bare feet and no bra, her black T-shirt fitting so perfectly.
“Let’s take a break,” she says to me. “Have some tea.”
I steal a glance at the clock. Only thirty-three minutes till I can go, and I really want to finish this square.
She walks over to the kitchen area and sits on a stool, her legscrossed, looking at me expectantly. I tap on the electric kettle and pull down a teapot and two cups, all made by a ceramicist friend of hers. I imagine Justine’s home must be full of beautiful things like these.
I tip some Japanese sencha into the teapot, and then I fill a dish with raw almonds and set them in front of her. “Lovely,” she says. “So what is it? Why do you look so tired? It’s not just today. I don’t think I’ve seen you lately without purple circles under your eyes.”
Justine sounds as though she’s hinting at something, and I wonder if Jasper has told anyone about us. It’s a small circle, the art world in Santa Fe.
I burn my tongue on the too-hot tea. “Barry’s had a ton of gallery shows. It’s good to have the shifts.”
“Anything good?”
Justine has a healthy competitive streak.
“Not really.”
“Nothing?”
And then, wondering if she has heard something about us, and because Jasper has told me frustratingly little about what he thinks of Justine, just that he admires her work ethic, I bring up his name. “There was a photographer whose stuff I liked. Jasper—”
“—Green. Gorgeous, right?”
I’m not sure if she means him or his work. I blush and realize how much she can read on my face.
“Watch out for that one. He’s trouble, I hear.”
I flinch, like she’s pricked my bubble.
“You really need to prioritize yourself, Diana.” She puts a hand on my knee. “How can you nurture your art if you don’t nurture yourself?”
Ugh. Sounds like something framed above my dentist’s toilet,Alicia would have said.
“You’re right.” I know from booking her appointments what Justine’s version of “nurture” includes—her Reiki healer only accepts (a lot of) cash, same with the woman who comes to her house to give her lymphatic massages and colonics.
