Diary of a Suburban Squeen

:: for katie__pillar ::

Whitney Leboutier, one of the western world’s leading art critics, tapped one sharpened, polished fingernail against her champagne glass and stood, head cocked, staring at a photograph on the bleached New York gallery wall.

“Good, isn’t it?” came a voice behind her.

“Mm,” she replied non-committedly. “Where’d you find it?”

Don Hammond, the gallery owner, shifted closer, and snagged a champagne glass from a passing waiter. “AP archives. I had Fleur going through before the exhibition. She’s got a good eye.”

“Great greens,” said Whitney, sketching the shape of the lush foliage. “And look at the sky – you can practically feel the humidity! When was it taken?”

“’69.”

The two of them stood staring for a moment, taking in the oppressive greens and earthy oranges, and the terrified look of the young American soldier.

“Who was the photographer?” asked Whitney eventually, taking a sip of champagne.

Don shrugged. “Some woman called Diana Trent.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Me neither. Fleur says she died in some old folks’ home years ago.”

Whitney shuddered. “Depressing.” She stood a moment longer, then nodded decisively. “It’s good. I’ll take it.” She moved away, then glanced back. “AP archives?” At Don’s nod, she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Hm. I’ve got a free day or so. I might have a look-see for more of her work.”

She clacked off in her stilettos, and Don sketched a bow in the direction of the photograph. “Well, Diana Trent, you just got made.”

Diana Trent
::as requested by katie__pillar and pim2005::

Diana stabbed viciously at the chicken on her plate, and scowled as it attempted to escape her.

“So, retirement, then?” said the man sitting opposite her, cradling a glass of whisky in his hand and blithely ignoring the not inconsiderable bad temper of his dinner companion.

“It’s a bloody farce,” said Diana explosively. “Hit 60 and they seem to think you should be lining up in decrepit droves for a blue rinse and a zimmerframe. And that idiot of an editor… my God, Harry, you should have heard him!” Unconsciously her hand clenched on the tablecloth, but when Harry put his hand over hers, she flicked him off irritably.

“He’s a sorry excuse for an editor,” said Harry mildly, “but Diana, he might…”

“If you say he has a point, I will stab you in the leg with this knife,” said Diana, with a smile that made Harry think she might well not be joking. It was always wisest, he had discovered over these many years, to assume that Diana wasn’t joking.

“What about your… whatever it is?”

“The polymyalgia? What’s that got to do with anything. Our brave young editor Paul” – and her voice dripped acid – “clearly had some sort of lobotomy at birth, and I don’t see that stopping him. And you’re about to drop dead from liver failure any day now. I can still take a photograph, you know.” Her voice dropped, and it was painful to hear. “I can still do my job, dammit.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He signalled the waiter, and ordered them both another drink. There wasn’t much else to be done.