‘That is brilliant.’ He wipes tears from his eyes. ‘Ker-Plunk.’
‘What else have we got?’ I reach across him, steadying myself with a hand on his shoulder. I return to my seat, but my hand stays, shifting only slightly further down his back. I’m sure I don’t imagine the fact he leans into my touch.
I say nothing, instead concentrating on picking and sorting and working our way through the rest of the folio. Christopher is mostly quiet with his opinions, though he talks through the common-sense stuff like having a balance between the very new and the established, huge follower numbers and small numbers but an effective presence.
When we finish, we’ve narrowed the list down to six artists, filled out my calendar, coloured and drawn up a Gantt chart. I feel terribly accomplished and blown away by his help.
‘Now, all you need is contracts,’ he says, cleaning one pile of paper while I sift through another. ‘Send them off, then all you need to do is wait, really. Once you get into the cycle of it all, it’s a waiting game.’
I offer him another drink to say thank you, but he chooses to pack up and go home. He’s quiet as he gets ready, and I’m not entirely sure if I’ve said something to upset him or touched on a sore point, so I don’t push it any further. After the way things have changed between us, I feel nauseous at the idea that I might have inadvertently undone that.
Downstairs, he turns to me as we reach the car park behind the gallery.
‘Can I tell you a secret?’ He leans in and fixes me with such a look I’m certain he’s about to unload nuclear codes on me. ‘Can I trust you with that?’
I avert my eyes for a moment and, when I look back, he smirks. ‘I suppose so.’
With a hand on my elbow, he leans into my ear and whispers, ‘All those portfolios we worked through tonight?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I have absolutely no idea who any of those people are.’
‘You what?’ I shriek, yanking him back as he attempts a quick getaway. ‘What do you mean you have no idea who they are? We just sent invites out to the top six!’
‘Which you picked,’ he says. ‘You didn’t need me.’
My jaw drops.
‘Katharine, you need to trust yourself more,’ he says. ‘You did all of this, I just sat back and nodded. You’ve done it before. This is just a different scale.’
‘I didn’t do that,’ I sputter. ‘You’ve been much more help than you realise. In fact, I may very well have been lost without you.’
My admission stills the air, and, for a moment, we do nothing but watch each other. I feel my limbs getting shaky. I can’t believe I just said that aloud.
‘Yes, you did.’ His keys jingle in his hand. ‘See you Sunday?’
‘Art class?’ My head tips. ‘Yes, of course. Sunday.’
With that, he kisses me on the cheek and leaves me gawping after him. I’m a goldfish, my glass bowl has been smashed and I’m flopping about without water.
When I turn around and walk back inside, his coat is still slung over the sofa.
Chapter 20
‘Did you know Christopher’s wife died?’ I ask.
Adam takes a piece of cardboard from me and steps up the ladder. I watch with bated breath as he tries wedging it into the tight space of the window frame. When he appeared on my doorstep this morning desperate for something to do, I’d already spread myself about one of the spare rooms upstairs, measuring and cutting cardboard. After spending the weekend working on the admin side of the business and Lainey’s menu cards, I was desperate for something creative of my own. I wanted to set up my darkroom.
I chose a smaller upstairs room with a sink and running water. Despite the window, it’s the perfect location for it. But, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about darkrooms this morning, it’s that they’re not quite as easy to construct as the internet will have you believe.
‘Dad mentioned something about him last night,’ he says. ‘You know, one of those whispered comments that give off a whiff of taboo even though it’s not that big a deal.’
‘It’s quite a big deal, I think. You know how it was with us.’ I rush in under him and drag foam tape across the bottom of the board, all my extremities crossed for a perfect seal. ‘Two years ago. Still a bit fresh, isn’t it? I don’t think Dad would be hiding that conversation to save embarrassment, maybe just as a bit of respect.’
‘It seems unfairly cruel to lose a spouse at such a young age.’ I can hear the strain in his voice as he forces the top corners into place. ‘It’s not quite like divorce, is it? At least they can tell you they hate your guts and run off with the co-worker they swore wasn’t the reason for the two a.m. text messages. Death doesn’t really give you answers, does it?’
‘I guess not.’ I peer up at him as he takes the tape from me and works along the top of the window. Finally, the light begins to disappear from the room. ‘He’s a brilliant painter though.’
‘Is that so?’
‘And he’s agreed to exhibit, so that’s good.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I went out to his school last weekend to meet everyone. That was nice,’ I say. ‘And yesterday too. Took my camera this time; it was nice to potter around and take photos after spending all week in the office.’
‘Katharine, do I detect a bit of crush?’ he says.
‘What? No!’ I scoff. ‘I mean, he’s not as awful as I thought he was, but he’s still a bit, you know.’
‘Snobbish like you?’
I gasp, though it barely hides my laughter. ‘How very dare you.’
Of all the things I’ve thought about, and I’ve done a whole lot of thinking since I left him by the side of his driveway yesterday afternoon, none of it has been in a romantic context. My brain has been running business at a million miles an hour for the last few weeks. There’s no room there for romance, and I’m sure he feels the same way.
‘He is you, but with a penis.’ He looks down at me, brows raised. ‘Seriously. He’s dry and stubborn and nobody can tell him anything once he’s set his mind to something. That’s you, and that’s exactly why you rubbed each other the wrong way.’
‘I am not like him.’ I baulk at the accusation. ‘And I don’t not like him. We’ve had chats. He’s … he’s okay. We get along well when he’s not being rude.’
‘Yeah, you are,’ he insists, leaning back to inspect his handiwork. ‘You might find his attitude is a coping mechanism. If he’s acerbic enough that people aren’t sure where they stand, then he doesn’t have to get too close.’
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Dad was never like that.’
‘Katie.’ He glances down at me. ‘He was. You were just too young to realise at the time. All those times I shepherded him off to the pub? They were because he was getting unbearable. He was fucking awful for the first year.’
Just when you think you have your teenage years sorted, along comes someone to tell you what you knew was wrong. It’s amazing to think that, in our family, there are three histories that all tell the same events. It’s another one of those adult realisations that stops you silent for a while.