Read Online An Object of Beauty: A Novel by Steve Martin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Martin
Tags: FIC019000
Ads: Link
to be assembled from schoolboys’ dream bits.
Neither Angela, Sharon, nor Lacey knew who anyone was by sight, except the actor. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he was smart. Such a man, Angela and Sharon agreed, but Lacey balked.
“A man? He wakes up every morning and goes into makeup.”
Angela caught the conversational trend: “And holds a pretend gun.”
“And shows his bare ass on TV,” Sharon added as she slapped the table a bit too hard.
“His girlfriend is supposed to be smart,” said Angela.
“Smart?” said Lacey. “She’s supposed to be smart? She
poses
.”
When the check came, Lacey reached for it. “No!” said Angela.
“I’ve got it,” said Lacey.
This was not a cheap bill. The routine was that it would be split, as none of them could easily afford to treat except at the cheapest of restaurants. The ease and snap with which she picked up the check had a second-nature quality that said Lacey was not extending herself uncomfortably. Both Angela and Sharon thought this was odd.
On the street, Lacey hailed a cab, and they all bowed low as they filed in. “Driver,” said Lacey, “follow that street,” and her finger pointed uptown.
“Where’re we going?” they chirped.
“I’ll show you,” said Lacey.
The cab wheeled up to 83rd Street and Broadway and, according to Lacey’s exact command, hung a left, meandered over a few streets, and stopped at a corner. Lacey rolled down the window and leaned out, and so did the other two as best they could.
“Look up,” Lacey told them.
“What are we looking at?” asked Sharon.
“Count three floors up and look at the apartment on the corner, then count five windows in.”
They did and saw a nicely framed window in an old building. From what they could see of the apartment, it was empty, freshly painted white inside, and illuminated by a contractor’s light standing in the center of the room.
“It’s my new apartment,” said Lacey. “I move in tomorrow.”
“You bought it?” said Angela.
“Yes.”
The girls were stunned. As recently as several months ago, they had shared financial recaps, and both Angela and Sharon knew this apartment was out of Lacey’s reach.
“Lacey,” said Sharon, “how’d you pay for it?”
“Think of it as magic,” she said.
Lacey had come into money not by magic, but by prestidigitation. No one had seen her sleights except her and me, and I was bound to silence by complicity. I was guilty, too, but I did not know exactly of what. Lacey and I had collaborated on a feint—I delivered on the requested favor—for which I went mostly unrewarded, but Lacey had seen hundreds of thousands of dollars come her way. It was her will that brought money to her, and it was my lack of will that kept it from me, so I considered her deserving of this newfound rootless cash. But sometimes money falls like light snow on open palms, and sometimes it falls stinging and hard from ominous clouds.
17.
MONDAY MORNING, Lacey climbed the steps of Barton Talley’s gallery on East 78th. She rang a buzzer, looked into a videocam, then pushed on the door when she heard a solid click. She entered what was once the foyer of a grand residence, now painted white and accommodating half a dozen paintings of varying size and period and one freestanding Miró sculpture, illuminated only by reflected sunlight as the gallery lights were off.
There was no assistant on duty, and she faced a carpeted staircase, at the top of which sunlight spilled around a curve of banister. Voices, too, tumbled around from somewhere up above. She stood, not knowing what to do. Then two men in narrow suits and cropped hair appeared at the top of the stairs, talking low to each other as they descended the steps. One of them said to Lacey, “He said to come upstairs and walk back to his office.” The two men left, and Lacey thought how in the art world even well-dressed, intelligent-looking men could look like misfits.
At the top of the stairs she
Neither Angela, Sharon, nor Lacey knew who anyone was by sight, except the actor. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he was smart. Such a man, Angela and Sharon agreed, but Lacey balked.
“A man? He wakes up every morning and goes into makeup.”
Angela caught the conversational trend: “And holds a pretend gun.”
“And shows his bare ass on TV,” Sharon added as she slapped the table a bit too hard.
“His girlfriend is supposed to be smart,” said Angela.
“Smart?” said Lacey. “She’s supposed to be smart? She
poses
.”
When the check came, Lacey reached for it. “No!” said Angela.
“I’ve got it,” said Lacey.
This was not a cheap bill. The routine was that it would be split, as none of them could easily afford to treat except at the cheapest of restaurants. The ease and snap with which she picked up the check had a second-nature quality that said Lacey was not extending herself uncomfortably. Both Angela and Sharon thought this was odd.
On the street, Lacey hailed a cab, and they all bowed low as they filed in. “Driver,” said Lacey, “follow that street,” and her finger pointed uptown.
“Where’re we going?” they chirped.
“I’ll show you,” said Lacey.
The cab wheeled up to 83rd Street and Broadway and, according to Lacey’s exact command, hung a left, meandered over a few streets, and stopped at a corner. Lacey rolled down the window and leaned out, and so did the other two as best they could.
“Look up,” Lacey told them.
“What are we looking at?” asked Sharon.
“Count three floors up and look at the apartment on the corner, then count five windows in.”
They did and saw a nicely framed window in an old building. From what they could see of the apartment, it was empty, freshly painted white inside, and illuminated by a contractor’s light standing in the center of the room.
“It’s my new apartment,” said Lacey. “I move in tomorrow.”
“You bought it?” said Angela.
“Yes.”
The girls were stunned. As recently as several months ago, they had shared financial recaps, and both Angela and Sharon knew this apartment was out of Lacey’s reach.
“Lacey,” said Sharon, “how’d you pay for it?”
“Think of it as magic,” she said.
Lacey had come into money not by magic, but by prestidigitation. No one had seen her sleights except her and me, and I was bound to silence by complicity. I was guilty, too, but I did not know exactly of what. Lacey and I had collaborated on a feint—I delivered on the requested favor—for which I went mostly unrewarded, but Lacey had seen hundreds of thousands of dollars come her way. It was her will that brought money to her, and it was my lack of will that kept it from me, so I considered her deserving of this newfound rootless cash. But sometimes money falls like light snow on open palms, and sometimes it falls stinging and hard from ominous clouds.
17.
MONDAY MORNING, Lacey climbed the steps of Barton Talley’s gallery on East 78th. She rang a buzzer, looked into a videocam, then pushed on the door when she heard a solid click. She entered what was once the foyer of a grand residence, now painted white and accommodating half a dozen paintings of varying size and period and one freestanding Miró sculpture, illuminated only by reflected sunlight as the gallery lights were off.
There was no assistant on duty, and she faced a carpeted staircase, at the top of which sunlight spilled around a curve of banister. Voices, too, tumbled around from somewhere up above. She stood, not knowing what to do. Then two men in narrow suits and cropped hair appeared at the top of the stairs, talking low to each other as they descended the steps. One of them said to Lacey, “He said to come upstairs and walk back to his office.” The two men left, and Lacey thought how in the art world even well-dressed, intelligent-looking men could look like misfits.
At the top of the stairs she
Similar Books
