‘Yes. Sure, let’s start over,’ I said.
‘Great. How about lunch? There’s somewhere I’d like to show you.’ He smiled, his green eyes still knowing just how to convince me.
‘Lunch. Just the two of us. Just friends?’
‘Just friends,’ Sam said, relieved somehow that everything was out in the open – for him at least. ‘Now out you get, you ripped-jeaned, shoe-wearing artist, you.’ Sam pulled to a halt outside CreateSpace. ‘Go, hold Tim’s clipboard like a pro.’
I was holding the clipboard. I was holding the clipboard like a pro.
‘Jessica, could you just come here and hold this?’ Tim ushered me over, beckoning me to grab hold of the corner of a large, paint-splattered canvas. I walked across the exhibition room, the blank white of its walls just waiting for the pieces to be hung. The magnitude of the gallery sank in, and I was ashamed for once thinking that painting professionally was something just anybody could do. I took hold of the canvas and cocked my head to work out which way up it was supposed to go. The dense horizontal brush strokes, rising with warmth and intensity, told me which corners to grab. After brushing up on my Leo Todd knowledge, it didn’t look like one of his, but I knew by now that Tim was drawing in a whole host of local artists into the same show. This abstract painting, heavy with texture, rugged then smooth, was breath-taking. It reminded me of the kind of pieces that I had passed on to Devon, in the hope that she’d take note. I sighed; it wasn’t like I was here for the art, but I was holding the canvas like a pro. This job would be easy. Not that it was forever, or even for long – the thought made my stomach sink. I had one week to get out of Sam’s. Less than one week. I’d have to ask Tim to pay me early to give me even a hope of not handing my first paycheque directly to the hostel staff. I looked at the painting as panic started to set in. At least it was CreateSpace – that name on my CV might even be enough to entice Hannah Sommers to give me a minute of her time.
Tim tutted at how long I was taking. I looked at his hipster attire, long grey T-shirt further highlighting his long grey hair. He was a true artist. In fact, everyone he’d roped in seemed to be, in some form or another. That, in many ways, was the problem. Throw a bunch of artists into a room and ask them to orchestrate a travelling exhibition and for all your creative ‘big picture’ thinking and passionate temperaments, you’re lacking some serious administrative details. Plus, the exhibition had been assigned two large gallery spaces to fill, so there was twice as much scope for things to go wrong. It was chaos. I’d been here almost five hours and already voices had been raised, four paintings had been misplaced, ticket enquiries went unanswered, we had had two IT meltdowns and one (suspected) broken finger. And that was just Tim. He was a genius, sure – I’d googled his work just moments after I’d met him – but it also didn’t take a genius to work out that this Carlo guy had handled all of the practicalities. Tim needed help. And that was why I was here.
‘Jessica. Where’s my clipboard?’
I put it down when you asked me to pick this bloody great canvas up. ‘Just a second!’ I said, running obediently across the room to place the clipboard back in my hand.
‘What’s the time?’ he demanded.
‘Five to two,’ I read off the clock (that we could both clearly see, but hey, I was here to help).
‘Great, we can still get the Room B paintings unpacked before lunch,’ Tim said, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
‘Well, actually I…’ I began, as Tim began to walk away, clearly losing interest. ‘I… was going to meet someone for lunch.’
‘Someone?’ Tim stopped and looked at me intensely. With just white space behind him, his one-tone outfit made his long limbs look even more imposing. It took all my strength to hold his gaze.
‘A friend,’ I said, awaiting his reply with trepidation. I’d forgotten that first days were almost as nerve-racking as first dates.
‘Jessica, you can cancel on friends. Lord knows you’ll have to in this job, even more so at Art Today.’ Tim dismissed my personal life in the way only someone without one could. ‘Now, the canvases are in the van parked out—’
‘My ex-boyfriend,’ I blurted out, surprised as the words filled the air.
‘Well,’ Tim began again, looking from the clock (I knew he could see it) to me. ‘Why didn’t you say so, Jessica?’ He let his glasses fall a little further to the end of his nose as his expression softened. ‘Lunches with ex-boyfriends can be few and far between.’ He didn’t need to know that mine was a little closer to home, that I was currently living with the said ex-boyfriend and that this particular ex was actually his friend, engaged to be married to his other friend. Tim sauntered over to gaze out of the large open window. I hoped he couldn’t spot Sam waiting outside. I tried to maintain the same expression while questioning whether Tim was the type to enjoy the drama of a love triangle regardless of whether his friends were involved.
‘Go. And show him what he’s missing,’ Tim said with flair. I thanked him, smiled and turned to walk out of his studio before he could ask any more questions. ‘And Jessica?’
‘Yes?’ I turned back to look at my new boss.
‘For the love of God, put some mascara on.’
Chapter 13
I could finally breathe. My heart rate slowed with every step I took away from the gallery and into the open air, feeling caught between needing a job and wanting to run away. I had left this world behind – badly, but still. I couldn’t keep pretending to be an artist forever.
I loathed Art Today for reasons I struggled to articulate, for want of words and want of time, but at least handling Devon’s emails and personal fancies was a safe distance away from the rare few artists that had actually made a living out of art. It had taken my whole time at uni to grow up from that dream. No one wanted to be that time-waster with a guitar still trying to land a record deal. I wondered how many musicians had made their way from centre stage to helping to make the media, like my own journey from paintbrush to actually being paid.
I saw Sam leaning against a brick wall on the other side of the paved square that backed onto the gallery. Top buttons still undone, sunglasses still covering his eyes, he effortlessly emitted Shoreditch-meets-Sydney chic – something I had been trying and failing to master ever since I had arrived. And I’d spent way more time in London than him.
‘Hey, trouble,’ he called over, even though I had clocked him the second I had walked out. I strutted across the palm tree-dotted paving, careful not to trip in my kitten heels – heels that I wouldn’t even be wearing were it not for Sam. Boyfriends really were useful. Not that he was my boyfriend. We were just friends. Going somewhere he wanted to show me as just friends. Missing me as just friends.
Together, we strolled away from CreateSpace and I quickly glanced back to see whether Tim’s statuesque figure was watching from the windows. I tried to savour being alongside Sam but Jamie’s presence was palpable despite her not being there. Turning a corner, we came to the harbour and both of us sighed upon seeing a hint of the sea. At least that still thrilled me every time I saw it. It reminded me that I was actually in Sydney. Yes, in the box room of my engaged ex-boyfriend, but in Sydney nonetheless. As we walked, Sam and I tried to chat like the ‘just friends’ we were pretending to be now – him asking about my morning, telling me about his. Winding our way up a cobbled side street, Sam abruptly stopped, turning to face me, a big grin spreading across his flushed face. I stopped to look up at him, heart caught in my throat, pace quickening.