The woman painted on the canvas was all too familiar to him, but this wasn’t the problem. The problem was the color of her eyes; it didn’t exist.

Paul opened and closed his mouth. The champagne dripped down his fingers, pooled at his feet.

Me, Right Fucking Now it was titled. It didn’t help. It didn’t help at all.

“Paul?” he heard Andry say. “Paul.”

Her voice cut through the buzzing of a thousand primal sounds. He struggled to remember where he was.

“Andry. I’m sorry,” he told her but she didn’t stop looking at him, scared, till the sounds in his head ebbed and he was able to draw breath again.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how that’s gotten into me. I rushed in here to celebrate, I brought us champagne,” he said, lifting the bottle. It was nearly empty now; he had drenched himself. “I was looking at the painting and you startled me. Sorry.”

Uttering words was helping him come around, slowly. Andry was relaxing, too. Good.

“I don’t think you got any champagne on the canvas,” she said, turning towards the painting. “Thank goodness. Magda Raininger is the biggest name I ever scored for this gallery, and that’s her only self-portrait.”

Magda Raininger. “The champagne was expensive, if you must know. Maybe it will drive the price up?” Yes, jokes. He was all right again. It was just a temporary weirdness. “So, have you seen the painter in person? Does she look that pretty in real life?” Is she a time-traveler or not?

“First, tell me what we’re celebrating,” she said. “Then, we can talk about the painting you nearly ruined.”

“I sold a painting myself,” he said, handing her the glass. Some champagne was still sloshing in there. Andry ignored it, jumped at him and squealed on his chest. God, Cypriots were short.

“Which one?” she asked, finally taking the glass off his hand, and gulping the contents.

“A Renoir.”

The sparkles in her eyes fizzled. Just as expected. “Oh. Not one of your own works, then.”

“My own work wouldn’t pay for a fizzy drink and you know it. Come on. I’m taking you to lunch.”

She nodded and offered a half smile, went to get her keys. It didn’t bother him, her passive aggressive shuffle. It had taken them five years of Art School to discover just how talentless they both were, but Andry’s grandparents had bought her a gallery to hang her degree on, while he had to rely on his copying skills to keep afloat. Andry was shocked, but as crimes go, art forgery wouldn’t even gain him entry into the good parts of Hell.

At least he could take Andry somewhere good with the money. And the things he had to tell her about Raininger would keep her excited and busy; no need to apologize about his forgeries or his shady business partners today.

He just had to walk away from this room slowly, without looking up at Her, Right Fucking Now, in case the color that didn’t exist was still splashed on the canvas.