‘How was the last hour of your shift?’
‘Fiona is nuttier than a cashew factory,’ he says, reaching back into his car. ‘But she told me I had to bring you some milk, so here you are.’
As he walks past, he thrusts a pint into my hands and wanders inside, leaving me staring at the bottle of milk. I’m on the verge of changing his nickname from Kit to Advent Calendar, because he comes with a new surprise every day. He’s even bought my favourite brand. Unreal.
‘Katharine?’ he calls. ‘Aren’t you going to show me around?’
I jolt. ‘Coming!’
I walk him through the gallery, talking about all the work we had to do, highlighting the especially tricky parts, and what I’d like to see happen in each room.
Listening for his responses, I soon realise I’m almost hanging off every word he says. He’s supportive and suggestive in a way that doesn’t override my original ideas but builds and works on them. It’s an extra set of eyes I didn’t know I needed right now, and I’m so grateful for his input.
‘I adore this colour.’ He runs a finger across the wall. ‘It’s going to be really effective. Cosy.’
‘You know what would make it look even better?’ I ask.
‘Art?’
‘Yes.’ I clap my hands. ‘Shall we?’
‘Lead the way.’ He gestures towards the staircase.
‘Right, so I’m having a slight dilemma,’ I explain over my shoulder as he clomps up the stairs behind me. ‘Because I only have a set run of time, I’m not sure who to show and how long for.’
‘What was the standard for exhibitions at Webster? When you weren’t turning down your favourite Sheffield artists, that is.’
‘Oh!’ My mouth pops. ‘That wasn’t me.’
‘No, I know.’ He steps inside. ‘Come to think of it though, I might frame that email as a reminder that they always do come crawling back.’
‘Oh, stop it.’ When I turn to scold him, he’s already laughing. ‘You’re awful.’
While I dither about playing hostess, collecting drinks, and putting the milk away, we have a lovely bit of back and forth about the optimum exhibition length. If time weren’t an issue, I’d likely do month-long runs. At Webster, some of our exhibitions ran for three or four months each, but we could afford to do that on the back of the names we showed. Here, on limited time and with such a huge range of options, we decide three weeks is a good timeframe.
‘See, that’s what I was thinking, but it feels too short.’ I look at him. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘I’ve seen it done for some of the smaller places around here,’ Christopher explains with a shrug and shake of the head. ‘And you’re not cutting people short. You aren’t pushing them straight out the door. You’re giving them a good span of time, but also cycling new faces through the door. Remember, each artist will bring their own social circles in, so … Why am I telling you this? You know this.’
‘Never underestimate how much I don’t know.’ I waggle a finger at him. ‘But this is great. Brilliant.’
While I divide my diary into three-week blocks, he reaches for one of the portfolios piled on the table. As he does, a half-written menu card slips out onto the table. Funny, I thought I’d put all that away. With a flash of surprise, he picks it up and turns it over.
‘I didn’t think Uber Eats was this fancy with its menus. Unless this is what you’re plating up for dinner?’
‘Ah.’ I try and pluck it away from him, embarrassed, but he holds it out of reach. ‘That’s for Lainey’s wedding.’
‘Loud girl from the shop?’ he says.
‘That’s her.’
‘And that’s your handwriting?’ He looks at it again.
‘It’s my fancy handwriting.’ I shoulder him gently. ‘Don’t expect any pretty notes anytime soon.’
‘Katharine, this is stunning.’ He holds the card at an angle as if looking for finer details.
‘Thank you,’ I say quietly. ‘Though it doesn’t feel particularly stunning after umpteen invites, place cards, or whatever else she decides she needs.’
‘You’ve done all that?’
I start rattling off points on my finger. ‘Engagement invites, engagement thank you cards, wedding invites, place cards, menu cards, and wedding thank you cards to come.’
‘That’s a hell of a lot of work,’ he muses. ‘Was this a school taught thing, or something you picked up on your own?’
‘Remember you were talking yesterday about not wanting to create your art after Claire died?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘That was my version.’
‘You’re writing my Christmas cards this year, so you know.’ He hands me the card, which I stash, along with the rest of them, in the drawer of the coffee table. ‘I’ll pay you, of course.’
‘You’re not paying me to write Christmas cards,’ I say dismissively. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I am if I say I am.’ He fixes me with a look I can’t quite put my finger on. ‘And she should be paying you for your work, too.’
‘No,’ I say, maybe a little too defensively. ‘We’ve been friends since university. That’s a long time and we’ve been through a lot, so, you know. Plus, it seemed like a great way to be involved.’
Even though I make excuses for her, deep down I know he’s at least halfway right.
‘What?’ He leans back in his chair. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Did you want to stay for dinner then?’ I ask.
My question hangs in the air for an unkept moment and, when he looks down at his lap, I wonder if I’ve overstepped the invisible line of friendship.
‘Sure.’ He shrugs. ‘I was planning on takeout once I was done here anyway, so why not?’
‘How do you feel about Thai?’ I ask.
Evidently, he feels very good about it, because an hour later we’re hunched over plastic containers with an uncorked bottle of wine. An arc of favourite portfolios is spread out across the table and we can’t come to an agreement about who to choose next.
‘Now, I know you love your old-fashioned art.’ Christopher holds up a folder for an artist who’s a brilliant Renaissance mimic with a negligible social media following.
‘This isn’t about personal preference though, is it?’ I ask. ‘We did plenty of shows at the museum that I didn’t love.’
‘Really? Like what?’
I sit quietly for a moment and spin the roulette wheel of my memory. ‘I don’t love cubism. We did that about three years back. It was awful.’
‘Good to see we agree on two things, then.’
‘We do?’ I feel myself turn into him. ‘I mean, I get it. It’s art and it’s in the eye of the beholder and blah blah blah, but what the hell is going on? It looks like a game of KerPlunk on an acid trip.’
Christopher roars with laughter. Pure, loud, delighted laughter. In the short time I’ve known him, he’s always given off this air of someone who takes the world far too seriously. He can be boorish and wickedly blunt but, right now, all I can think is Oh God, I made him laugh, I made him laugh … I. Made. Him. Laugh.