Codename lotus, p.23
Codename Lotus, page 23
“Yes. I just…” A rare hitch caught in her voice. “Wanted to make sure things are fine there.”
Warmth uncurled in me. “We’re perfect. How’s Florence?”
“It’s…Florence,” she said, and I heard the strain in her voice. “We just landed.”
“You sound tired.”
“I’m fine. I just need to get this issue sorted and head back ho—”
There it was again.
“Any changes on your end?” she asked, reaching for small talk.
God, it only made my affection for her grow, however foolish that made me. “The baby’s been tap-dancing on my bladder. Also demanding snacks.” I stroked my belly and resettled on the sofa. “I’m just a bit tired.”
“Call Dr. Keller? Just to be sure.”
I laughed. “Naomi, it’s normal. But thank you for worrying. It’s sweet.”
“Sweet?” she echoed, as if I’d accused her of treason.
“Yes, sweet. I won’t tell anyone you’re a teddy bear under all that steel. You have my word.”
Naomi laughed. My pulse stuttered.
“Slander,” she said. “You could ruin a reputation with such lies.”
“I told you. I don’t lie.”
Silence hummed on the line.
“Tell Lea to call me if you need anything,” she said.
I smiled. Kids thudded somewhere in the kitchen. I could picture Lea corralling them. “I will. But really, we’re fine. Just missing you.” My hand slid down my belly again.
We were both quiet for a moment, the big elephant breathing between us.
“Take care of yourself, Saanya,” she said at last, soft again, like before Ethan arrived.
“I will. You too, Naomi.”
I should have ended it there. But how could I? The last thing I wanted was to make my friend more uncomfortable. “And—about earlier, I was—”
“Later,” she said. Not cold, just distant. “We’ll talk later.”
The line went silent before she spoke again, that armor back in her voice. “Goodbye, Saanya.”
“Goodbye, Naomi.”
The line died. I stared at the screen, sad, I’ll admit, but the corner of my mouth still ticked up. The prickles were up again. Little saahi.
NAOMI
The preparation hall at Gala d’Arte a Firenze was a hive of curators calling orders, assistants repositioning frames by millimeters, and artists fussing with labels. Amid this creative chaos, Allison and I slipped in. I took the room in as she went hunting for the incompetent woman who’d detonated my week.
Instead of finding the offender, this…Claire Green person, I found a young woman parked on a folding chair behind a lighting rig, shoulders caved, backpack at her feet. “Isn’t that Ishani Mehta?” I asked.
Allison squinted, then nodded. “Someone’s gotten their claws into her. I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I. Come on.”
She looked up as we approached, her expression transforming from desolation to careful apprehension.
Allison led. “Ishani Mehta.”
“The manager said I could sit here. I’m leaving in a minute. I didn’t want to—”
“My name is Allison Hartley.”
Recognition hit and Ishani scrambled up, eyes brightening. Allison had handled everything from first contact to the wire transfers. Keeping my name off it had been the point. Let her grow without the stifling spotlight that sometimes followed me.
“You’ve changed my life,” she said, breathless with awe. “Thank you for this chance, ma’am.”
“I am only the messenger,” Allison said, then tipped her head at me. “This is the person behind your sponsorship. Ishani, meet Naomi Smith-Chopra.”
Ishani’s eyes went wider.
“Ma’am, you? You are my mystery supporter?” She stuck out a hand, and I shook it. “I can’t believe you’re here for me.”
“We flew in when we heard,” Allison added.
If only she knew whose insistence truly brought me here. If not for Saanya, I’d be in Geneva.
“I—ma’am, thank you. Thank you!” Stars twinkled in her eyes.
I gestured to the bench. “Sit. And it’s Naomi, not ma’am.”
“But ma’am, I can’t do that,” she said, her tanned face flushing, and after being left like an abandoned puppy on the side of the road, she still managed a wholeheartedly genuine smile.
Such raw deference and respectfulness. This girl seemed untainted.
She sat on the edge like the seat might buck her. Kindness radiated off her. Nineteen, by Allison’s file. I’d found one of her canvases by accident months ago—no gallery, no website, nothing—just quiet, ferocious ability. The kind vultures love to strip.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They said my work didn’t fit their vision. That it was too…ethnic.”
My jaw set.
So it comes in waves. This nasty little theme of ignorance permeating my life as of late felt like another slap in the face. Though maybe it was a slap I needed. Had I been asleep all this time? How had I become so immersed in my work that I’d gone blind to everything else?
My life hadn’t been easy. I had endured the ugly side of people in power, fighting tooth and nail to get to where I was. An inheritance like mine was pure privilege, but it can only get you so far when you are a young mixed-race woman. Though, as much as I dreaded to admit it, I had passed through the cracks. I’d used their “exotic” label when it suited a negotiation. Tonight it made me sick.
Tears gathered in Ishani’s eyes. And hoping for Allison to extend a comforting gesture to her was ridiculous. She had the emotional range of a desiccated lizard. I was probably worse. But I’m not heartless. Despite the rumors.
My fingers itched to reach out, that same strange sensation I’d felt with Saanya so many times. Some form of unwilling, automatic reaction. Who am I kidding? I balled my hand and sought her gaze.
“You know,” I said, “I’ve faced my share of doubters. People who thought I wouldn’t make it because of where I came from or because I was a woman. But here I am. And here you are.”
A corner of my mouth lifted. Across from me, Allison actually gaped.
Her surprise hardened into a squint. “Witch.”
“Excuse me?”
“There she is,” Allison muttered, glaring at something over my shoulder.
“Are you sure that’s her?” I asked, following Allison’s gaze, which had locked onto a woman with fiery-red hair across the room.
“Oh, I’m sure. That little bitch denied me for hours, so I resorted to a video call which she answered and then proceeded to hang up. On me. Yeah, I caught a glimpse of her. I’d know that bitter face anywhere. Come on. This is where I give her a piece of my mind.”
“I’ll stay,” Ishani said, looking between us. “If that’s okay.”
“You’ll want to see this,” I told her, and she rose properly.
As we approached, the assistant’s demeanor shifted from focused to flustered, the recognition dawning as she locked eyes with Allison.
“You’ve been difficult to reach,” Allison said. “How could you do this to a fellow ginger?”
“You. I told you that Renata would not see you. What are you doing here? This is a private event—an exclusive event. You’re such a—”
“I dare you to finish that sentence,” I said.
She looked at me and went pale. “Oh—my God.” Her wide eyes slid to Allison. “I thought you were a fake. When you said she was your boss. I thought—”
Allison opened her mouth to speak—eager, no doubt—but I beat her to it. “You had your chance to settle this with her. Now you are going to address me.” It was time that Incompetent Claire got put in her place. “I disrupted my schedule and my personal life to be here, when I didn’t need to be.”
“Oh—of course, Miss Smith, we can—”
“That’s Smith-Chopra.”
She swallowed.
How unnecessary this all was, when I could be in Geneva right now. I thought of the call an hour ago—Saanya’s voice telling me we miss you. Plural. She meant her and the baby; I knew. She’d been so guileless and open it had knocked the breath out of me.
I caught Ishani’s face as I carved Incompetent Claire down, and saw dread, not relief. She knew this dance. She’d be the one devoured if I weren’t standing here. It costs me nothing to be a blade. It costs her everything if I’m not.
And still, I’d used the blade on Saanya this morning—where a hand would have sufficed. Words. She’d reached for the easy middle—touches, looks, the soft lane toward something I’d started—and I cut it.
I hadn’t just ended the call then. I’d run. Somewhat nicely. But still, I’d run.
But while my remorse extended only to Saanya, I didn’t feel an ounce of regret in the name of Incompetent Claire.
“I was just following orders,” she said. “I didn’t realize—”
“That you were blocking a major patron from backing a rising talent?” I said. “Actions have consequences, Claire. It’s time you learned that.”
“I-I think there’s been a misunderstanding about Miss Mehta’s slot. Renata’s office is right there, I can—”
I held her gaze and smiled. “No. You know, I did come here with the intention of talking to your boss, but not anymore. I take it you know who Maximilien Renaud is, don’t you, Claire?”
She blanched. “Uh—”
I despised name-dropping to get ahead. I hated when others did it with mine, though this particular circumstance warranted it. “We happen to go back quite a ways.” I tilted my head. “He owes me a few favors. And he happens to be one of the major sponsors of this event.”
“Please, don’t call him,” she begged. “I’ll make sure—”
Renata Bellini materialized as if conjured. “Cosa sta succedendo qui?” Her gaze landed on me and brightened theatrically. “Madame Smith-Chopra, che onore. You belong in the front row, not in the back of house. The event hasn’t started.” Far too overdone, but typical. She waved at her assistant. “Chiara, what is the matter?”
“The matter is that your team made a grave error,” I said. “You nearly cost an artist her debut. An artist I am sponsoring. All fees paid. Every requirement met. My investment in her collection was quite substantial. So what is it?”
“I was told her sponsor was anonymous,” Renata said.
“Not relevant. Though your audacity is. Too ethnic? Are you kidding me?”
Renata’s eyes cut to Claire. “Chiara, è vero? Did you speak out of turn?”
Yet Claire’s brows almost touched her hairline. Not the reaction I was expecting. After all, she’d said before that she’d only been… “following orders.” She looked from Renata to me to Allison to Ishani. “I—but you said—” And then something in her face crumbled. “Mi dispiace, signora. I misunderstood.”
Most telling.
Renata turned back with a smile already lacquered on. “This was so…what’s the word?” Her hand spun in the air. “Ah. Unfortunate. Signorina Mehta, your work is remarkable. It was never our intention to exclude you from this event.” She threw a scalding glance at Claire, then more syrup for me.
“Signora Smith-Chopra, please accept my deepest apologies for this oversight. Let me make amends. Now she opens tomorrow night. First on the programme. And after, you all must come to the party. Sì?”
Oh, you cunning snake.
We had stayed up all night, though Allison and Ishani had crashed sometime after 1:00 a.m., retreating to the adjacent rooms inside the presidential suite, which now looked as if a paint bomb had detonated in it. Ishani’s collection had been brought back to the Four Seasons, leaving the suite in its current state of artistic chaos. I, however, wasn’t as lucky. With Saanya on my mind, sleep was impossible, so I used the time to finalize the last details of the presentation.
By the time the lights went up at Gala d’Arte, Ishani’s debut was a clean hit. Cameras flashed, the DJ punished Bach, and my head throbbed steadily.
I’m too old for this.
I was an island amidst a sea of artists in oversized, pastel-colored suits paired with chunky sneakers. So I kept to the fringes with a champagne I had no desire to drink and watched her do the rounds on Allison’s PR list. They were the same faces that breezed past Ishani yesterday, treating her like a flea-ridden hitchhiker by the side of the road.
Vultures, the lot of them. I’d been one, taking the meat and leaving the carcass. Tonight it tasted foul.
But I had decided to endure the party I felt too old for, all for my mentee’s benefit, while standing on barely two hours of sleep in the last twenty-four hours. I glanced at my watch, having checked my phone for messages only seven minutes ago. Saanya hadn’t texted.
Saanya.
I felt the corner of my mouth tip up again. She’d be in my kitchen by now, indulging in a late snack. Or perhaps she was brightening the place without trying, in the middle of some late-night culinary adventure involving my tiny tenants, who had helplessly fallen in love with her.
A hum vibrated inside my chest because who wouldn’t fall for her?
It was then that I sensed someone approaching. I didn’t have to turn to know. I could recognize that standardized perfume anywhere.
“She’s riding the high tonight,” Claire said, standing beside me.
I scoffed. “Definitely not thanks to you.”
“It wasn’t my idea, you know. The ethnic thing. I didn’t come up with that. Either way, I didn’t have a choice.”
The inoffensive champagne turned bitter in my mouth. “The ethnic thing,” I echoed, turning a fraction so she could see the disdain properly. “That wasn’t a ‘thing’—that was an insult.” I went back to watching Ishani. “And I know Renata threw you under the bus to suit her own personal agenda and not look bad in front of me. Whatever that agenda was.”
“You knew?” She looked genuinely shocked.
It hadn’t been difficult to assess yesterday. This half-baked girl wore her emotional palette on her sleeve. Though just how many words was I willing to give her? I didn’t bother to answer.
Claire mumbled, “Of course you did. You wouldn’t be where you are today without the talent to see through deception.”
I eyed her. Right now, nothing felt farther from the truth. “Tell yourself what you want. It doesn’t change what you did.”
“I understand,” Claire said. “Stand by and watch, and it makes you just as guilty.”
My mouth curved. “Oh, but you didn’t just watch, did you?”
She turned bright red. “Renata isn’t even racist. She’s just—” Claire sighed almost defeatedly.
“Ignorant? A bigot?”
She swallowed. “Mean. Heartless. Does whatever is necessary to achieve what she wants. Her son’s boyfriend, Zahir Khan—she was pulling Ishani Mehta to give him the slot.”
There it was.
“This year had too many headliners,” Claire rushed on. “Among newcomers, she was the only one with an anonymous sponsor. The rest were untouchable. She thought Ishani was safe to cut because, if it was anonymous, it was probably some wealthy person throwing money at whatever just to write it off on their taxes. Little did she know it was you.”
Occupational hazard. I’d made my share of merciless calls, but there was a limit. Or was I just excusing myself? Claire had described Renata as mean and heartless. Much worse had been said about me through the years.
“So, her derogatory jab at Ishani was meant solely to dishearten. Make her doubt her own talent and wipe out her son’s boyfriend’s competition.”
Claire’s chin lifted without meeting my eyes. “This is a business. It’s part of it. Someone like me can’t change that. I did what I had to do to survive. There is no room for compassion in this world. It was her or me.”
There is no room for compassion. Those words resounded inside me.
I remembered when Saanya had recently battled me in defense of Victoria Hale, insisting, “There is always room for compassion.” Then again, Saanya was rare.
And at the end of the day, it’s what made people human, wasn’t it? The ability to practice self-reflection.
When I glanced down at my phone, I noticed the screen was dead. “Damn it.”
Enough. I could be home in a couple of hours, with the one person who was worth it. Because right now, the only thing I wanted was to see her. Give her that talk I’d refused this morning. Open the door I’d never let anyone through.
I drained the flute and set it aside. “Well. Then what a shame,” I said to Claire.
Her throat worked.
“Naomi, there you are!” Allison shouldered through the crowd, phone in hand, firing a death-glare past me that sent Claire scuttling. “That little—”
“Let it go. Focus.”
“Right. All set. Sweet Ishani has my number should she need triage.”
“Good. I will touch base with her directly.”
Allison tilted her head and quirked her brows. “Oh.”
“She needs a mentor. These hyenas will eat her alive otherwise.”
“Good.” Allison kept her eyes on her phone, fingers moving. “Donatella’s here—well, was. Said these parties have gone downhill. She’s having drinks with a small circle of friends on a private palazzo terrace and wanted you to come. You should have a text message from her.”
“My phone died. Either way, we’re leaving.”
“Sure. I’ll call the chauffeur and have him meet us outside to take us to the hotel.”
“No. Have him pick up our luggage and then meet us here.”
“Naomi, you haven’t slept—”
“I’ll sleep on the plane.”
Her eyes widened. “The plane? But our flight is scheduled for tomorrow at noon.”
“Change of plans. Call the pilot and ready the jet for tonight. I want to go now.”
“But Naomi, by the time the plane is ready and we leave Florence, it’ll be dawn—”
“Now, Allison.”
Her screen lit in the darkness of the venue. A name flashed.
Lea.
A knot pulled tight under my sternum.
