Sparrow's Story - A Girl Defiant

Chapter 15

The cab screeches to a halt in front of Sotheby’s Manhattan headquarters. Flags whip over the entry in the brisk autumn air. A huge sign reading “Sotheby’s--Established 1744” hangs two stories over the sidewalk.

Dad pays the driver and Damon hops out of the cab. “Wait here,” Sparrow’s bodyguard commands. It’s only twenty-five feet from the cab to the door, but he’s not taking any chances at a grab-and-run. 

Imran and Sparrow have a plan, but suddenly, she is sure it will fail. She spies the subway entrance at the corner, but she knows she can’t out-sprint Damon in stilettos. Besides, Manhattan’s loaded with security cameras and without Exodus to protect her, the police would snare her before she got out of the city. 

Damon motions her out of the car. Dad appraises the ten floors of steel and glass. “Custom designed building in Manhattan. Sotheby’s is doing OK.” 

She look up, and the irony of what she sees makes her laugh. Even though Sotheby’s offices and galleries are completely visible through the huge, floor to ceiling windows,  the architect has caged the glass with rows of horizontal steel bars. 

Sparrow’s laughter rises, spilling out of her.The building’s a freaking metaphor and Sotheby’s probably doesn’t have a clue. 

Men in suits slow to stare at her, but Sparrow can’t stop laughing, even when Dad grips her arm. “Stop it,” he says. “Get ahold of yourself.”

“Don’t you see? It’s a cage, Dad. A big, glassed-in cage.”

Damon steps in front to block her from the growing crowd. “We need to move, Mr. Currie.”

Dad drops her arm, and glares at the onlookers. “Sparrow, I mean it,” he says under his breath. “Cut it out.”

Damon herds Sparrow to a corner near the door and shields her from gawkers while she gets herself together. For a moment, she feels flat as if the pressure that had built up over the last week is now gone.

Her head is clear, and she knows she must focus on getting Sotheby’s to like her. Christie’s has rejected Imran, so Sotheby’s is their only hope.  

She slaps a haughty look on her face. “Do I look OK?” She asks Damon. 

“Yes, miss.”

“OK,” she says to Dad. “Let’s do it.”

Inside the glass doors, a handsome young receptionist hands Dad a leather portfolio. “Your agenda’s inside,” he notes. 

Sparrow catches a glimpse of the schedule on heavy bond and the four color brochure that fills the portfolio’s left pocket. The title reads, “Trusting Your Valuables to Sotheby’s” and Sparrow shoves a hand over her mouth to keep from snorting.

Nothing says we think we’ll make lots of commission off you like thick, creamy paper.

Dad is set to meet with Client Services to discuss the auction contract and commission structure while Sparrow is taken upstairs to Assessment. 

The Assessment room is sleek and stainless--staged, Sparrow is convinced, so clients will buy into the idea that assessing girls is a science. The PAS, Physical Assessment Specialist, is a pale worm in a white lab coat. Sparrow rolls her eyes when Worm turns away to “calibrate” his machine. 

He measures her face with a scanner, and notes the results on his tablet. The oval outline morphs into her face as Worm adds each measurement.  He’s turning her into a diagram.

She snaps a shot of the screen with her phone.

“Excuse me?” the specialist huffs. Sparrow can tell that Worm wants to snatch her phone away and delete the shot, but he’s been instructed not to mess with the merchandise. “That is proprietary software!”

“But it’s a picture of me.” 

He purses his lips like an old lady and shoves his stylus in his chest pocket. “I suppose it can’t hurt.” 

It’s better than me hacking your software when you’re not looking. “Thanks.”

He barely smiles. “We need to take some body shots.”

The thought of Worm seeing her naked makes her want to vomit. “No one told me I was supposed to undress.”

Worm turns bright red from his neck to the top of his balding head. “You’ll be wearing a bathing suit. I hope that’s acceptable.”

Sparrow swallows the acid in her throat. Stripping down for photos is degrading, but if she makes a scene, Sotheby’s won’t work with her. I can’t mess this up if I want to be with Imran.  “It’s fine.”  

Worm shows her to a dressing room. “Suits are in the drawers.”

Sparrow closes the door and forwards her facial blueprint to Imran. 

 “Superior construction,” he sends back. She deletes both messages from the phone and tells herself  to wipe the memory when she gets to the hotel. Damon isn’t a tech sophisticate, but he’s not blind. 

There are four drawers of plain black or white bikinis from size 0 to 6. Sparrow squeezes into a 6. She’s 5’10’, but apparently, in the world of high-end wives, she’s borderline acceptable.  

Disgusting. 

Worm photographs Sparrow from all angles. The high wattage lights are hot enough to broil steak, but the shoot is almost clinical. Full frontal. Full back. Profile. Each limb. Worm seems to be looking for her worst angle, searching for flaws. Five minutes, and  he tells her to get dressed.

The specialist brings her water, and Sparrow sips it slowly in the dressing room, too hot, too angry to put the sweater dress back on right away. 

 Dad is waiting in the hall when she emerges, a long legal document flipped open on his lap. He circles a clause in the contract, and Sparrow sees the handwritten notes and calculations in the margins. Dad won’t let anyone get the best of him in a negotiation.

Her thoughts are gas under pressure she can’t allow to escape. If she wants Imran, if she wants freedom, she has to make this work. 

“Finally,” Dad says, looking up. “We’re late for our appointment with the Appraiser.”