There were news vans in front of the gallery, just what Timothy wanted. I’d have preferred to be invisible, but I stopped when he did and resumed my forward motion when his feet moved us on. No one asked me anything. I was merely the arm candy, as Timothy had put it.
When we walked inside, we saw that a lot of the guests had already arrived. Danny Franco was the museum’s new manager. He’d greeted them. But it was obvious they knew who buttered the bread. A new group of TV newscasters rushed forward, cameras flashing, microphones thrust in Timothy’s face.
“What is your reason for building another art gallery?” someone asked. The reporter looked slightly angry, but I didn’t understand why. Timothy chose not to respond to such an ignorant question.
A woman, looking like she’d just come from a Paris fashion show, tossed back her blondish hair, thrust out her boobs and said, “Tell us who you are, Timothy Caldwell.”
I thought Timothy would ignore her, too, but he grinned. “I’m an art lover. Of course, I felt a need to assemble paintings to show to San Jose. All this week, the entrance to the gallery is free for the general public. I hope that people will come to see the collection. There are fourteen rooms. I even purchased two Turners, a very, very famous painter, and one that my adviser here suggested.”
To be the center of seventeen microphones, plus videos, photos, and prying eyes, was definitely not the spice of my life, but I smiled and nodded.
Another journalist pushed forward. “And is she more than an adviser? Introduce her to the world.”
And there it was. Me, tongue-tied and wishing I were anywhere else.
“You’re so right,” Timothy said. “This is Penelope, and I hope she’ll become my wife one day, but no pressure, please. She’s shy, especially of marriage,” he said, laughing easily as if all this were a daily sport that he was participating in. Was I the volleyball or the fuzzy, yellow tennis ball? Would he take a racket or his fist to make the ball go higher?
Timothy’s eyes were focused on me. He threw his arm over my shoulder and tugged me closer, then whispered into my ear. “It isn’t that bad, is it, my darling? They’re just people wanting to know about us. Most of them are friendly. Smile, and they’ll love you as much as I do.”
The media had paused, wanting to hear what Timothy was whispering. I knew they couldn’t hear his words. I tried to see the media through Timothy’s eyes, just folks doing their job, trying to earn a living. I sighed and unstiffened.