“Stop saying it like that, these people. You mean people you think are smaller, or less than you, because you can wield a blowtorch and sell a hunk of metal for a bunch of cash. They’re not smaller than you, Matthew. I’m from here. If you think that because you call yourself an ideas person you don’t have to be held accountable for the damage that you do, then you’ve got another thing coming. Pain isn’t collateral damage for art, Matthew. And I’m sorry, but humiliating women and calling it a performance? Come on. Women get humiliated every day, in small stupid ways and in huge, disastrous ones. It’s not art. It’s the most banal thing in the world.” I thought about Clara, how much she must have suffered. How it lacked any beauty, any sense of purpose. “You owe me more and you know it.”

“I think you’re cutting off the nose to spite the face, if you ask me. You’ll wither. The longer you’re out of the game the harder it will be to get back.” I could tell it was taking effort for him to keep his composure and was pleased to see the tips of his ears go red.

“Maybe. But I’m going to try this. And it will actually be mine. The Louten Gallery? Let’s be honest. It would always have an asterisk next to it. Brought to you by Matthew Whitehall. It would always be yours, underneath it all. Now, you can either keep pouting or you can wish me luck.”

He raised his glass, tilted it one way and then another so that the liquor picked up the light. “Good luck, Lily.”

“Thank you.” I looked down into my drink, swirled it, and finished it in three big swigs. I knew, probably before he did, that he would slide his hand up my thigh.

“Lil, Lil, Lil. How the fuck did we get here?” He swung his head, brought his face to my ear. “We had fun, though, didn’t we? We had a good thing for a while. You want to come see the mirrors for yourself? For old times’ sake?”

“Definitely not.” Although I felt the possibility bubble up. This whole city buzzed with the promise of empty, easy, cheap sex. And yet I hadn’t slept with anyone since, well, Matthew. Or maybe there was something erotic in talking about art again, feeling returned to myself a little bit.