Page 3 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)
HELENA
“ A s you can tell, she is very good at her job.” Elaine gestures between the statue and me. “Which, today, is to give you a tour of our lovely museum, of course.”
Oh, no.
She smiles brightly, I assume mostly at the prospect of torturing me, or as she likes to call it ‘getting me out of my laboratory of solitude’ , which, for me, really is more of a sanctuary.
It’s where I get to carefully mend layer by delicate layer, to make sure neglect, abuse, or simply the passing of time can’t do more harm than they already have.
It’s also where I hide from people like him.
Naturally, this is not the first time my boss has pulled something like this.
There was that one time she made me give a tour to the 13 th in line to some sort of throne, who was under the impression that I was not giving him a tour, but rather entertaining him on a date.
Then there was that time she had me give an impromptu lecture on 17th-century art without telling me, insisting I ‘ needed to be more spontaneous’ .
I ended up riffing about the significance of still life while holding a half-eaten sandwich as a visual aid.
At this point, I know there’s no way out.
I could protest and make us both look unprofessional, but as my (possibly paycheck-signing) boss, she has the upper hand anyway.
So I quickly make peace with my fate and try to put on my best fake, well, it’s not exactly a smile but a somewhat polite expression, then I extend my hand to properly introduce myself.
“Sorry,” Mr. Lyon says, looks at me with a mischievous grin, and stuffs his own hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored pants, “I was told touching the art is not encouraged around here.” His grin grows even more mischievous, while my hand remains frozen midair.
He did not just say that.
Does this ever work for him?
Elaine chuckles to herself and claps her palms together, causing me to snap out of it and to retract my useless hand.
“Lovely,” she says, reciprocating his smile.
“Very lovely indeed. And I would love nothing more than to join the two of you but… well, frankly, I fell into a rabbit hole on YouTube this morning so now I have to catch up on actual work. Why don’t the both of you get started with our mysterious Aletheia over here,” she nods towards the statue, “and I will catch up with you in a bit, okay? It was as quick as it was nice to meet you, Mr. Lyon.”
Mr. Lyon.
I can’t help but inspect him from head to toe.
He’s tall, clean-cut, the kind of handsome that looks like it was carved with purpose and precision.
His clothes are an immaculate fit, and his smile the sort of thing you’d find on, not a painting in here, but a billboard outside, a smile designed to trick you into buying whatever he’s selling.
And it probably works too. On most people, but I am not about to buy another thing that comes out of his mouth.
“So,” Mr. Lyon pulls me from my own thoughts, “Helena. Why is Althea missing her feet?”
This will be fine.
We’ll just do a quick walk-through. We’ll start here in the atrium, continue through the Renaissance wing, pass by the Modern Art wing, thereby leaving out the Classical Antiquity and Rococo, and finish in the special collections wing near the exit.
If we hurry, he could be on the way back to his private jet in under an hour and I could get back to my actual job which, last I checked, was not indulging wealthy patrons at their whim.
At least he isn’t one of those snobs who insist we close the entire museum to the public just so they don’t have to be in proximity to the ‘hoi polloi’ .
“Aletheia,” I correct him, trying not to sound like one those pompous snobs myself, and clear my throat.
“Well, according to myth, Prometheus sculpted the form of Truth, Aletheia, from clay before being called away. In his absence, Dolos, the cunning spirit of trickery and Prometheus’ apprentice, was left in charge of the workshop.
Out of a sense of rivalry, Dolos fashioned an exact replica of Prometheus' Truth, except for the fact that, because he had run out of time, Dolos' figure had no feet.” I motion toward the bottom of the statue. “Upon return, Prometheus was amazed at the similarity of the two statues. So, he put both statues in the kiln and when they had been thoroughly baked, he infused them both with life: his own creation walked with measured steps, while her unfinished twin stood stuck in her tracks. So that forgery, the one you’re looking at, is not in fact Aletheia. She is called Mendacium or Falsehood.”
“Hm,” Mr. Lyon, who listened intently, grunts, now sporting a rather pensive look on his face. “The moral of the myth being that something that is fake can start off successfully, but with time truth will prevail.”
I nod. “You catch on quick.” Which hopefully means we can continue even quicker.
“Or maybe it just means that one’s trickery needs to be thoroughly planned, well executed, and seen through to the very end.”
“Right,” I agree, somewhat unenthusiastically, without giving it another thought. “Anyway, if you’d follow me through here…” I point the way and wait for him to move.
He chuckles to himself, with—what seems to be—genuine amusement, then bows down to me. “Miss Beck, say, will you be annoyed for the rest of the day then?”
“No, of course not.” I pause, a little shocked he noticed right away.
Then I look at his phony happy face and forget myself for just a moment.
“Only a little bit and only as long as you’re keeping me from my actual work, Mister…
what was it again?” I pretend to not remember his name, dragging out said moment of forgetting myself just a little longer.
His smile is unwavering. “Ben. You can call me Ben.”
“Very well… Mr. Lyon.” I ruin my quip and refuse his offer as politely as I can, then point the way once more, trying to speed this charade along. “Now, if you’d please…”
In response, Ben Lyon laughs, displaying his pearly whites with the precision of a technical drawing. “You’re funny,” he says, then snorts unintentionally, turning that precision drawing into more of a doodle.
Whatever happened to time is money?
Isn’t that what rich people are supposed to live by?
I watch as his snort causes him to laugh even more.
What looked like phoniness to me a second ago seems…
carefree now. Quite frankly, it’s bewildering.
Then again, if I were rich enough to call up the director of my favorite museum to ask for a private tour, I might be that happy too.
I’d do a better job of hiding it, so as not to irk other people—but still.
“Well, should we look at the art then?”
“Definitely. And maybe after looking, we could touch some of the art just a little too?” Mr. Lyon pulls his hands out of his pockets, notices my empty stare, and quickly shoves them back in before finally following my lead.
“Not that kind of audience. Got it. Now let’s see if my taste in art is as questionable as your humor, shall we? ”
I ignore his teasing, so we can finally begin in the Renaissance wing and then make our way up a level to the Modern Art wing. So I won’t get in trouble with my boss, I make sure we stop at the most popular pieces that people usually come here for.
Maybe unsurprisingly, Mr. Lyon is among the more pleasant VIPs I have had the misfortune of having to show around, and I am not quite as annoyed as I could be when he prevents me from ushering him into a shortcut through the Impressionists to cut the Baroque—and probably another 30 minutes—off our tour.
In the sky lounge, we watch as the torrential rain that has been ongoing all day turns into white slush showering against the gigantic glass wall and ceiling.
“Ms. Beck,” he says while we stop for a second to observe the weather, “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you are in some sort of rush, yes? What kind of work in here is of such a time-sensitive nature that it can’t wait a couple more hours or days even?”
Just then, a group of rambunctious children pass by, forcing me to wait with my reply because of all the noise. While I cross my arms, Ben is busy complimenting one kid on her glasses, another on his braces, and a third one on her (hopefully temporary) face tattoo.
“Do you think I could pull off a face tattoo?” he whispers loudly in my direction once they’ve passed. “No, wait—answer the other question first. We’ll come back to the face tattoo later.”
“Right, well, if you must know, I am in a rush because we are preparing for a big exhibition—a traveling exhibition to be more precise. ‘The Vindicta’ , a painting by Artemisia Gentileschi, is going to stop by, along with some other works by her and related artists. It’s sort of a big deal, as those pieces have never been to this part of the world, which means that for the first time ever, people who can’t afford a trip overseas will have the opportunity to actually see them in person.
Not to mention the fact that it was only discovered a couple years ago.
And a newly discovered painting by one of the most important women in art history is incredibly exciting in itself. ”
Mr. Lyon listens carefully, his full lips relaxed for once, allowing the crow’s feet around his eyes to do the heavy lifting with showing off his apparently still outstanding mood.