Insensible Loss by Linda L. Richards

Author:Linda L. Richards
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
Published: 2024-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE REST OF the evening is more of this. A dog and pony show where maybe the pony wasn’t even necessary. A nice accessory, but I am pretty sure Beardsley would have gotten it all done without me. All those red dots. After a while the people became interchangeable to me. Have I spoken with this one before? I’m sure I have, and then another wanders along and I wonder again.

Their sameness is a result of their desire, that’s what I finally figure out. Whether or not they are buying, they’ve come for a piece of who they think I am. Imogen O’Brien, the icon, the legend. It turns out she’s a rock star in the art world. I just had no idea.

I keep a steady beat on how much champagne I drink—enough but not too much—and try not to look too much like I just want to get the hell out of there, which I do almost from the time I arrive.

Meanwhile, through the entire rest of the evening I keep one eye out for Curtis. He’s a seasoned investigative reporter. I’m pretty sure if he saw me and recognized me he wouldn’t let on and he wouldn’t give me away, but there would be questions, and I just don’t feel like answering them. For one thing, I don’t know what to say. But anyway, it seems unlikely he would recognize me. I figure I’d barely recognize me if I saw myself. I don’t feel like putting it to the test.

When I make my exit, the party is still in full swing, even though it is after the stated hour of the event’s end. I walk out of the gallery into a velvety blue night and inhale the stale, cool city air. When I climb into the limo Beardsley has put at my disposal, I feel as though I’ve been released from some sort of trap. It was a successful evening for sure, but I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to leave a place than that gallery on that night.

From the back of the Alfa, I look out the window, but I barely see what is passing: my mind is turned back to the hours I’ve just spent, to Beardsley and also to Curtis as well as several of the patrons of the art I had spoken with at the gallery. I feel the need to remember details, even though I’m not entirely sure why. And, other than Curtis, I don’t feel there were any close calls. Everything, in retrospect, had gone well. If anyone had doubted Imogen’s identity, they’d kept it to themselves. It went about as well as it could have, that’s what I’m thinking now.

Back at the hotel, I peel off the layers of Imogen, putting the wig aside carefully for future use, even while knowing I’ll never get to look exactly the way Jennifer K. Riley and her team had re-created me.

While I peel the clothes off, I run a bath, sinking into

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