After weeks of unrelenting stone carving, Caroline had run herself ragged and she was somehow still behind schedule. The coming end to summer, with all its implications for impending deadlines, had taken on an apocalyptic dimension.
Perhaps it would've been feasible if there were three of her: one Caroline to work full time on art; one Caroline for administration (such as paying her credit card bills on time, which she had forgotten); and lastly, one Caroline to pursue future opportunities that might advance her career.
"Or you could just hire an assistant," said Virgil, who'd been patiently listening.
Caroline sat up. She'd been sprawled out on his couch, self-indulgently elaborating on her cloning fantasy as if she was in psychoanalysis. Now she was embarrassed to admit that a more practical solution hadn't even occurred to her. She frowned. "Oh, huh. I don't know..."
"Why not?"
She sighed, "For one, I'm broke."
"What about an intern?"
"Why would someone work for me for free?"
"A student would be lucky to learn from you for free! They're already in debt to go to school."
She turned to look at him. His eyes were closed, and somehow he balanced with immaculate posture on a yoga ball. Perfectly serene, he was the picture of enlightenment. Of course he was at ease in dispensing ethically dubious advice.
Virgil rented a neighboring space in her building. Since they met in the elevator last year, the two had become friendly. He was a conceptual dancer/ poet, and used his mostly empty studio for rehearsals and photoshoots, but he kept a little sitting area at the front.
At first, it was unclear how he was able to afford all this; he didn't have a day job, hadn't gotten any big grants, and there wasn't exactly a huge market for conceptual dance/ poetry. Sometimes he made vague references to his patrons, but shied away from any further discussion.
Then, one late night at the studio, they met for a smoke break. Caroline, as usual, looked like Pigpen from Charlie Brown-- puffs of dust emanating from her studio clothes. He, on the other hand, was wearing a silk robe. His attire finally prompted further explanation of his "side business": privately selling photographs and videos of himself in lingerie to an "exclusive clientele of high-end gay fetishists".
He didn't have a typical dancer's build, more broad than long, but he was fit and magnetic to look at. Handsome in the way male models often were-- a mesmerizing mixture of masculine and feminine features-- he had a sharp angular bone structure softened by pouty lips, and his deep complexion and dark hair contrasted against his shocking, light green eyes.
He opened one of those eyes curiously because she'd been staring at him without responding for too long.
Caroline cleared her throat. "I just don't know how helpful an intern would actually be..."
He had unfolded his legs and leaned, rolling until he would almost certainly fall forward, but instead landed on his feet gracefully.
Exhaling the breath she'd held during this maneuver, she finished her thought, "I'm not very good at delegating."
Stretching, he tilted his head forward and rolled his neck out he spoke, "Work on getting better at it. Otherwise you will never be bigger than you are now. Big artists don't do it alone. They have studio assistants."
She groaned, and slumped back into the couch. Of course he was right. But she didn't have to like it. "Where's your intern then?"
Without hesitation he replied, "Puerto Rico."
She laughed, "Oh really? What's his name?"
"Luis. He's a remote personal assistant that helps me with my business."
"Oh." Now she felt silly. "Like... your side business-business?"
"I have to keep up a certain level of contact with my clients. I was doing it myself for a while, but it was a lot of work. It didn't leave me much mental space to do my real work, so I hired someone online."
"That's pretty genius, actually."
He shrugged, still stretching. "A lot of people do it now... Caroline, if I may, where are your patrons in all this?"
"My who?" She was genuinely confused.
"That couple you see."
"They're not my... they bought some work from me, but it's not like that."
"Didn't you say they wanted to support your career?"
"I guess? I think they want good things for me. Like they care about me?"
"Weren't they going to host some sort of artist dinner for you?"
Caroline went pale.
When she had told Virgil the story about the hotel room and their offer, she'd intended it to be titillating gossip. It seems he had interpreted it as a career update.
In truth, she hadn't heard much from them lately, since her run-in with Margot and Liz. Some friendly texts, mostly photos of meals they were making, but nothing remotely flirtatious and nothing about the dinner. It was weird.
She let out a large, inadvertent sigh. "Maybe it was just... idle pillow talk. I don't know."
"You should follow up about that. Make it happen."
"I guess I don't want to seem... pushy?"
"It is a delicate thing," he conceded. "But all you have to do is remind them of what they want." His angelic, full lips curled into an impish smile.
---
Later that night, against every instinct, she wrote a text to them to ask if they had a date in mind for the party, along with a suggestive selfie.
They didn't respond for an entire day. When they did get back to her, it was to say that their plans were up in the air, and that they'd check back in when they returned to the city.
After the initial gut punch of receiving that message, she decided that it was actually Fine. She was completely Fine. It was no big deal, and not worth getting upset about. She was so, so busy, that she actually didn't have a single spare second to worry about things like that...
Except that in the studio, when she was absorbed in the flow of chiseling, her thoughts would wander.
Next thing she knew, she was gritting her teeth and imagining elaborate scenes in which Arthur and Margot found some new plaything in the Hamptons and forgot about her. It got to be distressing enough that she had to force herself to stop working. She couldn't afford to make a mistake because her hands were angry.
A week later, to her surprise, she got a text message from Arthur. It was Friday, just before Labor Day weekend. He invited her to have dinner with him-- only him-- at their townhouse that night.
An overture like this was exactly what she'd been waiting for, so it was a little confusing that her first thought was to turn him down.
After all, she was Fine, and not upset at all about how they had blown her off. But she was so busy! Far too busy to take a night off.
Her stomach grumbled, and she thought about the dinner that awaited her if she declined his invitation: baby carrots and hummus unceremoniously shoveled into her mouth, standing over her kitchen sink after midnight.
Instead, that evening she found herself nervously standing on the stoop of their West Village townhouse with a bottle of wine in hand.
She'd even gotten dressed for the occasion, wearing a loose white linen shift-dress with puff sleeves, and had pinned her usual pigtail braids up like an overgrown brunette Heidi. The childlike look was complete with bruised shins and chewed fingernails. There hadn't been much time for personal upkeep lately.
When he answered the door, she wasn't sure what she expected, but it wasn't the green and white striped apron Arthur wore.
"Don't look so shocked, Caroline," he admonished her, his voice unusually chipper and familiar, as if no time had passed at all. He accepted the bottle of wine from her, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and invited her in. Dizzy, she followed.
