At some point though, I’m going to have to tell people he won’t be attending the opening night. It’s the right thing to do, even if it risks losing both visitors and artists alike. Not telling them will only make me look like a liar because, while they might be there to see his art, there’s no doubt that people will want to see him, talk to him, share the night with him.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so quick to say no the other night when Dad floated the idea of selling his shop to me. The nine-to-five of customer service would be so much easier than this right now.
When I get home, I shut myself off from the world. I slide down the wall and settle myself on the floor, away from prying eyes, and drag my laptop towards me. Opening up all the social profiles I’ve set up for the gallery, I start writing a lengthy post about scheduling conflicts and deep regret, and all that flouncy corporate jargon that, to the naked eye, is a very fancy way of saying: ‘Oops, I done fucked up.’
‘It’s with great regret …’
‘Due to unforeseen circumstances …’
‘Unfortunately, a scheduling conflict has arisen …’
In the end, I write what I know: from the heart. Though he won’t be there, I assure people his art will still be on display as planned. It’s a hard post to write. It feels like I’m unravelling with each touch of a key, but I don’t have a choice. I hit ‘Post’ and sit back and wait for the fallout.
It’s quick, I’ll give the internet that much. I read the first few comments through a gap in my fingers, barely wanting to see them at all. I’m surprised, and slightly relieved, when many of them are supportive. Then, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Adam, standing there looking dishevelled with a bottle of cola pressed against his hand.
‘What on earth have you done?’
He shakes his hand out, opening and closing his fist. ‘I suspect, dear sister, that I may have just lost my job.’
‘Why?’ I say slowly, watching as he climbs the stairs to my flat.
‘Let me tell you a thing.’
As he begins digging about in my freezer, looking for a something to replace the warming bottle, he explains that John volunteered for the law firm’s Sheffield sojourn at the last minute. So last minute that Adam didn’t know John was going to be here until he arrived this afternoon to find him in the hotel restaurant.
‘Hey, if they’re paying for the fancy room, I’m going to stay,’ he says when I ask why he’s not staying with Dad and Fiona.
‘Fair enough,’ I say.
‘And, look, I knew something was up the second I saw him. He doesn’t just volunteer to come north for the fun of it. He’s so city oriented I’m surprised he knows anything exists outside his own postcode.’
I snort. ‘Evidently, he does.’
Adam continues to explain that, over a drink at the pub, John admitted to having been out here first thing this morning, to having proposed, and to being totally thrilled to see my latest post on social media about how Christopher had stepped aside from the exhibition. Apparently, all of that equated to me coming to my senses. All John had to do now, he boasted, was wait for me to accept his proposal.
‘And, so, I might have punched him, it might have been in his smarmy face, and it might have been in the middle of my favourite pub which I am now, subsequently, banned from.’
‘Oh, Adam,’ I say with an exhausted sigh. ‘Why?’
‘Because a) he deserves it, b) I’d been wanting to for years, and c) he’s been baiting me for weeks.’ He looks around. ‘Is this it?’ He nods at the engagement ring box on the bench.
‘Yup.’
‘Christ, that must be worth a fortune.’ He gawps as he cracks it open. ‘Look at it.’
I scoff. ‘Christopher’s words were “rock of Gibraltar”.’
‘Ahhh,’ Adam says knowingly. ‘I thought there might have been something between you two after dinner the other night. Once upon a time you couldn’t spit his name out quickly enough and, suddenly, he’s offering to drive you home.’
I blush wildly. ‘Well, his finding John grovelling on my doorstep this morning may have put the kibosh on that.’
‘At least he grovelled.’ He sits next to me on the floor by the sofa and shoves it in my face. ‘You’ll be well on your way to a Chelsea Tractor with that thing.’
‘I wasted so much energy thinking that’s what I wanted,’ I say. ‘Although it would certainly solve all my problems right now.’
‘Please don’t tell me you’re thinking about—’
‘What? No.’ My face cinches in disgust. ‘I meant it would also solve my problems if I sold it, which I’m not about to do because, while I am broke, I’m not a complete jerk.’
He leans back to get a better look at me. ‘You’re what?’
‘I am broke.’ My chin crumples. ‘Couldn’t even enjoy an exotic butter croissant for breakfast this morning. I’ve got nothing left, drained my accounts and credit card completely. I have a loaf of bread, some butter and jam to get me through opening night. But, now, Christopher hates me and has decided he’s not coming to the opening night, and I’m terrified people are going to start pulling their art.’
‘I don’t think he hates you,’ he says quietly. ‘I think his ego may be a little bruised, but hate is a strong word.’
‘He thinks I was leading him on.’
‘Were you?’
‘No! No, of course not.’
‘Have you told John no?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘You know what he’s like, just goes on and on until you’re bamboozled and then disappears.’
‘All right.’ Adam crossed his legs and wriggles himself into a more comfortable position. ‘Firstly, the money thing? It’s not a problem. We can fix that. Really, it’s not such a big deal.’
‘But, Adam, it is. I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman, not a teenager looking for an allowance. I don’t want other people turning around and saying “Yeah, but he paid for that” or “She’d be nothing if he didn’t buy it for her”, and I certainly do not want to be indebted to a man. I was supposed to do this on my own.’
‘If that’s the case, why are you losing sleep over either of them?’ He elbows me. ‘Hey?’
I drop my head down onto his shoulder. ‘Why? Because it’s supposed to be a massive exhibition. This was my chance to prove to everyone I could do this, that I was right about leaving London. Everything I have went into it, and I’ve ruined it,’ I say. ‘Also, I could really use the commission.’
‘But Kit’s a man,’ he says. ‘You just said you don’t need to be indebted to a man, so toss them both into the sea.’
‘I don’t want to toss Kit into the sea,’ I grumble.
‘As for your exhibition, I think you’re being way too fatalistic. The pieces you have will sell, you’ll make some money and, when that’s over, you’ll hold another one. On and on it goes in the great big circle of art.’ He stands and drags me to my feet with him. ‘Come on. Chin up. Put your big girl pants on. We’ve got things to do.’