It’s exciting crossing the road to the gallery knowing Alex is waiting for me, that we have time together before people arrive. As I push the door and the bell tings, he looks up from the reception desk and grins. ‘Hey, you.’
I grin back at him. ‘Hey, yourself.’
He looks awesome. He’s wearing a moss-coloured shirt I’ve never seen before and it seems to be reflecting shadows in his eyes because they’re greener than usual as he makes his way around the desk towards me. He walks quietly, like he’s trying not to disturb someone and yet there’s only us and shelves of art materials and low tables stacked with books and paints and pencil sets. He brushes my fingers softly with his as he passes. ‘Come see the art,’ he says.
‘Is that a euphemism?’
‘Definitely.’
We’re both laughing as we walk away from the shop area to the main exhibition space at the back of the gallery. It’s usually gloomy because there are no windows but he’s had track lights suspended from the ceiling and they must be on some kind of daylight setting because the new artwork seems to magically glow.
We stand side by side looking at it. I can hear him breathing. I think of his lungs contracting and expanding and all the little alveoli doing their thing.
‘Honest opinion,’ he says.
Last time I saw these pictures, they were images on his phone or photocopies pinned to the corkboard in his office, but now they’re here in real life, mounted to the walls – over fifty in total, all varying in size. I was here only two days ago and the place is transformed. ‘I love it, Alex. It looks amazing.’
‘I’m not sure any of these artists will leave a footprint in history, but it’s a start.’
‘It’s more than a start. It’s brave. No more framed posters, no more reproductions. You’ve done exactly what you said you would.’
‘Brave or reckless. Either way, I need some wealthy punters to walk through that door tonight.’
I reach out to him – how can I not? – and our hands touch again. ‘They’ll come.’
He gently threads his fingers with mine. ‘Leah?’
A jolt of adrenaline surges through me. ‘Yes?’
‘Thank you for believing in me.’
‘Of course.’
A pause, then, ‘Leah?’
I can hear a smile in his voice. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re beautiful.’
‘You’re not even looking.’
‘You’re emblazoned on my retinas.’
That makes us both chuckle. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘No flirting, remember? Let’s get started before things fall apart.’
We clear the tables in the shop and stack all the art materials into crates. We are breathless and laughing as we strategize how best to hide the connection between us (no eye contact, strictly no talking) and why it matters (we’re too precious for gossip) and what we’ll do after the guests have gone (every option involves bare skin and kissing). We fantasize about how many people might come (hundreds) and how many pictures will sell (all of them) and the calibre of artists who will want to show their work here in future (internationally famous ones). Alex takes the crates through to the office while I wipe the surfaces. Together, we move the tables to one side under the bookshelves, creating a space in the middle of the shop for people to hang out and drink. Tonight’s a big deal not only because Alex is upgrading the gallery, but also because he’s invited other gallerists as well as collectors and apparently, networking is just as important as the art.
We set out glasses and unpack the wine. ‘If nobody comes,’ he says, ‘we can always get extremely drunk.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
But for the first time he looks faintly anxious. He fetches the exhibition catalogues and arranges them in little fanned heaps on the reception desk. He keeps looking out at the street as if hoping a crowd is building. Every time someone walks past the window, he turns reflexively. He fiddles with the glasses, arranging them into groups and then into lines. He turns all the bottles so their labels are facing the room. He decides we need sparkling water and rushes to the shop over the road. He comes back with the water, a selection of boxed juices, napkins, and for some reason cocktail sticks.
I hold them up to him. ‘What are these for?’
‘I don’t know.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘They were cheap and I panicked.’
We smile at one another and there’s the usual mad flickering between us. When we’re in places we can’t touch – like here by the window or when there are customers in the shop – it’s like a spark building to flame.
‘Want to know what I’m thinking?’ he says.
‘I know exactly what you’re thinking, Alex.’
‘Is that so?’
He takes a step towards me, which is dangerous because I want to leap into his arms and I know he wants the exact same thing and we’re both wondering if there’s time to put the closed sign up and quickly throw a blanket down on the floor of his office before anyone arrives.
‘Alex,’ I say, both of us grinning. ‘We’ll have to wait.’
He makes a sound like something small and important broke inside him. ‘Can we though?’
We’re both still smiling as the door eases open and the first guests arrive. I grab a catalogue and turn away as Alex moves to greet them.
Half an hour later, there’s maybe thirty people here. They’re all way older than me and there’s lots of air-kissing and laughter as if everyone is best mates. Alex steers potential clients towards paintings, bigging up the artists, while I make quiet circuits of the room so I can feed back useful information to him later. So far, it seems, people are only moderately impressed. I also gather that about half a mile away another gallery is hosting an open night and another two galleries beyond that. I loiter by a couple standing in front of a canvas swirled with green paint.
‘So post-modern,’ the woman says.
‘Really?’ the man says. ‘I find it contrived.’
‘Evocative though.’
‘Bit kitsch for me.’ He leans in to read the biography. ‘Never heard of them.’
The woman laughs. ‘I’m not sure you’ll find anyone you’ve heard of here.’
How dare they slag off Alex’s gallery? They might be middle-aged but they’re just like kids on social media – faking opinions, pretending to be cool, hoping no one realizes you’re busking every second.
‘I agree it’s evocative,’ I tell the woman. ‘Isn’t that a great reason to invest though?’
She blinks at me. ‘Do I know you?’
‘I’m just saying – does a picture have to be linked to a famous name to have value?’
‘It helps.’
‘But if you love it – isn’t that all that matters?’
‘Well,’ she says, taking the man’s arm. ‘That’s not a gamble I’m willing to take.’
She steers the man away. I shouldn’t’ve said anything. I probably made it worse. I grab a glass of wine from the drinks table to calm my nerves. It tastes expensive – nothing like the boxed stuff I’ve had before. Alex had wanted champagne but couldn’t afford it. He’d wanted waiting staff too and canapés. If tonight goes well, he said he’ll have them next time for sure.
I take sips as I move slowly along the wall, pausing at pieces that draw my eye. I try and look like an art connoisseur or someone important from the media. I take photos of the most vibrant pieces. I try not to skim but to observe. I think about how long the artist spent creating each work and honour them with a little of my time. Alex told me once there’s no correct way to look at a picture. ‘Choose something you’d like to own,’ he said. ‘And study it until you feel pulled in.’
I knew what he meant because that’s what Charlie’s drawings do to me sometimes. They make me feel different, the way I might feel listening to music or reading a novel.
Thinking of Charlie makes me feel guilty. I bring up WhatsApp to ask how the cooking’s going, but he’s got a message in first:Potatoesburned! I message back:Binthem and advise him to have cheese on toast instead. Sometimes, it feels as if I’m spinning plates and the minute I take any time for myself away from home, all the plates start to fall. I wait for him to...
