The Seduction of Ms. Ward – Part 2: Last Call at the Gallery

The drink was at a bar two streets away, with dim lights and a jukebox that played old soul records. Charlotte had chosen it so she could walk out easily if she needed to. Inès had chosen the corner booth, where they could see the door.

"Smart," said Charlotte.

"Paranoid," said Inès. "There's a difference."

"Not in Manhattan."

They talked about the paintings. Charlotte asked about the empty rooms, and Inès told her about the summer she had spent in her grandmother's flat in Lyon, after the funeral, sleeping on a mattress in the kitchen and painting the cupboards because she couldn't bear to stop moving.

"You painted the cupboards?" Charlotte asked.

"I painted the cupboards, the floor, and my grandmother's old clock. Then I stopped, because I didn't know how to start again without her."

Charlotte was quiet for a while. She turned her glass slowly on the table.

"I didn't go to my father's funeral," she said. "I was in a meeting with a buyer from Paris. I thought the deal mattered more."

Inès looked up. Her face was serious and kind.

"Did it?"

"No," said Charlotte. "I've been trying to decide for ten years whether I'm sorry. I think I am."

"Then you don't have to be perfect any more," said Inès softly. "You can just be sorry, and then have a second drink."

Charlotte laughed, a short, startled sound, and something inside her loosened.

By midnight, they had walked back to the gallery, because Inès had left her portfolio on the desk and insisted they couldn't wait until morning. The street was quiet. The lights of the city glittered on the wet pavement.

Inside, the gallery was dark except for the lamp by the window. The paintings on the walls glowed softly, rooms without people, and Charlotte realised that Inès had painted the gallery before she had ever set foot in it, from memory, from the pavement, from the lonely hours she had spent watching.

"You painted this one from outside," said Charlotte, stopping in front of the largest canvas.

"Yes."

"You couldn't have seen the back room."

"No," said Inès. She came to stand beside her, close enough that Charlotte could feel the warmth of her. "But I thought there should be a light on in there. Someone should be waiting."

Charlotte turned slowly. Inès's eyes were dark and steady, and very close.

"Can I kiss you?" Inès asked, quietly.

"Yes," said Charlotte, and her voice shook just a little. "But you can't paint it. Not yet."

"Deal," said Inès, and smiled, and kissed her.

It was soft and careful at first, a question and then an answer. Charlotte's hand came up to rest against Inès's shoulder, and Inès's arms slid around her waist, and the gallery lamp hummed quietly in the dark. When they finally parted, both of them were breathing unevenly, and Charlotte's rules, for the first time in years, were nowhere to be found.

"Green?" Inès asked, low.

"Green," said Charlotte. "Entirely green. Ask me again tomorrow, in daylight, and I'll say it in front of the buyers."

Inès laughed against her mouth. "Then I'll paint the light on in the back room," she said. "And leave the door open."