Re: Sam/Eames: art class
Eames was wealthy. Whether it was silver spoon that had been pushed between cherub-lips when he was curly haired moppet, or it was acquired wealth that he wore as a peacock splayed out feathers was entirely irrelevant. He had money, a lot of it. Some of it was even beyond the notice of the clinic people who put money into an account each month as if he weren't chain-gang labor, darling. SAM or Sam or whatever it was the little blonde called herself, she was sharp. It didn't matter to her that he didn't give a tinker's fuck about art.
"Darling, I don't have the slightest interest in art apart from how well it appreciates. I like what I like. I didn't come to class to learn." For the moment, with that particular smile, Eames looked as perfectly out of place as any very blunt man trussed up in loud colors and wool, as if the misdirection was somehow thinner, like albumen stirred into paint. It was after all, another misdirection but he was enjoying it.
"Send me the card, darling. If you're as good as you say you are, you'll make me money in five years. Two, if you're distinctive." He had every impression the little artist was distinctive and he cocked an eyebrow in the face of youthful derision. "Be original, darling, do."