The gallery was full of the obligatory minglers: reporters, financial friends of the gallery, the hippie who’d hit it rich but stayed true to his roots, pretentious art snobs posing as factory workers, socialites and their leashed husbands. Instead of looking at the canvases on the walls, the guests milled about in groups of five or six sipping free drinks and gossiping.
Aislyn slipped inside without being noticed and let Alfred off his leash. The Great Dane slid among the crowd with the stealth of an alley cat. When a guest noticed the mammoth dog, Alfred would bow his head in chivalrous mockery; however, the vain canine was merely showing off his new red collar studded with faceted cut glass. The old boy flashed his jewels like a society wife wiggling her wrist to get everyone to notice her new tennis bracelet.
The gallery manager parted the crowd. “I can’t believe Aislin Ryan is in my gallery,” she said, sounding like a cheerleader lost among the black suits. “Oh my God! I’ve never had this many people in here. It will be a sell-out for sure.”
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