“Is that The Oldest Man In The Room?” asks The Young Gallery Girl at the very private opening for a very public art showcase.
“I don’t know, but whoever he is he’s wearing yesterday’s clothes,” replies The Plus One.
“Oh it is!” confirms The Tall Artist. “He is in the middle of a court case for— maybe I shouldn’t say. The Short Artist told me. I’ll tell you this: I’m not surprised.”
“…And I would like to thank our sponsors for the delicious wine tonight. The grapes are harvested on fields of fossilised soil, just down the road from my own home. Well, that’s nepotism for you!”
The Plus One loses focus.
“Would you like a drink?” Someone asks.
“Yes, please.”
The afterparty is held at a bar, recently reopened, in the centre of town. It rains on the walk over.
“Excuse me sir,” says The Bouncer to The Major Sponsor, “Next time no shorts, alright? We’ve got a dress code.”
“Can I get two Martinis?”
“We don’t do those.”
“What do you do?”
“Mojitos, Bloody Marys, Espresso Martinis, Appletinis.”
The thing about The Old Artists is that they are honest enough to be mildly divisive; unlike The Old Patrons, who Everyone seems to agree are just wrong. The Dealers, always, are dishonest, which is how you stay in the game. The same goes for The Writers. Anyway, The Plus One hears little gossip worth repeating.
The afterparty moves somewhere quieter not long after the queue outside begins to snake onto the footpath. The Tall Artist leaves. The rain continues. The Plus One calls The Critic from a toilet stall and asks what the hell they have to do to become A Hot Young Thing.
The Art Dealer reaches over the table. “There’s nothing happening here.” The Plus One is confused. “No,” they say. “Is there usually?” He smiles.
“I like your jacket.”
“Thank you.”
“Is it fur?”
“Polyester.”
“I had one like it once.”
The Plus One loses focus.