Excerpt of THE ART OF PRETEND
It was in the kitchen area that I noticed Archer, approximately twenty minutes after I lost Etta, not that I was keeping track. Archer was Etta’s older brother and a semi-established artist for someone who just barely scratched the surface of his thirties. There were his shows here in the city, plus Miami and Los Angeles and abroad. At one point it felt as if everywhere you turned, there was his photograph, or some article either praising or eviscerating his work, and then, nothing. Two years passed. He’d supposedly been living out in the country, followed by a friend’s houseboat. Etta said he was “burnt-out,” that it happened all the time with artists, this endless cycle of creation and expectation, feeding the public’s appetite for something new, something exciting, something that had never been done before. But it had all been done before, that was the problem.
“Sounds intense,” I had said, but she did not comment further.
Archer was still tall and thin, like Etta, with an angular face and pale green eyes that matched his sister’s. The last time I’d seen him, his hair was long and he could tuck it behind his ears, like an imitation Kurt Cobain, but now it was cropped closer to his head. Of course he had a perfectly shaped skull, I thought, as he grazed his fingers across his scalp, eyes flitting about the room.
Then, his gaze landed on me.
I focused on my drink, mulling whether he could have any recollection of our brief series of encounters, whether he recognized me, or more realistically, thought I looked like someone he knew. I was always told I “looked familiar,” or that I “looked like someone.” It was always “that actress” no one could name, or a friend of a friend, though a few times, people said I resembled a young Jennifer Connelly and I thought, Okay, I’ll take it, thank you very much.
When I glanced up from my drink, he was there in front of me, smelling of musk, or maybe that was his cologne, I wasn’t sure. He looked tired, but tired in an appealing way, like his life was one big sleepless night, like he had stories and multiple lives and tonight, this moment, was only one iteration. I wished then that I’d changed after work, out of my black slacks and striped cotton-blend sweater and into something that didn’t reek of corporate America and J.Crew.
“Have you seen Sam?” he asked. I wasn’t even sure if he was talking to me, except that there was no one else around.
I said, “I think he went that way,” and gestured behind me.
This earned a nod. “Oh, nice, I should say hi.” I, too, nodded, thinking I was happy to help, happy to be here. He smiled and extended a hand. “Archer Crofton.”
I stared at his hand, forgetting all social cues. “I know,” I said, then regretted it, because of course he didn’t remember me. “I mean, sorry, yes, I’m Etta’s friend. Ren?” As I said my name, I sort of swallowed it, making a face as if gulping a vitamin.
He nodded again in that vague way, implying either faint recognition or a really good front, and I wanted to die a little when he said, “I thought you looked familiar.”
Even though it was probably a lie, I smiled, but before I had the opportunity to respond, to insert myself in the conversation and ask, “What have you been up to? It’s been a minute, right?” or attempt to sketch a convincing image of a shared world, one that found each of us as equals at the same party, his gaze slipped from mine and that was when I saw he was grinning at a woman with straight black hair lounging on a cognac leather sofa.
“Sorry, one second,” he said, already walking off, but I knew better. I wouldn’t be seeing him again.
I watched as Archer kissed the woman on the cheek, slid his hand down her back, this interaction between them so obviously comfortable and familiar. She was wearing a silk black shirtdress and platform sandals, sipping a pale-colored drink from a coupe glass with a sprig of something floating along the surface, rosemary or thyme or even dill, I had no idea.
I hung around for another twenty minutes, like some listless creature, waiting for Etta. When she returned, she’d say something like, “Shit, sorry, I hope I wasn’t gone too long?” and I’d say, “Oh, no, not at all,” and then we’d share a cab back to Manhattan and she’d tell me all about the DJ and his “avoidant attachment style,” and I’d listen dutifully, grateful she hadn’t forgotten about me.
But ten minutes after midnight, there was still no sign of her. When Sam reappeared in the kitchen, all slack-jawed and glassy-eyed and resembling, I realized, a hammerhead shark, I asked, “Have you seen Etta by any chance?”
He looked at me as if I’d spoken another language and reintroduced himself.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Ren. Etta’s friend?”
He nodded. He didn’t remember.
“Yeah, sorry, have you seen her, actually?” A pause—was I not making sense? “She’s been missing for a while,” I said. “I’m kind of worried.”
“Oh,” he said, breaking into a lazy grin, showing off the crooked keyboard of his teeth. “They left.”
“They…what? Sorry, who’s they?”
“Etta and Rex.”
Rex. Of course that would be his name.
“Sorry, I’ve been standing here the whole time. Wouldn’t I have seen them leave?”
“You’re the babysitter?” he asked.
He was trying to be funny, I knew, but I had nothing left to give.
He pointed toward the windows on the other side of the loft, to the hall I imagined led to a slew of bedrooms or bathrooms or somewhere more private. “There’s another elevator back there,” he said, like this bit of information should have been obvious. Then he retrieved a glass from a cabinet and joined his friends across the room.
I chugged the rest of my drink. Archer’s arm was still draped across the shoulders of the woman he had kissed hello, both of them visibly captivated by their conversation. Everyone had since gravitated to the far side of the apartment, and the music had become synthesized beats with no lyrics. The only other straggler in the kitchen was busy rummaging through a mostly empty refrigerator, thrilled by a discovery of animal crackers underneath the sink, so I was invisible as I slipped out the front.
Outside, I texted Etta: Hey, everything ok? I called twice, left a voice mail, sent another message accessorized with five question marks. Should I just go home? But this last message wasn’t delivered and I guessed her phone must have died.
It was windy near the East River, and the buildings of the Financial District twinkled like a distant dream across the black water. I started to feel that last drink, the warmth concentrating in my cheeks, and decided to order an Uber. The estimated price for a ride home to the East Village, with a convenient surge for the pool option, no less, was thirty-one dollars, equivalent to an entrée and margarita, excluding tip, at a dive Mexican place in Union Square that Etta and I liked. I made my selection and sat on the curb, staring at my phone, willing Pyotr to arrive faster so I could fold myself into the backseat of his red Toyota Camry, suffocated by the artificial smell of a pine-scented air freshener, and drive off into the night with three other passengers desperate enough to share a car with complete strangers.
From behind, a door opened and shut. “Where are you?” a voice asked. It was Archer. “Okay, yeah, yeah, I see you. Thanks,” he said into his phone.
The app claimed Pytor was four minutes away, but he wasn’t moving. The car looked like it was spinning in circles. It was after midnight and there was definitely no traffic, so what was taking so long? I tried calling, but his words were warbled by static, drowned out by a thumping bass.
“Hello?” I said, pressing the phone to my ear and marching down the block. “Hello? Hey, hi? Hi? Are you there?” A click, then nothing. The line went dead. “Dammit.”
“Where are you headed?” I heard Archer ask.
I kept walking, holding my hair back against the breeze, willing the car icon on my screen to move.
“Where are you headed?” Archer repeated, closer now.
I spun around. He was speaking to me. “Um, the East Village.”
“Hmm.” He diverted his eyes to a black town car across the street. “Well, my driver is over there,” he said, pointing toward it. “Want a ride?”
it made sense, then, why Etta had not asked him to take us to Brooklyn earlier. He had been reporting to Archer for the evening.
On the app, a notification appeared: Pyotr and his caravan of strangers were a minute away, but Archer had offered me a lift to Manhattan for free.
I hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“I mean, I’m offering.”
“It’s not out of your way or anything?”
“Positive,” he said. “I’m already going to Chelsea.”
I glanced at my phone again, and then up at Archer.
“Now or never,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, “thank you,” and canceled the Uber. The five-dollar cancellation fee was nothing in comparison to the full price.
I followed Archer to the car, where he opened the back door, gesturing for me to go first before dipping in after me. He said hello to Paul, who eyed us in the rearview mirror. In all the years he’d chauffeured me and Etta, I’d never once heard him speak.
It was silent as we pulsed over the cobblestone and turned onto a main street. Archer asked Paul if he could put on the radio, and moments later, Van Morrison’s voice murmured through the speakers. Archer drummed his fingers on the windowsill, humming along.
We crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and I was holding my breath now, when Archer asked, “So where do I know you from again?”
Before I could think about it too much, I said, “Why? You regret giving a ride to a perfect stranger?”
He laughed. “You’re not a perfect stranger.”
“Etta and I went to NYU together.” He was still squinting, though, as if struggling to identify a mysterious artifact. “I was actually at one of your shows.”
“I’ve had a lot of shows,” he said, and I felt my face flush.
“Right. Well, this was like, a few years ago, I want to say.” In fact, it was exactly three years ago, but I didn’t need him to think I knew this. “Out in, I think it was East Hampton?”
He shut his eyes and snapped his fingers. “That’s it,” he said. “I knew you looked familiar. You’re Etta’s sidekick.”
“Guilty,” I said.
“You were at the party after, at the house.”
I nodded, practically beaming, then tried to act as if the resurgence of these memories was entirely insignificant to me. Sure, he had probably forgotten the other times, but they were minor run-ins. The most we’d ever interacted, up until now, was at that party, when I’d congratulated him on the show and he asked, “Are you having fun?” and I told him I was, because what other answer could I have offered? People didn’t ask if you were having fun if they anticipated you might say something like, “No, I’m bored,” or “Not anymore.” Being friends with Etta, I’d gathered that sometimes, lying could be an expression of gratitude.
With that same smirk, his mouth crooked, he leaned across the middle seat so that our heads nearly touched. “Don’t kill me,” he whispered, his breath brushing my lips, “but remind me of your name?”
The headlights cut shadows across his face and his eyes were so green, like an exotic body of water.
“Ren,” I said.
“Nice to meet you again, Ren.” He drifted back to his side of the car.
Excerpted from The Art of Pretend by Lauren Kuhl. Copyright © 2024 by Lauren Kuhl. Published by arrangement with Graydon House.
Pretending is an art, and all art comes at a price…
Ren loves and hates Etta, her best friend since they met at NYU nearly a decade ago. Etta defines Ren's New York. She lavishes her with designer hand-me-downs and takes her along to parties at trust fund lofts and Hamptons estates. But when Etta moves to Barcelona with no warning, Ren is left to face who she is without her, her unremarkable life of shoebox apartment, thankless job, and estranged family.
Enter Archer, Etta’s older brother, whom Ren’s always been infatuated with. In his sister’s absence, suddenly he’s inviting Ren to visit his art gallery, to prestigious galas, on weekend trips with his friends to Amagansett. Archer’s interest makes Ren feel alive in whole new ways, but she knows Etta can't find out. As their relationship intensifies, so does her unease. If it all blows up, who will she be on the other side?
Set over a heady New York summer, The Art of Pretend is an alluring novel about love and friendship, wealth and power, art and ambition—and the stories we tell ourselves and others to get what we want.
Women's Fiction Friendship | Women's Fiction Psychological [Graydon House, On Sale: July 9, 2024, Hardcover / e-Book, ISBN: 9781525831539 / eISBN: 9780369748393]
Lauren is a writer and novelist based in New York.
Her debut novel, The Art of Pretend, will be published July 9th, 2024 by Graydon House.
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