‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said to Alice, Andrew and Mark, who smiled, nodded and diffused into the crowd. ‘Jessica, this is Giorgio Stefani. Art editor. Vogue Australia.’ She whispered his credentials, but she needn’t have bothered; I would recognise his slicked-back hair and chiselled cheekbones anywhere. ‘Giorgio would like to ask you a few questions, perhaps if you two would like to head out to the reception and you can talk through the exhibition as we visioneered?’
Visioneered. Like, engineered a vision? You may be able to afford brand new Manolo Blahniks, Olivia, but that does not give you the right to edit the Oxford English Dictionary.
‘Sure.’ I smiled my most professional-looking smile, extending a hand delicately and silently thanking Tim for booking me into a mandatory manicure only days before. ‘Follow me,’ I said, picking up two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing waitress and handing one to Mr Stefani. I led him out of the room, head high and legs a little shaky. How many glasses had I had now? Tottering into the reception, I donned my best Olivia impression – sadly, my movements were less slaloming, more dribbling. Mr Stefani followed.
‘So, talk me through this one.’ Mr Stefani gestured nonchalantly up to Tuesday’s Slumber.
‘Well, Mr Stefani,’ I said, nerves turning my sentence into stuttering. Vogue Australia. Vogue Australia. I had been allowed to email him an invoice. Once. I hope he didn’t twig and wonder why he had been landed with the PA. But I wasn’t the PA any more, I was the co-curator. I guess it was time to start acting like one.
I began slowly, describing the impasto style, the short brush strokes, the abstract detail of the deep blue piece. ‘The decision to place the piece here was twofold.’ Running out of things to say about the painting, I went on to our positioning, sounding a little too similar to the gallery toffs Austin and Zoe had pretended to be all those years ago. ‘Firstly, practical – making the best use of our beautiful space.’ I cast my arms wide and my eyes to the ornate ceiling as Mr Stefani followed my gaze. ‘Secondly, anticipation.’ I returned to look at him with a dramatic pause. ‘We wanted you to feel the exhibition before you even step in.’ I certainly sounded like a co-curator.
‘Fascinating.’ Mr Stefani stretched out the syllables.
I smiled. ‘Let me take you to the next room.’ Leading the way into the first room, bursting with the colours of sunrise, I began to warm up, explaining each painting with a flourish. I had studied the notes for each since arriving at the gallery, reluctant at first but as I researched more and more, I fell headlong into Leo Todd’s vision: what she had hoped to achieve and create. Her piece Sunrise on the Eighth was made during her first week in Sydney, and featured real pieces of sand stuck into the yellow and orange stripes, getting thicker and more sweeping as the colours exploded from the centre of the piece. Broken in Blue invited viewers into a stark white canvas, thin blue lines etched ever so softly in scars that could only be seen close up. I showed off each piece with a pride and familiarity for her. She was my age. Strong women everywhere would be proud of her, cheering her on, but somehow that realisation made me feel like I was slipping even further behind – until tonight, until I shared in her success, until I used my brain. As I spoke, I felt it retrieve facts from the dusty degree in my mind, surprised that their years unused hadn’t rendered them forgotten. For years, my knowledge of artists and their paintings had felt as useful as a soup fork. But now, now I felt like it mattered; I felt like I mattered.
Twenty minutes later, we had made it back into the main room and Olivia was replacing our empty glasses. Probably a bad idea. But almost on autopilot I accepted the full glass without question and turned to my interviewer. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Stefani. I hope you enjoy the rest of the exhibition.’
‘Please,’ he began, resting his free hand on my arm. ‘Call me Giorgio.’
Call me Giorgio; I savoured the moment. Somewhere deep inside me the worn-down and worn-out girl at Art Today rejoiced: before me was the art editor of Vogue Australia telling me to call him Giorgio. If only I could bottle this feeling.
‘Jessica.’ Olivia nudged my elbow and I glanced up from what must be my seventh glass of champagne. ‘Hannah Sommers, editor-in-chief at—’
This one I knew for sure. ‘Art Today Australia.’
‘I believe you two have already—’
‘Thank you, Olivia.’ I interrupted her sentence before she could finish, steering the elegant older woman dripping in jewels before me, away from Olivia and the rest of the crowd. Here she was, finally, in the flesh, I had my chance to convince her to offer me another pocket of her time as soon as her packed-out diary would allow. Gone was her barrier of bourgeois beauties, gone was the faceless voice asking, ‘Have you got an appointment?’, and gone was my inability to fight for what I wanted. It was time. Rewinding to the start of my tour, I took Hannah over to Tuesday’s Slumber.
‘I couldn’t wait to visit.’ Her pompous tone rang through her Australian accent, a universal arrogance translating to either hemisphere. The Sydney-based artists I had come across seemed so genuine and down to earth, but the pomp and prestige of the Art Today empire was international. ‘Lots of the girls and boys in our offices wanted to join,’ she droned on. Women and men, I corrected in my mind, grinning and nodding along, never skipping a beat. I needed too much from her – a good review, a job. Just looking at her perfectly lined eyes reminded me of Devon, her final smirk of dismissal still haunting me from across the globe. I bit back the thought. Slagging off her rival may get us a good review, but it wouldn’t get me that job. For better or for worse, Art Today wanted all of their staff to be married to the job. Outside of the magazine, bitching was banter. From inside, it was betrayal. ‘But they’re just so busy. You know how it is,’ she said as I joined in with her laughter, unsure as to quite how true she knew that statement to be. ‘I guess that’s what you get for being part of the greatest art brand on earth.’ She reeled off the company strapline as I took another sip of my champagne, forcing my eyes to fix on its bubbles and not roll in their sockets. On and on she went, listing the accolades of the Art Today empire.
‘Patience is breath-taking,’ she oozed, gazing into its soft greys and ironically frenzied swirls. ‘You should have opened with that.’ She gave me a hard stare over her cat-flick glasses. I got the feeling that if we had, she would have commented that the piece would have looked better in the body of the collection. I knew all too well that Art Today editors were impossible to please. God, she didn’t half go on, though. Question after question. Each time I began to respond, Hannah cut me off to answer them herself. Clearly, I was the student in this scenario; student or servant – I wasn’t sure. Either way, I couldn’t imagine she’d mind me polishing her Pradas. She filled our silence with chatter as I hurried to work out how the hell I was going to invite her out for coffee or broach the topic of a job. Maybe if I just weaved in the fact that I used to work at Art Today UK? Like I said, it wasn’t like I got fired; I was made redundant. Devon had made me so bloody redundant.
‘I want to include everything.’ She looked at the next painting. ‘But as you know, every page of our publication is prime real estate.’ Even chased with gulps of champagne, her ego was hard to swallow. I glanced down at my too-quickly drained glass, then around the room for someone to deal with it. This was my ‘Call me Giorgio’ moment and she was ruining it. I finally felt good at something. I wouldn’t let someone take it away. A waiter placed a topped-up glass in my hand, and I studied the bubbles rising as a thought rose in my mind.
I wouldn’t let her take it away.
I didn’t want to work at Art Today; I had never wanted to. Not really. Not then, not now. I cast my eyes across the room around me, filled with chatter, brimming with success. I had helped make this happen. I looked from Olivia to Tim, weaving through the guests. We were a good team. Surely they would want to keep me around? Carlo was still MIA and it was opening night; our journey with the exhibition had only just begun and given the
press I’d managed to get here, who knew where else it might take us? For once, I wanted to be there to find out, to see what opportunities might come along. I looked at Hannah Sommers, so similar to her UK counterpart despite their disdain for one another. But wasn’t that always the case? Two women more similar than they cared to think, wrestling for a space life told each one of them they could only occupy alone, like there was a scarcity of happiness or success to go around. Europe, Australia and all the world over, it would always be the same. I couldn’t go back there, not now. I had to move forwards, to stop living that past. I looked around the room again, for Joshua, Alice, Mark – anyone who could receive my SOS and come to my rescue. Then I saw the back of a head I would recognise anywhere. As if in slow motion, he turned. Catching my eye from across the room, he raised his glass and nodded his head in my direction.
He was here. Finally, three years too late, but he was here.
‘… Rebranding… out with the old… in with the…’ Hannah Sommers’ arrogant spiel had become monotonous white noise as my attention focused on Sam. Jamie was nowhere to be seen.
‘… Art Today empire is thriving…’
Sorry, what did she just say?
‘And for once the UK office is starting to shape up…’
‘Thriving?’ I asked, too abruptly, forcing my attention back to her. Hannah looked shocked at someone having the guts to ask a question. Taking a leaf out of her glossy-paged book, I answered it myself. ‘Art Today UK has just made half of their staff redundant. Their print issue is losing money. How can that be thriving?’
Maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was Sam – but I didn’t need her to make my move to Sydney a success. I could do that on my own.
‘Only those who weren’t pulling their weight,’ Hannah replied coolly, blissfully unaware that she was talking to one of them. But I wasn’t weak, not then, and certainly not now; I was a ‘Call me Giorgio’ co-curator surrounded by people who had turned up to support me. Across the room I could see Sam edging closer towards us.
‘… And with Devon at the helm the ship won’t sink…’ she went on, still keeping up appearances, although I was sure there was sarcasm escaping through her gritted teeth. Were they planning to get rid of her too? At least Hannah and I saw eye to eye on that. ‘She’s such a visionary…’
‘Yeah, of second-hand visions.’ I smirked, both shocked and proud as the words came out of my mouth. I could feel myself cracking. I’d kept her incompetence and misplaced priorities a secret for far too long and I knew full well that Hannah would love my gossip. I didn’t want to work for her, but I knew how to get us a good review, how to let her know CreateSpace was on her side.
‘I beg your pardon?’ She looked at me intently. I could have sworn I saw a sneer flit across her face. Of course she wanted to know more. This was their trade. ‘What are you insinuating?’
I looked into Hannah’s wide eyes, willing me to go on. Maybe I should stop? From her smile it looked like I’d already made my point, that in their race to the top I considered her the winner. And judging from her reaction to our exhibition, perhaps she didn’t need warming up to give us a shit-hot review. But then, she was here now, didn’t she deserve to know the truth? And what had Lady Devon ever done for me? Apart from belittle me, hold me back, make me lie for her and then make me redundant. From the corner of my eye, I could see Sam moving closer and smiled: one killer review coming our way. ‘I have it on good authority’ – aka I worked for her for years – ‘that she steals all of her best ideas from you.’
Hannah smiled, showing a perfect set of white teeth. If this wasn’t going to get us five stars, I wasn’t sure what would.
‘She wouldn’t.’ Hannah leaned in closer, a sadistic look in her eyes, her smile spreading wider.
‘Oh, she would,’ I said. I could feel Sam’s presence. I turned to acknowledge him and then moved my attention back to Hannah, who was packing away her iPhone into one of this season’s Miu Miu clutches.
‘Thank you for the interview, Jessica. It’s a fantastic story,’ she said, looking around the exhibition space. ‘And thanks for the heads-up,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t think Devon had it in her.’
‘Trust me,’ I continued, drawing strength from years of staying silent. ‘There’s nothing that bitch wouldn’t do.’
‘Hey, Pansy.’ Sam looked at my outfit from top to designer bottom and smiled. He looked effortlessly gorgeous in a dark grey suit and white open-collared shirt, showing just a hint of hair on the strong chest I used to sleep against. ‘This is so great!’ he said, casting his eyes around the bustling exhibition. It was beautiful, and I had played a part in pulling it together. And I felt beautiful too. The surfing sessions with Joshua were clearly starting to do the trick, tightening my arms and relaxing my mind. Maybe Sam was right; maybe Sydney was good for me, too. I was getting excited for what my future could hold here.
‘I didn’t think you were going to make it.’ I smiled; I’d had every reason to believe he wouldn’t.
‘Jess, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ He placed a hand on my upper arm and squeezed, saying the words I had always longed to hear. ‘I’m really proud of you.’ I almost felt like he wanted to kiss me. Why wouldn’t he kiss me? ‘Jamie sends her love as well.’ Oh yeah, that was why. But he was here now, and we were finally alone, with the whole evening in front of us. ‘She tried to get me to stay to do wedmin for another hour, but I told her I really needed a break.’ He looked serious for a moment before covering the look with a laugh. A break from wedmin or a break from Jamie? ‘It all just gets a bit too much sometimes, you know? So, going to show me around?’
Repeating the tour again, taking a bit more time than I had with Call me Giorgio and Hannah Ego Sommers, I walked Sam through the themes and highlights of the exhibition. In the slightly quieter ‘morning’ room, one or two people milled around holding glasses of champagne and taking in the art.
‘So, tell me about this one.’ Sam mirrored the posture of those more well-versed in gallery etiquette around him. Nameless by Anonymous was a smaller supporting piece. It was hard to top Leo Todd for mystery, but this unknown local artist had gone and done it. Compared to the vast canvases nearby, it lacked some of the same impact. And yet, it caught my eye every time, almost like a memory I couldn’t quite recall. Where had I seen this artist’s work before? I’d asked Tim again and again if we had been given a name for the plaque, but it was always a no. Knowing him, he’d probably gone and lost it. That, or Carlo had stolen it to spite him. About half a metre wide, the canvas was painted in oils that faded from light blue to dark blue with increasingly intense brushstrokes and texture, a little like Tuesday’s Slumber, but softer, kinder, like inviting you into warm water or a restful dream. I turned to look at Sam, tall and handsome as he tried to make sense of what stood before him. Art was outside his area of expertise. He never did used to get it.
‘No.’ I turned to look at him, as he took a step back, surprised. ‘You tell me about it. What do you see? What does it make you feel?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sam said sheepishly; such a perfectionist, never wanting to get things wrong.
‘There’s no right or wrong answer, Sam.’ I laughed kindly and turned back to the canvas. ‘Ever heard of the phrase “it’s an art, not a science”?’
‘Well, I see blue,’ Sam began. Good start; at least he was trying. ‘Like the sea.’ Honestly, he sounded like a child. ‘And it gets deeper, and darker and then there’s… like… more going on under the surface than we see… and it’s messy and real and… I like it.’ Sam finished his analysis and looked at me as if to ask if he had got it right.
‘Cool,’ I said, noncommittal, lust and champagne pulsing around my body. I had waited years for Sam to give art a chance; he never did like dealing with things – or people – he didn’t understand. I allowed myself to look into the picture again, not wanting to ruin the moment. I studied the use of colour; it was a blend of blues, so deep, so unique,
I knew I’d seen it before. It was the colour of the painting I had printed off an image of and pinned up to my desk at work. The last idea I had bothered to suggest to Devon. Now she was miles away, and I felt miles away from that bored and hopeless girl. Without speaking, I tried not to stumble as we went on to the next piece, right outside the door to Room B. It was time to enter the crowds again. Sam followed. Looking up at the yellows and creams of the large canvas that hung before us, I felt Sam close behind me and could almost feel his breath on my exposed shoulder.
‘Jess?’ Sam asked, gazing up at the piece. I turned around to look at him. ‘This is really great.’
‘The piece?’ I asked, looking up at Leo’s work, my pride for her now outweighing any envy.
‘Not just the piece.’ He shook his head and looked down at his shoes. ‘The piece, the exhibition, the art, you.’ He looked me in the eye and smiled. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t say it enough when we were together, but I loved that you were artistic, that you were into all this stuff. I loved that you saw the world differently from the way I do.’
He was telling me things I wanted to hear, and yet one word rang out, drowning out all of the rest. Loved. Past tense. Loved. Sam broke off as he saw my face fall.
‘What’s wrong?’ He put a hand on my arm, his skin melting into my own.
I’d drunk too much. I shouldn’t say it. But he was here, and Jamie was not. And he’d said he wouldn’t miss it for the world. I looked into his eyes, his face inching towards me with every bated breath occupying the space between us.
‘Loved. As in the past,’ I said quietly, trying desperately to stifle memories of all the times he had told me in the present tense; before love turned to loved.
Slowly, Sam placed both hands on my shoulders and pulled me into a big bear hug. My safe space. Encased by strangers and surrounded by brushstrokes, his head nuzzled into my hair and I heard him breathe, ‘You know I’ll always love you, J.’
The Spare Bedroom: A totally heartwarming, funny and feel good romantic comedy Page 20