It’s got to be the battery, not that I can afford a new one, but what am I supposed to do? Dad isn’t here, but if I call him, I can guarantee Christopher will only end up involved anyway. Fiona is inside, but getting her to help involves me going back inside and brings me back to square one.
What a colossal mess.
‘One last try,’ I whisper. ‘Pretty please.’
I jam the key in and turn, listening as the whine gets quicker and the engine finally, thankfully, kicks over. Before my car has a chance to so much as think about conking again, I throw it into gear and tear off down the road. I do not pass Tesco and do not collect two hundred things I don’t need.
Adrenaline carries me all the way home and upstairs to my sofa where I collapse into a heap and curse the utter stupidity that made me think going out to Loxley this morning was a good idea. I close my eyes, rub my face and hope that when I open them, this was all a bad dream.
I wake near dinnertime. The apartment is stuffy in the summer sun, my head is thick with sleep and I’m sure I’ve drooled on the cushion I’ve curled myself into. On the upside, I feel better. Refreshed, even. After everything that’s happened the last few days, I was bound to crash at some point. I sit up, run my fingers through tangled hair and wonder: what do I do now?
While I munch on a Marmite toast dinner, I raid what’s left of Fiona’s gift basket for spray cleaner and kitchen towel. All I mean to do is wipe down kitchen counters and windowsills, but it morphs into something bigger. Before I’ve so much as considered switching the television on for the night, I’ve cleaned bellies of cupboards and unpacked all my utensils into the whirring dishwasher.
When I do get a chance to look at the television, something doesn’t feel right. It’s the angle of the screen playing with the reflection from the windows, and I shift it just a smidgen, knowing the best part about living here is that there are no neighbours to complain about noise from the pesky new neighbour upstairs.
The thought alone is enough to spark something, a reminder, a gentle nudge from the universe. This is why you’re here, it’s saying and, while I want to sit on the sofa all evening and bliss out in peace and quiet with that packet of biscuits I’m sure is hidden somewhere, I know I’ve got hundreds of things I should be doing.
As exhausted as I am, I fire up my laptop and park myself at the dining table. A game of cat and mouse plays itself out on the television in the background, and I pour out the dregs of a pinot noir and settle in for the night. This may have been the norm for me in London but, now that I’m doing this for me, it feels fresh and exciting. I can’t wait to get to the other end of the process.
I’m in the heart of the city, but it’s not nearly as loud as London, at least not in the same white noise echo that seemed to follow me everywhere. Sure, there are car horns and rattling buses, but it’s nowhere near the volume I’m used to. A feeling of peace settles somewhere in the back of my mind and, oh, how I’ve missed this.
When my screen blinkers to life and my inbox finally loads, I double-check that I’m in the right account because, unless there’s an error, I have no fewer than 120 emails waiting for me. It’s not been quite a week since the website went live and here I am with an influx of artists keen to show their work.
Some are from friends who’ve caught the news I’ve moved north. Colleagues from Webster have sent their numbers, offering whatever help they can. Considering the circumstances under which I left my job, I’m exceedingly grateful, and I tell them so. I add them to my phone and promise I’ll call if I need help. Then I knuckle down and get to the artists.
Each email is a variant on the next, not that it bothers me in the slightest. There are only so many ways you can say please and ask for help, but there’s one question that sticks its neck out over and over: when are you opening?
It’s the most important question of all, really, and one that I’m not even one hundred per cent sure of. For, as much as I talked through my business ideas with Lainey and scribbled others on napkins and in the back of notebooks, I never had a firm opening date. Securing this building was the big hurdle that all the rest balanced on so, tonight, I’m finally going to make that decision.
With my diary spread across the dining table, it soon becomes obvious that setting a date won’t be a matter of simply throwing a dart at a board. Before any of this happened, I promised Lainey I’d help her with her wedding, so I mark out nights for the hen do and the big event itself. Let’s face it, I’m not rolling back from London first thing on a Sunday morning with a hangover to launch a gallery. No chance.
Lainey’s wedding is five weeks away, which negates the weekend before it as well. That leads me to ask: Do I want to rush through opening a gallery in four weeks’ time? I have no idea exactly how much work is going to be involved in getting the ground floor up to scratch.
There may be hidden problems as yet uncovered, and I want to make sure my idea isn’t slapped together and thrown out into the world like a cheap and cheerful pizza. I want to do things properly, take my time, get the walls painted, the floors cleaned and, importantly, secure that elusive opening exhibition. So, it’s a solid no on opening in four weeks’ time.
Still, six weeks feels too long. By that point, I’ll just be wasting time waiting to open the doors. However, the wedding is a midday affair on a Friday in the middle of London with a reception to follow immediately after. If I can get everything ready before I leave for London and return home later that night, there’s no reason why I can’t open the day after the wedding.
I circle the last Saturday in August, not quite five weeks from today, and send an updated message across social media. We have a date, and I’ve committed by telling everyone about it. Now, I just need to make it happen.
So, where do I begin?
Chapter 13
Urgh. Bills.
They’ve begun already. I snatch up the envelopes from where they’ve just been stuffed through the brass slot in the enormous green front door. There’s one from Adam’s firm, a bon voyage card from Lainey and Frank, and something from the letting agent. Money, money, money. Let me tell you, it’s less funny on the way out of your pocket than on the way in.
Though I grit my teeth and keep one eye on my account balance the entire time, I pay the invoices immediately and file them away with the rest of my paperwork upstairs. The last thing I need is a collection agency knocking on the door before I’ve even opened for trade.
I pop Lainey’s card next to the television, with the cheap and cheerful pink peonies I picked up on this morning’s grocery run. They add a spray of colour to the room, as has the bargain basement melamine vase they’re sitting in. I don’t care that it cost me less than a pound on the clearance trolley. I care that, with a few cute touches, my flat is beginning to feel like home.
With last night’s hastily scrawled business plan in hand and a fresh cup of coffee, I wander downstairs ready to put things into action. I’m excited for the start of the journey, though I feel like all the cleaning and painting is going to be the least engaging thing to post about on social media. That is, until I scroll through my phone and spot an American gallery documenting their renovations through side-by-side comparisons, videos and live action shots.