While I’m relieved that I’ve spoken to Frank, I can only hope Lainey is happy to see them. And me.
Hunter steers clear of me, a nervous look thrown my way as I scuttle past his table and up towards my new one. If he stays on that side of the room tonight, everything will be fine. But I’m still nervous as I join everyone in standing for the bride and groom. They’re both beaming beyond what I ever thought possible for two human beings. It’s gorgeous, and it makes me so happy.
They work their way through the centre of the room, waving and mouthing thanks to parents who leap out to hug them again. When they reach the bridal table, I stop and hold my breath as the look on Lainey’s face changes. She goes from beaming bride to something close to sobbing in no time flat as she picks up the first of the menu cards from her table.
As soon as she’s able to, immediately following the first toast, she makes a beeline to my table, scooping me up from my seat and clutching me so tightly anyone would think this was our farewell. But it’s okay, because I’m holding her just as tightly. We don’t have to say anything, we just know: it’s okay.
‘Frank told me.’ She smiles. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted me here or not, but I really wanted to be here,’ I say. ‘If that’s okay.’
‘It’s more than okay.’ She looks at me.
‘You look beautiful, just so you know.’
‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week,’ she says in a teary whisper.
‘Likewise.’ I look around the room. ‘I really regret what happened.’
‘Did you bring someone with you?’ She looks around me. ‘We left the spot next to you free.’
I blow my cheeks out. ‘Boy, do I have a story or two, or ten, for you.’
‘What? Really?’ she asks. ‘What happened?’
We’re back in our impenetrable huddle. People are trying to get her attention, wanting to drag her away for photo opportunities, so I don’t get to tell her much right now, but that’s what the dance floor is for later on.
Chapter 33
A champagne cork pops behind my head, bubbles frothing and spilling over the mouth of the bottle and directly onto the freshly mopped floor. I’m not even the least bit concerned because, seconds later, the fizz is joined by laughter and the clink of glasses. Finally, I’m having a party – the Katharine Patterson Gallery is open for business!
There was a small crowd waiting to get in the door. Mostly students with a smattering of family and friends, their excitement palpable. And contagious. I’m carried along on a cloud of introductions and handshakes as we make our way to the middle of the front room. That’s where we stay, a dozen of us, huddled in discussion for the next thirty minutes. Eventually, one person breaks off and the rest follow, dispersing around the gallery.
It was a long, late trip back from London last night, but I was wired from the buzz of seeing Lainey married. We had the quickest of reconciliations and debriefings on the dance floor where, I think for the first time, I openly gushed to someone about Christopher. She almost brought the place to a standstill when I told her about John and the fallout from that, offering to call Christopher herself by way of verbal referee.
Getting back on the train, and before the night had officially wound down, was difficult, but not as difficult as not attending her wedding altogether. I’m relieved and proud of myself for taking charge. Because of that, I barely slept a wink. But I can’t possibly think of yawning when I see excited faces cramming for space by their own art.
Cameras flash and selfie sticks are whipped out, the notifications on my phone start rolling over like the arrivals ticker at Heathrow, and all I can do is wait for the night to play out. The work is done, all that’s left to do is enjoy the night. A little like the wedding yesterday. So much planning and, if I don’t pay attention, everything will be gone in the blink of an eye.
Local press filter in and out, and I’m chuffed to see a few critics have made the trip up from London. They’re armed with their phones and busily taking notes as they walk the room and chat to artists. When a group of colleagues from Webster arrive, we laugh about the last time we all saw each other and pop another bottle in celebration. I delight in regaling them with stories of paint pots, floorboards and broken toilets; the trials of the new business owner.
The first sale of the night whisks me away from them just before 9 p.m. A collector who’s driven down from Edinburgh with their chequebook ready looks primed to buy Fiona’s set of prints. So excited am I that I grab her by the arm and drag her into the far corner of the room to meet the buyer, where we talk numbers and sign contracts. It’s one of the best possible things that could have happened tonight. For both of us.
I watch as she races back into the crowd, searching out an ebullient Dad, who bursts into tears at her news.
I slip away from the crowd and hide away upstairs for a few moments so I can fish my phone out of my bag. I’d love to say there’s a message waiting for me, or even a quick voicemail from Christopher, but there’s nothing, and the realisation hurts. Even more so when I consider that my phone is full of messages from random strangers, all wanting a piece of the action. Even Lainey, who’s busy packing for her honeymoon, has sent texts demanding pictures.
When I dial his number. It goes straight to voicemail.
‘Hey you, it’s me. Don’t really want to leave you another rambling message into the abyss, so I’ll make it quick. Tonight has been, it is, amazing. You’d be so proud everyone. We’ve just had our first sale, so we’re not quite there yet, but I’m hopeful. Anyway, I just wanted you to know. I wish you were here.’ I stop. ‘And I’m sorry for everything. It was utterly my fault and I would love to sit and talk about it if you’ll hear me out. Anyway, I love—’
I reach the time limit and the phone cuts me off.
‘—you.’
Back downstairs, Adam has arrived and is already deep in conversation with Lolly, the red-headed girl from Dad’s shop. There’s a lightness about them that fits effortlessly, and every time he makes her laugh, she blushes a bit more. I skirt past them with the offer of a fresh drink and search out Fiona.
When she hasn’t been busy selling paintings, she’s been doing her best to be my personal assistant, walking and talking with any member of the press who stands still long enough to warrant a hello. If she’s not doing that, she’s latching onto the catering team, wandering around with trays of drinks and nibbles and making sure I get my share of food.
‘Come with me.’ I wave her over as she whizzes past for the third time in fifteen minutes. ‘I want to show you something.’
‘Me?’ She exchanges a look with Dad, who ambles over, as well as Adam when we brush past him.
Dad’s wearing the best suit he owns, bless him. His shoes are polished, he’s had his hair trimmed and his tie is straighter than a die. He’s a minor celebrity in his circle of customers, not that he’d ever admit it. I do a quick lap of the room, clocking the front door opening in the corner of my eye, before excusing myself.
There’s one more thing I want to do tonight, and it involves the small room that currently features Christopher’s art.