Cheyney Fox by Roberta Latow Read Free Book Online

her home, the love place they had hidden in the last time they were together in New York. Tonight a reunion there, tomorrow night a farewell to their secret hideaway. Christopher. Suddenly she felt only half alive without him. As if she was treading the waters of a life and not living it at all. She laughed out loud as she hopped out of bed to bathe and dress. In her private office on the ground floor of the gallery, she found Sebastian. He was, as usual, on the telephone. Cheyney riffled through the mail. She tried not to become annoyed withhim. But, as often lately, Sebastian had become an irritant that she found increasingly hard to take. They would have to sort a few things out, and soon. But not today, she thought. As she heard the tail end of his conversation, she turned to face him.
    “Good morning, Sebastian.”
    He rose from her chair and, putting his hands on her shoulders, gave her a kiss, first on one cheek and then on the other. “Good morning, Cheyney. You look radiant this morning.”
    “Every time you bestow your De Gaulle kiss on me, Sebastian, I half expect to be given the Croix de Guerre. What act of bravery have I unknowingly committed this morning?” she asked with a teasing smile.
    “You were a great success at my drinks party last night. Truman Capote thought you were charming. He will come to our
vernissage
. That’s very important.”
    “Why, Sebastian? Is he a potential customer?” Cheyney was sorry the moment she said it. The last thing she wanted this morning was a confrontation with Sebastian. But, for weeks now, ever since Sebastian had bought into the gallery for a small share of the profits, she had been concerned that he was using the gallery, and her, more as a social event than a business. Sebastian’s contribution was supposed to have been public relations, since he claimed to be on intimate terms with everyone who was anyone in New York artistic circles.
    That was turning out to be not quite true. And, as for those he did know — well, Sebastian had no influence on them whatsoever. Quite the reverse, in fact. They looked on Sebastian Cohen as a well trust-funded, ineffectual, social butterfly, a well-read, much traveled young gentleman. An inverted snob, living as close to the poverty line as society would allow him lest it label him “rich Jew.” The label he was looking for was “intellectual-poet-Jew,” with not too much emphasis on the Jew. For him, society was made up of gods. He basked in their glory, making it a part of his life.
    Cheyney was learning fast that Sebastian Cohen, son of a wealthy West Virginia industrialist, with his Harvard education, New England accent, and hesitant speech combined with an upper-class stutter, who dressed, J. Press and Brooks Brothers, Savile Row, Lobbs, and Herbert Johnson, was nothing more than an intellectual, intercontinental lounge lizard. But,like everyone else, she also saw him as a harmless creature who meant well.
    So, Cheyney, who needed all the capital she could raise to get the gallery off the ground, agreed to take Sebastian in as a very junior working partner. She stood before him now, and hoped that had not been a big mistake. So far, all Sebastian had done was wine and dine every closet-queen in the art and literary world who would accept his invitation and clash with her on the artists she had chosen to represent.
    Sebastian put on his hurt look and reinforced it with a disapproving silence. He actually found it distasteful when Cheyney spoke in business terms.
    “Why do you look at me that way, Sebastian? Why do you find the word
customer
crass? This is a business venture. I’m not in this for ego, or to shine in artistic circles. I have a job to do. I cannot afford not to think customer, sale, profits. We are going to need to place every painting we possibly can to stay afloat. You know that.” She said it as mildly as she could and yet tried to make her point clear to him. Then she felt foolish for her apologetic