“If that’s true, then it doesn’t matter what anyone does ever,” I snapped. Tyler smiled.

“It’s a barter,” Charlie explained. “If we finish this project in Macau, the Chinese government will allow us to build a four-kilometer walkway in Beijing, covered in two levels of air-filtering plant life. We predict that air quality within the Beijing Line will be improved by over fifty percent. It could see ninety thousand people a day—three times what they’re hoping for with the High Line.”

“You got me there,” I told him. “Hooray for Beijing.”

“Every woman in the world has an opinion on how I’m supposed to run my business.” He laughed—but mildly. “Come on. I think we’re doing quite well.”

“You represent women. You shouldn’t route the trafficking of our identity politics through some gaudy money dump that only exists as decoration for the world’s richest people,” I insisted.

“I heard Milot picked you up,” Charlie replied. Whoops. I’d gone too far. “Congratulations. Do you want her to give your paintings away?” His tone was light; he was only teasing. No criticism from me could make Charles Eliot feel even the slightest bit of insecurity.

“Jacqueline says that women painters are the bargain of the century,” I said. “Maybe she is giving them away.”

“That’s why Hen and I do what we do,” he said, tucking a daisy in my hair. “Nothing’s a bargain at Eliot&Sprain. We didn’t even know you were on the market. You didn’t give us a chance,” he said, pretending to be hurt.

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I’ll be successful enough for Eliot&Sprain when I’m dead,” I said, “and that’s a big maybe.”

Charlie smiled good-naturedly. “I’ll have to console myself with the idea that you’re too good a friend to do business with. Anyway—how’s it going? I assume you’re over there painting? I hope you didn’t lose any of Jacqueline’s beautiful paintings in the fire,” he said. “She’s been talking about them for two years.”

“One. But I’m remaking it. The show is the eighth of September.”

He looked at his watch, then back at my painting inside. “Jesus. Are you going to be on time?”

“Barely,” I said, feeling shame pump into my cheeks—it wasn’t one painting, it was all seven, and no, I was probably not going to finish them, I was probably going to be even worse off in three months. I pushed it down and tried to change the subject. “After that…I don’t know. I’m looking forward to being between things. All those new ideas that I can’t even think about, you know? I can fool around for a while.”

“I like the betweens,” Charlie said. “I haven’t had one in years.”

“Can’t stand ’em,” Tyler said. “I’m never not working.”