‘Even better. Fingers crossed we’ll be celebrating.’
‘Good luck.’ She hugs me again and offers a small wave as she melts into the crowd by Jubilee Gardens.
Slinking back to my desk, a family photo catches in the corner of my eye. A pre-digital age selfie of my father, brother and me at Disneyland Paris. I wonder what they’re both up to right now. I’d likely know if I opened Adam’s emails, but I’ve been too preoccupied this afternoon with Lainey’s photos and waiting on data from one of our researchers, Sally. I need her document before the weekend kicks in, otherwise I’ll be spending another Saturday night writing exhibition notes with only Netflix and a bottle of wine for company, like all good social animals.
As always, I’ll answer Adam later. He never expects a response straightaway.
‘Katharine, are you ready?’
Roland, my boss, pokes his head out of his door and waves a beckoning hand. He’s the only one in our small team who’s been blessed with an office, not that it’s much to write home about. The windows look like they haven’t been cleaned since Theresa May was Home Secretary, the carpet is weak tea beige, and it smells like toilet lollies.
I cross the office knowing all eyes are following me like a stage spotlight. Guess I’m not the only one who knows I have a meeting today. It’s a little intimidating if I’m honest. The door closes behind me with a soft click.
Situations like this don’t normally faze me. Roland’s attitude is less wanky art gallery manager and more everyone’s-best-friend-Bob-Ross. I’ve spent more time in the last five years schmoozing with million-dollar corporate sponsors and doing more overtime than I care to admit, so I can talk the talk, but he’s fiddling with things on his desk like they’ll never quite line up properly. And is that sweat beading on his forehead? Gross.
It’s also not often that I apply for his job, either.
I have the nous and the experience, which certainly helps, but it’s nothing without the art. While photography gave me a place to belong as a teenager, somewhere to explore ideas and feelings, as I got older, I began to experiment with different streams. I’ve dabbled in sketching, oils and watercolours. And, even though photography remains my one true love, I’m constantly amazed by the texture and depth, the layers that are built up to create a story on a canvas.
Regardless of my efforts, I could never quite convince a gallery to show my photography. A lot of conversations ended with ‘It’s fantastic, but …’, or the less brutal ‘We just don’t have the room.’ So, I set my sights on curation instead. Sure, I wasn’t creating work as such, my own art fell by the wayside of busy adult life, but I was creating experiences and sharing my love of art with the world, all while being able to pay my bills at the end of each month. It was the perfect match, and one I wanted to nurture throughout my career. Long story short: being senior curator would be a dream come true.
Looking around the office while Roland finishes nesting, my eye catches on faded prints that have been passed down through generations of senior curators. If this becomes my office, they’ll be out the door and replaced with photography, or an original Romantic period painting if ever I could afford one (I say as I laugh into my empty bank account). The desk looks like it was built around the same time as the museum, during the peach tubular metal fascination of the mid-Eighties, back when Springsteen was The Boss and a DeLorean was the only way to travel.
‘Sit, sit,’ Roland urges as he throws himself into his own chair. Air wheezes from the asthmatic cushion. ‘How’s your day been? Good?’
‘Busy,’ I say, blowing my cheeks out. ‘I’ve been downstairs with the design team this morning, looking at their plans for the exhibition that opens next month. They’ve got everything under control, the displays are coming together nicely. They were working on the entrance piece today. In fact, I’m ecstatic with the way things are progressing. I’m planning on writing up the didactic panels this weekend.’
Didactic panels are those little squares next to artwork in museums, and they can be more painful to get right than a thesis after a bottle or two of cava. So much information to impart, so little space.
‘Excellent.’ Roland laces his fingers and hunches over his desk. ‘Tell me, have we talked about the fundraiser a few weeks ago?’
My mind wormholes back to that night, to the exhibition space that had been transformed into a sleek, polished concrete, dimly lit function room. Soft blue and purple lights embedded in the floor made us look properly fancy, as if our best outfits and napkin swans hadn’t already.
The finest pieces from each department had been painstakingly moved and displayed away from the trajectory of wine glasses and greasy finger-foods, and team members worked the room using our best manners and extensive art knowledge to woo potential corporate sponsors. Now, though, I’m left with the frightening realisation that maybe I’d done something wrong, and that’s why I’m in here. I run through all the conversations I had and try to pinpoint anything crucial. Wait. I didn’t have a full tits-out experience no one told me about, did I? I’m mortified at the thought.
I shake my head and try to gather some moisture in my mouth. It doesn’t happen.
‘Let me be blunt: we smashed it out of the park.’ Roland reaches for a thick legal pad. ‘I had a cheeky vino with the powers that be at lunch today and they’ve greenlit our Van Gogh exhibition for next year. They say there’s enough folding stuff to see us through to the end of next year. We’re all ridiculously excited about it, especially me, because I won’t be here having to do the hard work.’ He snorts a derisive laugh.
‘That’s excellent.’ I nod, feeling myself lean closer. Is he about to tell me what I want to hear? I mean, this is all good news, isn’t it? We’ve made our money and my exhibition suggestion has just been greenlit. ‘Though I’m a tad confused as to why we didn’t just have a team meeting for this?’
‘Oh, right. Yes.’
He mashes his computer mouse into the mat so hard dust floats from the monitor. Pushing fire-engine-red thick-rimmed glasses back up his nose, he squints at the screen. ‘I have one email here … here it is. “We were particularly enthused by Katharine’s knowledge of classics—” they mentioned you specifically “—and are one hundred per cent sure the exhibition will be a success.”’
My insides bubble in the effervescent wonder that, for once, something might be going right. I bite my lip and try to repress a smile. ‘Ah, that’s wonderful. I’m so pleased.’
‘Don’t be so coy.’ Roland finger-guns me. ‘That’s incredible feedback. You’re a bloody star, you are. A credit to any team.’
‘That’s very kind, thank you.’
Wait? What? Any team?
Please, just bloody tell me already. I’ve chiselled away at this job for years. It’s been the Rodin on my CV; long and arduous but ultimately worth it. After all the work I’ve put in, the scratchy-eyed overtime and dinners sucking up to rich people who, despite what they think, know very little about art, and books I’ve spent late nights memorising, I was secretly confident I was a shoo-in for the position. So why the gut feeling that I was being put on the rack?