My eyes were closed while I entered the loft, because it seemed that I was standing in a hen house. The guests were already squealing, intoxicated by alcohol.
Max knew how to organize memorable parties. The whole of New York fought to be invited because of the good music, delicious and original appetizers and marvellous French champagne.
Every waiter was impeccably suited, in tuxedos and bow ties that seemed to have been selected in a menswear catalogue. Max was a lover of beautiful arty things as well as elegant men.
As usual, he managed to convince me again to take part in one of those crazy nights surrounded by artists, art dealers, critics, collectors and the NY jet set.
He knew I always hated that kind of fancy parties, but I was unable to refuse him anything. He had been my agent for several years, and he was the absolute best seller of my work.
He never missed to compliment me and considered me his protégée.
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