Fake Mona Lisa

There is no sport that adequately prepares you to sprint down the sidewalk in heels, but that's what I was doing that morning. It was Wednesday, and I was late. I'm 23 years old and last night I'd had my first one night stand. The morning had been awkward, I shouldn't have spent the night. Perry warned me, but I didn't listen, partly due to laziness and exhaustion but also because it felt so transactional that I wasn't sure how I'd look at myself in the mirror the next day. My intention had been to get up early and sneak out before he woke up, but he caught me in the act of putting my dress and underwear back on. He wasn't chatty, which was a relief, but I'm still late and I've still only had this job for three months. My father pulled a lot of strings to get me here. I can't mess up.

I arrive at the office and discover that I'm the first one there, a relief. I unlock the door and immediately bolt to the bathroom and lock the door. I look a fright, messy hair, smeared mascara, wearing the same dress I wore yesterday. I dig a comb out of my purse and tame my hair, and use a damp paper towel to wipe up the makeup under my eyes. Then I do my best to wash my armpits, my neck, between my legs, using a paper towel and hand soap.

Once I look presentable I walk to my desk and turn on my computer, and then I grab my black cardigan from one of my desk drawers. I put it on and button it so maybe no one will notice that I'm wearing the same dress I wore yesterday. I check my email and respond to a couple of messages from potential buyers, then go to the kitchen to make coffee. The coffee itself is mediocre at best, but it smells heavenly. I inhale deeply and slowly sip my hot coffee once it finishes brewing noisily. 

At least I'm here on time, I thought to myself. I'm here before Sierra, which is all I really care about. My father had made it clear when he got me this job that my performance had to be as close to perfect as possible, so as to not embarrass him. We were out to dinner when he told me that he got me the job. His usual place, an expensive steakhouse. I pretended to like the red wine that I was sipping daintily as I sat before him, my back perfectly straight because bad posture meant weakness, my long hair falling neatly over my shoulders.

I knew my parents were disappointed in me, my mother so much so that she didn't come to dinner that night. An overzealous overachiever, she expected the same from me. Instead I went to a tiny, expensive liberal arts college in New England and studied fine art. After I graduated, I moved into my family's luxury apartment in the city with the expectation that I'd find a job there. Instead, I was unemployed for six months, six miserable months of staring at LinkedIn and adding buzzwords to my resume, applying for every art related job within the city.

Everyone told me that these jobs didn't exist anymore, but I was sure I'd find something, even if it wasn't the perfect job there was something in the city for me in the art world. But they were right. Curators, gallerists, those jobs were few and far between; and once someone got that job they kept it forever, or at least a really long time. Finally, that night, my father announced that one of his client's daughters was an artist who was opening her own gallery, and she needed an assistant. The job was mine, on the condition that I had to be perfect and not piss off the artist or her father. The other caveat was that Sierra, the artist/client's daughter, was awful. Her "art" was photos she took of herself, all black and white and distorted like she was in a fun house mirror. I pretended to think she was brilliant, of course, but I had fun telling my friends every time Sierra showed up to the gallery with more shitty art to display. As time went on, the photos became more obscure and slightly deranged, like a highly edited and distorted close up of her labia.

I closed my eyes as I drank my coffee, feeling the caffeine and sugar hit my bloodstream, when I heard a loud slam at the door. Startled, I nearly spill my coffee. I put my mug down and went to see what it was, annoyed that my moment of peace had been disturbed.

I opened the door, but no one was there. Instead, leaning against the wall there was a painting. At first I assumed it was one of Sierra's pieces, but when I brought it inside and looked it at, I was stunned to discover that it was a painting of me. A highly detailed painting, so life-like that I felt like I was looking in a mirror. It looked more like a photo than a painting. 

It was beautiful, but I was frightened. I had absolutely no clue who painted it. Who knew me so well that they could paint me like this without my knowledge? No one, and I had no idea what to do with it or about it. Part of me wanted to find a way to safely burn it. The other part of me wanted to take it home so I could stare at some more. The artist had a way of making me beautiful in a way that I wasn't in real life. It was me without imperfection. Even my eyes glowed, strange and round and dark, connecting with the viewer like a human being.

Fortunately it wasn't a large painting, so I brought it to my desk and tucked it underneath. The last thing I wanted to deal with was explaining it to Sierra. I was peering at the painting under my desk when the door opened and Sierra arrived, venti iced latte in one hand, iPhone in the other. She was deep in conversation with whoever she was on the phone with, and she ignored me as she swept past me to her office. Sierra was the influencer type, you know the ones. Blonde, tan, botox, lip filler. In addition to occasionally posting her art on Instagram, she mostly posted glammed up selfies in which she looked extremely skinny. But in some ways she was my equal - both of our families had money, and it was known between us that my father had sort of bought me this job, even though we never discussed it out loud. We both wore designer clothes, we got our nails done at the same salon. She wasn't above me. Except she was, because she was the one opening a gallery; however lame the art was, she was doing it, and I was just her assistant.

Of course she was funded by her father, but we all were. I didn't need to work, but my parents were not the type to allow me to live an aimless life. My mother tried to steer me toward studying law, as she had, and my father knew I had no interest in finance. Instead I dreamed of spending my days surrounded by beautiful art, feasting my eyes on vibrant colors, shapes, sculpture. I wasn't a naturally talented artist, so the idea of opening my own gallery never occurred to me. I just loved art.

Sierra glared at me from her office doorway, then went in, closing the door loudly behind her. My eyes drifted back to the painting underneath my desk. Then Sierra came out again, handing me a yellow sticky note. "I need you to go look at these frames. This is the address."

This was one of my favorite tasks. I was flattered that Sierra trusted me enough to let me choose frames for her, even though I knew that it was likely because I had an art degree and she was clueless. I could never quite tell if Sierra even liked art or if this was just something to do for social media clout, adopting the hot artsy girl persona. Then I realized that if I left I'd have to leave the painting there, and it was very possible that Sierra would find it. The space was completely open, so my entire desk area was visible from behind. I'd sort of been banking on being able to block it with my body if Sierra happened to walk behind my desk.

I hesitated, but before I could respond Sierra rolled her eyes and said, "Never mind, I'll do it myself."

"No," I said. "I'll go, it's not that."

Sierra stared at me, waiting for me to continue. Without too much thought, I pulled the painting out from under my desk and showed it to her. "I found this on the front step this morning," I explained.

Sierra was flabbergasted. "Oh my gosh, it's beautiful," she said in genuine admiration. "Who did this for you?" She was looking at me sideways and smiling, like this was not the least bit weird.

"I have no idea," I said truthfully.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

"No," I said, and she squinted at me. "No one other than the guy I went home with last night," I finished.

Sierra smirked. "I thought it was a photo at first," she said incredulously, gently touching the tip of her finger to the canvas.

"I did too," I said.

"And you didn't see who dropped it off?"

"Nope. They banged on the door and left."

Her brow crinkled. "That's kind of creepy," she said. "Maybe I should lock the door."

"Then no one can come into the gallery."

"Oh...right. Well." She put her hands on her hips as she thought. "Should I hire a security guard? Like, to protect us?"

I blinked. "Um, if you want?"

"Well I don't want to get murdered," she said.

"The painting is of me, not you," I pointed out. "I don't think you need to worry."

"Yeah, but, like...it's a matter of time." She was haughty, like someone who had constantly been told how pretty she was growing up, and I had to fight to not roll my eyes. 

Right then the door opened, startling us both. It was Mr. Ross, one of Sierra's many art world contacts and a friend of her family. He was an older man, probably in his sixties, but he was fit and healthy, and he looked like he was coming from a round of golf. He was also not the least bit creepy, which was always refreshing. 

"Sierra, honey, I have a check for you," he said, and he walked over to give her a quick hug. Then he noticed the painting we were looking at. "Oh my goodness, what do you have here?" he asked.

"Someone left it outside," said Sierra. "Someone did a painting of my assistant." She gestured to me.

"I see that," he said in awe. "It's stunning." Then he turned to me. "And you are stunning."

Sierra's eyes flashed. She was clearly the more attractive one of us, and she wasn't used to being made to feel like she wasn't. 

Mr. Ross was looking at me closely, but I wasn't uncomfortable. "There's no need to be jealous, Si," he said calmly. "Some people have faces that are meant to be painted. It's all in the bone structure and the eyes. And this young woman has it. She's the next Mona Lisa."

I giggled, suddenly nervous and blushing.

"My dear, I have friends who will paint you," he went on, pulling a few cards from his wallet. "I'll give you their information, and you give them a call to schedule a time to sit." He snapped a quick photo of the painting with his phone.

I took the cards from him. "Okay," I said, not feeling like I had much choice but also not minding. It felt exciting.

"Alright," he said, grinning. "I've got to run, I'm afraid." He handed Sierra an envelope. "Here you are, dear. I'll see you next week for dinner."

And then he was gone, leaving us in quiet shock. Sierra's demeanor had completely changed, she was jealous of me now and couldn't decide if she should befriend me or compete with me. I watched it play out across her pretty face. "Well, aren't you lucky," she said, sounding a bit unsure.

"I'm sure he was just being nice," I said.

"Didn't seem like it. And he's not like that."

"He seems really nice."

"Oh, yeah. Super nice," she agreed. "But, like...do you really want to let some random guys paint you?"

"It might be fun," I said, shrugging. "Who knows?"

There was an awkward silence, then Sierra said, "So do you think you can go look at those frames?"

"Oh! Yes," I said, jumping up. I quickly grabbed my bag and left, relieved to be away from Sierra for awhile.

I left the cards from Mr. Ross on my desk. When I got back, they were gone.