Alexandra Andrews’s The Fine Art of Lying is an enticing blend of art-world shenanigans, high society, sex, and murder. In the prologue, we meet Andrews’s heroine, Clare Bast, naked and contemplating the rich color of a pool of blood—Venetian red, she muses. How did a young Upper East Side matron with a small daughter and a dormant career as an art historian get here?
Beset by Park Avenue–induced anomie, Clare needed a change, which arrived in the charming person of a French art dealer with a gallery in Chelsea. Gabriel Prévost was for Clare the human embodiment of a great work of art, the kind that set her body humming. When Gabriel invited her to view a special painting in his townhouse, one thing led to another, and a reckless affair ensued. One night during a party, they stole away to his home, where he was stabbed to death by an intruder.
