In the back room, it sounds like Adam’s on the phone.
‘Was that you in the shop today with Kit?’ Dad dips the mop slowly into the polish.
I say nothing but wipe my eyes. Don’t remind me.
‘Lainey made that order in your name, by the way,’ he says. ‘You might want to ask her to pay for it next time you see her.’
‘Oh.’ No chance of lying about being in the shop, then. ‘Sorry, I hadn’t realised.’
‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ he asks.
Any chance of me getting out of this conversation all but evaporates when I remember I’ve mopped myself into a corner. It’s going to take jungle gym manoeuvres to get out, and I don’t feel like pulling a hamstring over it.
‘He doesn’t like me.’
‘That’s not true.’ Dad’s not looking at me, but I know he’s serious.
‘I took your advice and asked him to show his work at the gallery.’
He looks up. ‘And?’
‘It was a very adamant no, absolutely not, don’t even look at me like that because it’s not going to happen,’ I say. ‘I even offered him zero commission.’
‘Katharine, you know you can’t operate a business like that.’ He stops what he’s doing and looks at me. ‘You need to make money.’
‘I know that,’ I say, hands bouncing at my sides. ‘It’s just … why does he have to be so rude about it all? First, he complains I won’t show anyone local, so I offer him a show and he says no, then he tells me I’m some wannabe art snob when I suggest calling in an old friend in London.’
‘And there we have it,’ Dad says gently.
‘Am I a snob?’
He winces as he pinches his thumb and forefinger together.
‘Really?’ I plead. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘Sweetheart, you’re not a bad person, you just need to understand. You can’t come here and set up shop and then bring all your big-name friends up from London when there are plenty of artists right here. You’re going to rub people up the wrong way. London has plenty of places. We need more spaces to nurture local art, and I think you’d be great at that.’
‘Big names attract people though,’ I argue.
‘Maybe at Webster, but you aren’t there anymore, are you?’ he says. I step aside, into a tacky spot and up onto the bottom stair as he sweeps the mop across the final patch of floor. ‘And I know people have been coming to you with their portfolios because I hear about it when they come into the shop.’
‘It’s just for the opening. After that, I was going to run locals.’ I scratch at the back of my head. ‘I need to kick off with a bang. Which is why I wanted Kit. I thought he might be it, but he’s just so stubborn, isn’t he?’
‘He can be,’ he says. ‘But the big lump has been through a bit, so, you know. Maybe you’re approaching him the wrong way? You can be a little pig-headed yourself.’
Everyone has things happen in life that don’t go to plan, but it doesn’t excuse bad manners, does it? People can still be polite and hold regular conversation without being in such a hurry to bait others into an argument. I don’t remember Dad being awful after Mum died. But I bite my tongue, because I haven’t done enough of that lately and I also don’t want to get too involved in someone else’s business if they’re not the person telling me. His story is his own; the rest is just gossip.
Still, you can always count on family to tell you the hard truths, and while I don’t agree with Dad’s dismissal of Christopher’s attitude, I keep quiet. Instead, I ponder how I’m going to work my way through this mess. Realistically, I don’t have to look too far for an answer. I have an entire inbox full of talent, so maybe I just need to look at things from a different perspective.
Adam interrupts, tearing past at a rate of knots, heading out the door to catch up with some friends and asking if it’s okay to stay at Dad’s tonight. We follow, cleaning up after the afternoon’s work. As we chat, Dad is keen to offer advice on who to look for in my inbox and who he’s seen pass through the shop.
‘What are you doing tonight?’ he asks, shaking water out of the brush.
‘I don’t know.’ I muck in and rinse a mop head. ‘Are you offering dinner?’
‘Unfortunately for you, Fi and I already have plans, so you’re out of luck.’ He winks. ‘You might have to learn to cook.’
After he leaves, I fire up my laptop and decide it’s finally time to tackle the inbox. Among the back and forth ping-pong of previously answered emails, I wonder how I’m going to start sifting through all these prospective exhibitions.
There are so many people here, too. The influx has slowed to a trickle, but it’s still artists who are keen to work and be seen, and I’m responsible for that. Many of the emails contain hi-res scans of their work and links to websites, but sometimes photos just don’t do art justice. I want to see the pieces in real life and meet these people.
I call Lainey and wonder aloud how difficult it would be to set up a booking system on my website. It’s not hard at all, she explains, but with wedding stuff, work, and renovations, she can’t help me with it for the next week at least.
After dropping everything for her paper today, and the fallout from all that, I can’t help but feel a bit put out. She’s got what she wanted and that’s what matters.
My web design skills are only as developed as mashing the ‘Buy Now’ button after too many drinks, which leaves me to do things the old-fashioned way; I get on the phone, calling every single person from the bottom of my inbox to the top.
I slip back into a routine that’s so well worn it’s like riding a pushbike. With my diary sprawled out in front of me, I take notes, upload some pictures from today’s work to social media, and fill in appointment slots. I don’t get through everyone, but I do work until the odour of varnish in my flat becomes headachy, which is when I snatch up my car keys and head for the supermarket.
This evening, I head to one of the superstores instead of my usual shop in the middle of town. I figure, with the need for fresh air, it’ll keep me out of the house longer and walking the aisles might be a good way to clear my mind.
The shopping list on my phone competes with the occasional call back from an artist. It’s not a mad rush, but it’s enough to distract me as I walk through the fruit and veg aisles. When my phone sounds for the third time, I hoist my shopping basket up on the edge of a fruit bin and yank my diary out of my handbag.
One slip, and a pyramid of oranges scatters across the linoleum floor like balls down a bowling lane. I’m on my knees, the human equivalent of a Hungry Hungry Hippo, collecting as much fruit as I can when a mud-encrusted boot appears. It stops one last orange being juiced by passing shopping trolleys.
‘Thank you.’ I reach for the wayward citrus and look up to see who’s helped me. ‘For the love of … you know, you’re exactly like Beetlejuice.’
‘What? The brightest star in the sky?’ Christopher asks.
‘It’s not the brightest, smartarse,’ I deadpan as I stand and brush myself off.
He smirks. ‘It’s one of them.’