‘Look at you, J!’ Sam patted my shoulder as I tried my best not to feel patronised. ‘Making friends already!’
‘Yeah.’ I offered him a smile, one that didn’t reach my eyes. Maybe I could see if Tim or the guys on reception wanted to go out. I’d need to find something to fill the time.
‘Well I guess we’ll see you later, then?’ Sam smiled again, a confused expression darting across his brow. ‘Or if it’s a late one, I’ll see you in the morning.’
He turned to walk in the direction of his surgery. ‘Oh, and J.’ He looked back over his shoulder. I met his gaze, hungry for his words, hoping they’d make everything feel right again. ‘Try to remember shoes this time.’
Back in the studio, I found Tim a few degrees away from a meltdown. He and Olivia, a member of his team he’d clearly got custody of in the break-up, had begun to unpack the second set of pieces from the van, which were now scattered haphazardly around the room. The paintings were propped up against the wall, their unprotected edges rubbing against the dirty studio floor. Had no one ever heard of a dust sheet? My heart sank at the mistreatment of these abstract works of all shapes and sizes, exploding with colour, many boasting a similar texture to the canvas I’d been carrying earlier that day. Their colours and contours demanded my gaze like long-lost friends before Tim’s voice grabbed my attention.
‘It’ll never fit, it’ll never fit,’ I heard him mutter as I approached, clipboard duly in hand.
‘There are worse problems to have,’ I joked, a sarcasm-fuelled comment met with we-wish-looks-could-kill stares. Now wasn’t the time. ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked pragmatically, pretty sure I wouldn’t have the solution. Tim began to explain in a flurry of broken sentences. The pieces. Too big for the space. Too many. Not in line with Paris and Milan. Not what the attendees would expect. I looked at Tim, his authority fading before my eyes.
‘Slow down, slow down.’ I found myself soothing him like a child, not entirely sure what I was going to say next. It wasn’t like I knew anything about curating an exhibition.
‘What’s the problem?’ I asked the same question again, slower this time, my eyes pleading with Tim for a clearer response.
‘That bastard promised Leo Todd’s team we had space for the entire collection.’ Tim shook his head. I didn’t need to guess who ‘the bastard’ was. ‘Exactly how they were displayed in Paris and Milan.’ Leo Todd has been shown in Paris and Milan. You didn’t even get through that competition. ‘Then promised me my idea to get the local artists involved was a good one…’
‘It was a great idea,’ Olivia piped up, brown-nosing before Tim could shoot her down.
‘But now we don’t have enough space for everything,’ Tim flurried on in hysterics.
‘Can’t you cut out some of the local artists?’ I asked and both Tim and Olivia looked at me like I was from another planet.
‘No,’ Tim objected and I had to commend his loyalty. ‘Plus, I’m not letting Carlo think my ideas have to pander to his.’ So not about loyalty at all then. ‘Leo Todd has a specific way of doing things, a specific order, a specific… Oh God.’ He held his head in his hands as I tried to work out whether Tim was enduring a break-up or a breakdown. Not that the two were mutually exclusive. I should know.
‘What does the contract say about the layout?’ I asked.
‘The contract?’ Tim asked, confused. ‘Olivia, have we got a paper copy of the contract or did that bastard take that too?’ Tim turned to Olivia, who looked on the verge of tears, like a child fed up of her two work-dads fighting. She tottered across the room in her six-inch stilettos (I really must upgrade the kitten heels) grabbed the contract from the next room and tottered back towards us, stumbling as she did (maybe I’d stick with the kittens after all). I thanked her and fastened it to my clipboard – wow, these things really did come in handy. I scanned the contract, something I’d got annoyingly used to doing during my time at Art Today. You’d be surprised how many embargoes and libel claims got thrown around the more-money-than-sense art world. Sadly, in my case, the senselessness had come without the cash.
‘And?’ Tim demanded. I looked up from the contract; was he really asking for my opinion? Devon never had.
‘It’s fine,’ I replied as Tim and Olivia looked from me to the mess of paintings around us. I’d admit it didn’t look fine. ‘Look, here.’ I pointed to a clause in the contract and the two of them looked at the clipboard. Neither one of them attempted to read it. I looked up for Tim’s permission to continue; I couldn’t tell if he was confused or simply not listening. ‘It says here that we are contractually obliged to use eighty per cent of Leo’s pieces in the exhibition, so we can leave’ – I looked around the room, quickly counting the paintings – ‘six of the pieces out. And it says here that we have the artistic freedom to arrange the pieces how we wish provided we can explain our rationale and seek approval from Leo’s agent. Who is Leo represented by again?’ I felt like I should know.
‘Lucy James,’ Tim replied, voice still wavering.
‘Great, well it would be good to let her know.’ I nodded, whilst both of them nodded back. Was I in control? ‘And send a courtesy email to the artist. What’s Leo like?’
‘Never met her,’ Tim said. Her. I’d always thought Leo Todd was a he. Clearly, her anonymity was working. ‘Still based in Britain.’ He looked at me, like I already knew; like perhaps we were neighbours on our picturesque isle. ‘Somewhere in the North, I think?’ he continued, as if that was narrowing it down. So Leo wasn’t London born and bred or a man. Leo was a woman, a Northern woman – a little like me. I looked around at her colourful pieces, comparison and jealousy swimming in my chest. I pushed it back into place, breathing deeply, forcing my attention back to the contract. She was nothing like me. ‘Before she moved to Sydney, of course,’ Tim pressed on, as I looked to the sands and skies washing colour around the room.
‘She’s living in Sydney?’ I asked. Okay, so she moved to be in Sydney too. But still, she was nothing like me. I doubt she fibbed her way into CreateSpace too.
‘You do know Lucy James is Australian?’ Tim asked, as if everyone ought to.
‘Of course I know Lucy James is Australian,’ I echoed; just one more fib. ‘In any case,’ I continued, Tim and Olivia still nodding along, even though I knew I may as well have been speaking Japanese. ‘That means that even though Paris and Milan set the pieces chronologically…’ I tried to hide the brief Google-search I had swiped to behind my clipboard barrier. I really needed to get me one of these. ‘We could place them thematically.’ Tim and Olivia continued to look at me blankly. ‘Basically, we can use the pieces in a way that makes sense in our space, local artists included.’ The penny dropped. Tim smiled broadly even though Olivia still appeared light years behind.
‘Jessica, you’re a genius!’ he exclaimed, grabbing the clipboard from my hand and proceeding to look at (and yet still not read) the contract before him. ‘We’ve needed your calibre of expertise for quite some time.’ Olivia became increasingly interested in the shine of her shoes as I was hit with a wave of guilt, desperate to dispel any misplaced pride. ‘Quite some time’ clearly meant since Carlo left a hole that Olivia had failed to fill. ‘Now hold this.’ He thrust the clipboard back into my hand. ‘We’ve got work to do.’