The White Canvas Operation

TWENTY-SEVEN. (Sunny P.O.V)

Pictures by Anastasia Kustova

'White Canvas Operation' phase twenty-eight: back home.

Penthouse del 998 Fifth Ave, Nueva York.

"I need more!" I hide my yawn with my hand, sitting on the soft pink couch of my living room, while fixing my eyes on the red and green plaid bowtie André is wearing today that, surprisingly, matches perfectly his white and blue plaid shirt and dark blue jacket. I don't know how he does it, honestly, my friend's sense of style is unbeatable but it'd look ridiculous on anyone else. Stella is sprawling out on a grey stripped armchair and shakes her head amused while André keeps delivering his dramatic speech, raising his arms to the ceiling despairingly before collapsing on a Louis XV chair pretending that he's having a heart attack with a hand on his heart. "I've sold everything, everything! Do you understand? Your works from years ago and the new ones, pencil drawings and paintings you sent from Paris... Are you sure I can't sell the canvas of the blonde drinking coffee in a terrace?"

"Do not touch my girl..." I growl furiously, jetlag is killing me and I'm not in the mood for André's histrionic nonsense. We arrived back home less than 24 hours ago after a long flight and the only thing we've done is unpacking, eating and sleeping sometimes. When my friend called me, I though he wanted to tell us the latest news and gossiping before everybody goes to their summer houses in The Hamptons, not that he'd try to pester my assistant to get new paintings to sell.

"I'm sorry, André, I have nothing for you... I gave you everything before I left. You sell my works faster than I can paint them." Stella laughs amused while he straightens his back and fixes the hang of his cotton pants on his leg.

"That's because I'm an excellent art dealer, darling, although the fact that you're a great artist helps a little, of course... You really don't have anything?" He asks pouting sadly at her.

"Oh my God, André, you sound like a junkie begging for his next fix... Do you realize you're a workaholic?" Mr. Rupert walks in with some drinks on a tray, interrupting me. My friend takes the glass of lemonade I'm handing him and picks out one of the homemade pretzels the cook uses to bake with his fingertips. On the contrary, Stella sips happily at her Aperol Spritz, she loved the cocktail in Italy and spent part of her evening with Mrs. Rupert yesterday trying different recipes till she found the one she liked.

"No, dear, I'm a matchmaker and my job is to find the perfect match between a buyer and the painting they'll love... and in addition to that, I'm addicted to the excitement of haggling."

"I have watercolours..." Stella whispers and I can't help but jump slightly on the couch when I remember what's in her sketchpad. "There're landscapes of Paris, Venice and Rome, some botanical drawings... and portraits of Sunny on the beach..." She looks at me out of the corner of her eye and smiles mischievously. "I won't give you those, they're too personal." My assistant's voice is firm and it's pretty clear she won't budge on this point. André seems resigned instead of happy.

"I'll take whatever you can give me..." he answers with puppy dog eyes before she leaves the room to take her sketchpad. My friend starts telling me about the last gossips while drinking his lemonade and chewing his pretzel and I pretend to listen to him even if I couldn't care less about the private life of New York's high society. I have better things to think about and bigger problems to feel worried... When Mr. Rupert told me that Mr. Guiomar was at the door, Stella and I agreed on not to tell him about the threats and attacks, at least for now... we both want to talk to Rosen first. It's not that we don't trust André, but we think we've reached a point where we need practical solutions and less dramatism...