I swallow my laughter. ‘Stop it.’
‘All right, okay, what was his insight?’
‘It was basically that I’m as awful as you say I am, and you’re right about me being a snob and, yes, local artists.’
‘Now, I never said you were awful.’ He waggles a finger at me. ‘Snob, yes. But definitely not awful.’
‘Either way, the first show belongs to you.’
‘And my class.’
‘And your class,’ I confirm.
‘I like this. This is good,’ he says. ‘Do you have much left to buy? Want to workshop this while I grab some groceries?’
For the next forty minutes, we follow each other around the supermarket and natter about what the exhibition might look like. While I start on the proviso that I need to see the type of work his class is churning out, it’s a warm, gentle discussion, better than anything we’ve managed until this point and, while we settle on the theme of Local Icons, we also talk delivery timelines, release forms and using Christopher as the central contact for his class.
The business owner in me wants to buck that idea. After all, it’s my gallery, but I begrudgingly concede this role to him when he suggests that it might be easier for him to field questions from a dozen other people, instead referring only the difficult stuff to me. With everything else competing for space in my brain, this feels like the better option.
‘Does this mean we’ll see you at class tomorrow morning?’ he asks as we stand under the walkway in the car park, ready to go our separate ways.
‘Me?’ I scoff. ‘No, you don’t want me to try to paint.’
‘Don’t be like that,’ he says. ‘Everyone can paint.’
‘Oh, what,’ I say. ‘With my postcard photography?’
‘I knew that was going to come back to bite me.’ He scratches the back of his neck.
‘I’ll come if you paint me a picture of the gallery.’
‘I’m not painting you a picture of that heap,’ he baulks.
‘That heap?’ I bite. ‘You love my heap. You’re desperate to get inside my heap.’
I narrow my eyes at him and he mimics me. I could easily get used to this newer, more playful version of him. Dare I say it, my last hour has even been enjoyable.
‘Come on, you’ll love it,’ he says. ‘Plus, it’ll give you a chance to meet everyone, see their work and talk them through our project.’
‘“Our”,’ I repeat. ‘Love how you’ve slipped that one in there.’
‘Slipped it right in.’ He winks as he starts walking away. ‘See you tomorrow, ten on the dot.’
‘Wait!’ I call to his retreating back. ‘Do I need to bring anything?’
‘Just your portfolio.’ His tongue rolls about his cheek pocket as he backs away. ‘Need to know if you’re up to scratch.’
Chapter 17
‘Here she is,’ Christopher says with a slight smile as I slide the classroom door shut behind me.
I breathe a sigh of relief that he appears relaxed. For as much as I was looking forward to being here this morning, to talk to him and his class about our exhibition, I’m still painfully aware that not all our meetings have been as productive as yesterday evening. And I’m late, so I was expecting a grumpy Christopher.
‘Sorry.’ I grimace, holding up my portfolio as if that’s my get out of jail free card. ‘Busy morning.’
It’s the tinniest white lie. The truth is, the first hour of my morning was spent booking more artist interviews, apologising for calling so early, but explaining I wanted to get things rolling quickly. After yesterday, I’ve got coal in the engine and I’m barrelling forward at a million miles an hour. That was how I lost track of time, ending my last call as I bounded down my stairs, marmalade toast between my teeth and blouse buttoned in the wrong holes; something I only noticed five minutes ago in the car park.
‘I guess we can finally get started.’ Christopher flashes a knowing smile to his class. ‘For those of you who haven’t met her yet, I’d like to introduce Katharine Patterson, artist, photographer and, now, gallery owner.’
My skin tingles. It’s the first time anyone has introduced me like that and it sounds bloody amazing.
A murmur rises like a wave from the back of the room. Unlike last week, I’m allowed to finish greeting everyone, traipsing around handbags and easels to take the only seat left at the front of the room. The art that I pass along the way is out of this world. Had I known I’d be contending with this level of quality, Christopher and I may have spent less time locking horns and more time planning.
‘Now that she’s here, I’m sure she’s bursting to tell you about a project that we’ll be working on with her.’
Five minutes to regroup, that’s all I want. I’m still breathless from scuttling up the hill towards the classroom. But everyone’s looking at me as if I’m about to make all their hopes and dreams come true. And, because they’re all seemingly inexperienced, I feel much more pressure than dealing with the seasoned artists at Webster.
You’ve done this before, I remind myself. I’ve talked to rooms full of multinationals and millionaires. I can manage a Sunday morning art class. All I have to do is manage expectations.
‘Katharine?’ Christopher prompts.
‘You’re right. I am bursting to tell you,’ I enthuse, stepping to the front of the room. ‘But before I get onto talking about our exhibition, I should tell you a bit about who I am, how I blew into town, and why you should trust me with your work.’
I give a brief tour of my history: education through to employment, how I ended up home in Sheffield and the journey of bringing a gallery to life. Anticipation ripples through the room when I start talking about my visions and ideas for the space, and there’s a moment where I get so lost in the joy of talking about what we’re doing that I forget I’ve got someone in the wings watching me like a hawk. Everything flows perfectly. That’s how I know I’m doing something good.
‘So, when I first approached Kit about who he thought should be involved in the opening exhibition, he told me he knew the perfect group of people.’ I stop. ‘All of you.’
I wait for the chatter of excitement to die down before I continue.
‘The theme of the exhibition is Local Icons. That could be anything that holds a special place for you. Maybe it’s Brammall Lane, the Steelers, Hendo’s, or a factory your family has connections to. If any of you are like me, you’ve probably had generations go through one of the coalmines or steel mills around here. There are no restrictions on method or medium, size or design, but keep in mind that these pieces will be for sale. All I ask is that you create something that makes you feel.’
‘May I climb over the top of you?’ Christopher only steps back in when I nod. ‘As of today, we only have four weeks until opening night, so I’m giving you all the PIN to the door lock here. You’re free to come and go as you please over the next few weeks to complete your piece. If I’m not in this room and you need help, please knock on my front door, or call me.’
‘What about you, Kit, are you going to be part of the exhibition?’ someone at the back of the room pipes up. ‘You can’t just hang us all out to dry, figuratively speaking, without showing your own art.’