‘Used to be,’ I corrected a little too quickly.
‘We have your painting in our room,’ she continued. Your room, I thought; Sam called it your room. ‘It’s a pity you have a job lined up; you’d be perfect for this CreateSpace role.’
If I didn’t know any better I’d think she was mocking me.
‘Yeah, it’s a shame,’ I said, all appetite now evaporated in the awkwardness. I didn’t want to work there, but it was a job. And that was more than I had right now. I really needed a job.
‘Sam mentioned you have two weeks before you start.’ Jamie’s eyes searched my face. It was her turn to look a little awkward. So Sam had managed to fill her in but I was still none the wiser? I wonder what else he had said about me. ‘You don’t think you could just…’ Her sentence trailed off as I filled in the blanks. Jamie was asking for my help.
But I couldn’t, could I? I had a job at Art Today Australia, apparently. Wouldn’t working at CreateSpace be a little too close to home? I looked into Jamie’s desperate eyes and tasted the irony. This was all a little close to home.
‘Never mind.’ Jamie shook her head, thinking she was asking too much which, given that I was currently sleeping in her spare room, seemed a little rich. But what else could I do? I had told them I had a job and it wasn’t like I’d be any help to this Tim guy, either. ‘I’m sure you could do with a bit of space before starting at Art Today.’ She beamed. A little space seemed exactly what we all needed. Not that any of us were going to get that here. I needed to get a job, a proper job, a permanent job, to actually start living my lie.
‘Yeah, I’d best get over to the office actually,’ I said, placing my knife and fork together and thanking Jamie for the food. I needed to get out of here. The sooner I could get a job, gather a deposit and be on my way, the better. Sam and Jamie’s break-up was none of my concern, I tried to convince myself again and again.
‘But I thought you didn’t start for two weeks?’ Jamie asked.
Oh shit, that’s right. That’s what I had said, what Sam had said. What she had just said.
‘That’s right,’ I said, thinking on my feet. ‘I just need to pop down this morning to iron out the details.’
Details such as the fact that I wouldn’t be working there at all.
‘Well, when you’re done you can join Tim and me for coffee.’ Jamie looked hopeful and for a moment I felt even worse; she was trying to be my friend. ‘He just needs a bit of support, you know how hard break-ups can be.’ A sadness caught in Jamie’s smile. ‘Plus, I try to get by with the art chat but he’ll love being around the real deal.’ She smiled again as I gave her my excuses and shame filled my stomach; right now, it felt like there was nothing real about me.
6 November 2018 – London, England
Gazing blindly at my photocopies, I tried to ignore the loud heckles echoing from the other side of the office. A gaggle of women had started to gather around my colleague’s monitor, each one pristine in Prada and with more money than sense. I knew better than to go over there. There was only so many times you could be told ‘for editorial eyes only’ without punching someone in their editorial eye.
‘Oh my God,’ I heard one of them cackle over her computer.
Whether it was a press release about a new sale, images of the Tate’s latest curation or a ‘there’s celery and dips in the communal area to celebrate my big five-oh’ email, I knew it wasn’t anything my simple PA brain could handle. This time I had a horrible feeling they were laughing at an email from me. Once again I had passed on some suggestions for strengthening this month’s issue and once again I had been ignored. Seeing them all gathered round and sniggering at the screen made me nostalgic for their silence. Maybe now was the time to stop trying to be heard. I plugged my headphones in to drown out their noise.
I checked the time – quarter to twelve – before returning the Post-it covering my computer clock. It was meant to make the day go quicker. How was it not lunchtime yet? Screw it. I reached into my bag and grasped the Tupperware, cursing the fact that I was now the kind of girl that owned Tupperware. I unclicked the lid: celery and dips. Well, if you can’t beat them… I crunched down on the tasteless stalk. Kill me now. It was Zoe who suggested I start to eat better. Zoe, who I’d watched eat three Happy Meals back-to-back on more than one occasion. She’d read that a clean diet could improve your mood. And, well, mine had been sporadic at best since the break-up, maybe even since moving to London. I looked across at them, still laughing and joking, covering their sniggering mouths with hands heavy with diamond wedding bands. I looked down at my own bare, celery-clutching hand before I saw an email from Devon Atwood, Lady Devon Atwood, editor-in-chief of Art Today ping into my inbox. I had emailed her my comments on the latest issue too, suggesting an unknown artist for our ‘ones to watch’ slot.
I clicked open the email.
Editors. Now.
Why she couldn’t just email them directly was beyond me. But that was Devon – once an inspiration but after years in the industry, now just an imitation. I knew better than to think she’d give my suggestion a look-in; the layered abstract brushstrokes were far too original, the artist far too anonymous to warrant occupying the pages of her magazine. I took one last wistful look at the print-out pinned beside my monitor, savouring the artist’s blue – a hue so deep and unique that I’d never seen it before and doubted I’d see again. Certainly not in the pages of Devon’s magazine, anyway. And here I was, thinking Art Today would actually care about art. Striding across the room to gather her editors, I said, ‘Devon needs you in the—’
‘Midday meeting. Same as every Tuesday. We know.’ Mary-Anne, features editor and leader of the tribe closed down the window before I could see. Well, if they knew, why did I have to bloody come and get them every time? Reluctant to follow any instructions, never mind mine, the ladies dragged their heels as they followed me across the office.
‘Sit,’ Devon demanded. Her editors obeyed as I followed suit, parking myself a little behind, poised to take the minutes. ‘I want to look at the February issue again. Something’s not quite right.’ I didn’t need to write that down; it was the same as always.
‘But we’ve already sent the magazine to print,’ Mary-Anne rebutted. More fool her – but she had a point. Devon returned her best Hitler impression. No ’tache though – I should know; I booked her hair removal appointment last week. ‘But we can call them up and halt the print run,’ she recovered. ‘Can you put your finger on what’s troubling you? Which section?’
The Modigliani feature needed more personal reflection. The main editorial wanted more text-free images. Oh and, the ‘5 minutes with Maria Le Fenora’ was trying too hard to be witty – she just wasn’t funny. I looked at Devon, willing her to recall my email, though I was sure she hadn’t even opened it. Devon watched as one of her minions flicked through the mocked-up pages of the issue, print-outs from our competitors splayed across her desk. There was once a time, years ago, when Devon had had a vision of her own but decades of criticism and comparison had undoubtedly taken their toll. The rest of us watched her expression with bated breath. The spreads pressed on. Good, good, good – Modigliani feature. Right on cue, Devon held out a hand to halt the turning pages. The silence thickened as she moved her face further forward and fingered the print-out, comparing the copy to a similar feature from the art pages of Vogue Australia.