Page 21 of Stay Awake
When the meeting ends, Frank leaps out of his seat and rushes to his office so he doesn’t have to hear everyone’s complaints about their assignments. I go after him.
“Frank, you have writers here who are far more knowledgeable than me about the art world.” Like Naomi, I think, who studied fine arts and considers anyone writing about the arts atCulturato be not just stepping on her toes, but squashing them to smithereens.
“That’s exactly why I want you to do it, Liv,” he says. We walk past the wall of framed historicCultura Magazinecovers and enter his office.
“The last time I wrote a review on the Milo Zee exhibition, he sued me and the magazine. Do you really want to take the risk again?”
“It was all for publicity. He dropped the lawsuit,” he says, dismissively. “Your article cut right through all his bullshit. It skewered him. The rest of the media took off their gloves after your piece came out.”
Frank doesn’t mention that the media frenzy led to Zee being accused of beating his girlfriend and ultimately being “canceled.”
“It was just a review. I didn’t intend to destroy his career.”
“You have nothing to feel bad about, Liv. You were doing your job: giving a brutally honest review of his art show. I loved it, and so did our readers. It’s why you were promoted.”
He pulls last year’s November issue from a shelf behind his desk and reads my review in a toneless voice.
No wilting wallflower, Milo Zee describes himself as the ultimate bad boy artist and founder of his own school of millennial nihilism art. Zee has near-guru status among his more than one million Instagram followers who hail him as a #Zeenius.
Zee’s exhibitionSum of Usfeatures enormous canvases created with paint made from his own bodily fluids. Zee sayshe slashed his wrist to produce the blood for the largest canvas, titledDeathwish2. He claims he almost died in the making of that curiously bland painting.
The New York exhibit contains new works produced by Zee since his sellout shows in London. Among them are an actual #Zeenius bowel movement displayed inside a transparent cube of resin hanging from the gallery ceiling, and a wineglass filled with Zee’s own spit framed on a wall.
Zee’s publicist describes his work as “an illuminating insight on the human condition. It reminds us that we are not the sum of our parts, but the parts of our sum.”
I’m no expert on postmodern abstract art, but I have to admit that I found scraping mold from the grout between my bathroom tiles using an old toothbrush to be more illuminating than Zee’s artwork, and a considerably more apt statement on the human condition.
Frank tosses the magazine onto his desk. “That’s what I want in your year-end piece. That tone. That sarcasm.”
“Frank, I wasn’t being sarcastic. I was being sincere,” I say, straight-faced.
“You cut him to shreds in a way that Naomi could never do. She’s far too effusive to the artists she’s trying to cultivate. Okay, get out of here, Liv. I have a budget meeting to prepare for.”
Before returning to my desk, I stop at the office of our style editor, Sonya, and ask for her thoughts on Emily’s handbag collection. I’ve given her the handbag samples that Emily gave me as well as a link to Emily’s Instagram feed so she can see her other designs.
“At best, they looked like cheap and nasty knockoffs. At worst, well, let me suggest she finds a new hobby. I can’t see how she can build a career as a serious designer if all she’s doing is knocking off iconic designs.”
She hands me back the handbag and purse that Emily gave me with the tips of her fingers as if they’re contaminated.
I’m almost relieved at her candor. I can honestly tell Marco that I did my best to get Emily’s collection written up in the magazine. Hopefully, if Dean has hard feelings, they won’t be directed toward Marco. Remembering Dean’s behavior at the restaurant, I have no doubt he’s more than capable of petty acts of revenge.
When I return to my desk after a late lunch, I find a Post-it note on my keyboard.KEVIN ASKED YOU TO CALL, it reads. It includes his cell phone number.
Kevin is the waiter at the restaurant that I went to with Marco, Dean, and Emily. It’s the third time he’s called.
I returned his first message thinking I’d left something behind at the café. Of course I hadn’t. He said he’d called to thank me for being so gracious by coming back to sort out the tip. Even though he was superpolite, the call creeped me out. As did his next call a few days later, which I didn’t return.
I crumple up the note and toss it in the trash. Kevin’s messages are starting to scare me.
Chapter
Fourteen
Wednesday 11:02A.M.
Detective Darcy Halliday’s hair was damp from the quick shower she’d taken in the women’s locker room as soon as they’d returned to the precinct. She’d changed into a navy suit with a teal shirt which she kept in her locker. Her detective badge was clipped to her waistband, her service weapon was strapped in a holster on her left hip. Handcuffs hung off the back of her pants.
She stood back and observed the photo she’d printed and taped to the office window near her desk of theWAKE UP!message at the crime scene.
