by Preethi Nair
‘What is it, Ma?’ I said, going into their room.
‘You’ve eaten something?’
‘I had something at Raj’s house.’
‘How it went?’
‘His mum’s got it all under control.’
‘No, not wedding plans, work. Your important client?’
I was taken aback because she never asked about the specifics of work or clients but she seemed genuinely interested for a change. ‘It went well, Ma, really well.’
‘Good. Only today even, your father and me, we saying how proud we are of you.’
Thank God it was dark and she couldn’t see my face riddled with guilt. ‘There’s no need to be, Ma.’
I wanted to go over to her, hold her, unburden myself and confess.
‘Every need. You make us so proud.’
In a couple of months it would all be over. I would be married and then there would be no more deceit. I would have hopefully got it all out of my system and I would endeavour to be a good wife to Raj.
‘Good night, Ma.’
‘Sleep well, beta.’
I went to see three offices in southwest London and settled for the last one in Westminster as it had a desk with the use of a phone and computer along with a shared receptionist who would take messages in my absence. It was £200 per week and I signed the contract for six weeks. There was no going back now and I felt a sense of excitement once I had made the commitment.
The desks were separated off with huge barriers so you couldn’t see what people either side or in front of you were doing. It wasn’t particularly busy but those who were there had their heads down, lost in their work.
‘What’s your company name?’ the office manager asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your company name – when you get phone calls how would you like the receptionist to answer?’
I thought for a moment. If the receptionist said Nina Savani Limited it would make the company seem small – when I called people up to hype Foruki I had to make it seem as if it was a busy, cutting-edge company.
Frantically looking for inspiration, I noticed a picture of a brown owl behind her signed Kendal. It had a solid ring to it.
‘Kendal,’ I replied. ‘Kendal Brown.’
‘There’s also a divert system on the phone – I’ll show you how to action that. Here’s a set of keys and the pin number to use the phone. All calls are itemised and are charged separately. You choose your own computer password and let me know what it is. That’s all you need to know really … oh, there’s a kitchen area to your right so you can help yourself to tea and coffee and the toilets are just around the corner. Any questions?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Well, if you put your full address there and sign here, you can start using the office …’ she looked at her watch ‘… as of now.’
I gave her the studio’s address and took all the paperwork she handed me.
Sitting at my new desk and switching on the computer, the first thing I did was fiddle about on the screensaver typing the words ‘GO NINA’ in capitals. I laughed at my own craziness but inside I desperately wanted to succeed. I wanted the exhibition to go well. What I wanted beyond that I really didn’t know, maybe just to feel as happy, as crazy and as alive as I did on seeing the words dance boldly in front of me.
Pulling out a contact sheet from my folder with names and telephone numbers that I had drawn up, I divided up the list of people on the basis of how well I knew them and how they could help. There were artists, gallery owners, curators that I had met at my time at Whitter and Lawson, some of whom I knew very well. I would begin with them and would say that I had left the firm to dedicate more time to artists I felt passionately about.
The first thing was to find a venue. None of the major galleries in London would exhibit an unknown, especially not in six weeks. Impression was absolutely everything and Foruki had to look big as well as different. Somewhere obvious wouldn’t do. I thought about who on my list could help specifically with venues, then reflecting on what Raj had told me about confidence, I took a deep breath and began calling them; almost as if they were obliged to help. Raj had got this from one of the many books he had read and said that if there was a level of expectation and confidence in a person’s tone then people would be more likely to be receptive.
Despite having many contacts it was harder than I thought it would be. There were few leads but eventually a promising one came from a PR company who I hyped Foruki to. The lady said she was dealing with a restaurant chain called Artusion. They had restaurants in Tokyo and New York, and were opening their first restaurant in London soon. The concept was simple: a modern Japanese restaurant and a gallery where up-and-coming artists were exhibited. It sounded almost too good to be true. The PR lady said she could arrange a meeting; I left her my details. A restaurant/gallery was an unusual place to hold Foruki’s first exhibition in London but Foruki was different. It would be an ideal venue.
I rang the artists whom I had once represented just to tell them that I had left Whitter and Lawson and casually dropped in that I was spending my time representing an up-and-coming Japanese artist. The more influential people who had heard of Foruki the better.
A few of them wanted to know if I would represent them too. I had to say that there was a clause in my old contract which stated that I was unable to take old clients with me, but I thanked them for their support and hoped that they would be able to make it to Foruki’s exhibition. Later that afternoon my boss Simon called me up, curious about what I was doing.
‘I’m sorry about what happened, Simon, with Boo and everything. It was inexcusable.’
‘Quite out of character for you, Nina, but I suppose you had your other plans in mind.’
Is that what he thought? That I had orchestrated a departure so I wouldn’t have to work my notice? I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t like that – that there was no planning or scheming involved – but how else could it all be explained besides telling him the truth. ‘All I can do is apologise again for being so unprofessional.’
He asked me what exactly I was doing and I talked about the artist that I had brought over from Japan and invited him along to the opening night. It was better to keep on good terms with him. Simon could make trouble for me, he could say anything about me; that I had lost it at work and was near-enough sacked.
Once he had established that I couldn’t possibly be any kind of threat to him, he dismissed me abruptly.
‘There’s another call waiting. I wish you the very best in your endeavours, Nina,’ he said with a touch of sarcasm.
Maybe I was a nobody in his eyes and it was a mad idea, but this made me resolve to make Foruki as big as I could.
The PR lady called back saying she had managed to fix up a meeting for the following day with the owners of Artusion. I then took a walk to see the stationer. Taking a copy of Raj’s mother’s wedding invite, I showed them the type of style I wanted for all my letterheads and business cards and for Foruki’s exhibition invites.
‘Kendal Brown just across there like that, and the contact details here.’
‘Costly,’ the printer kept saying, ‘especially in that style. Gold doesn’t come cheap, especially if you want it embossed.’ So I picked out a much cheaper version for my own wedding invites seeing as all my uncles and aunts would only need to read it once to make sure where and when exactly they were being fed. The invite would then, inevitably, be discarded or used as a coaster.
Foruki’s invites couldn’t be done at that time seeing as the printer didn’t have all the information he needed but he said that I could pick the rest of the stationery, letterheads and so on, on Monday. When he presented me with the bill I slipped in the fact that I would give him more business, adding that I was in charge of ordering all the company’s stationery, and he gave me a discount that would have made my dad proud.
My mum was busy cooking when I got home. My dad was not all that impressed with the discou
nt when I told him, worried more about who from work would be attending the wedding.
‘Your boss will come to the wedding?’
‘Hopefully, if he’s not away; but Simon’s said that he’ll give me a few days off before the wedding,’ I added, thinking that logistically the whole suit routine in the run-up to the exhibition might prove a bit difficult.
My mum rushed out of the kitchen. ‘So you can come with me to India? Oh, Bhagavan, thank you.’
‘No Ma, it’s just in case I have to do last minute things here.’
‘Your father will do them.’
He pretended not to hear her.
I imagined Dad running about organising the exhibition. ‘No, it’s only really me who can arrange it all.’
‘Bhagavan has other plans for you, it was not meant to be. Never mind. I am doing all the cooking for your father. All you have to do, beta, is defrost the food in the morning and heat it in the microwave in the evening,’ she said pointing at the many plastic containers. ‘So, beta, try not to come home too late because he doesn’t know how the microwave works.’
It wasn’t going to be possible to get in for seven every day, not with all that I had to organise. ‘I know I’ll be late, Ma, it’s really busy at work and they’ve already given me time off and, anyway, Dad’s an electrician, of course he knows how it works. Don’t you, Dad?’
‘What?’ he said, peering from behind his paper, pretending again that he hadn’t heard a word.
‘The microwave, you know how it works. It’s just that I know I’m going to be home late and I don’t want you to starve.’
He muttered something.
‘Alternatively, I can ask Raj’s mum to send food parcels over. I’m sure she would be happy to help, I mean she loves organising people.’
The newspaper was flung on his chair as he stormed into the uncharted territory of the kitchen, and before you knew it he had mastered the microwave, hob, and found out where the freezer was located.
The three of us sat and had dinner together and my mum commented that it had been a while since she had seen me this happy – and I did feel happy, happy and excited for Foruki and for me, I suppose. She talked about the kind of sari she would bring back and described the jewellery in great detail. My dad dropped a random comment in about An audience with the Cilla Black being on ITV the following week and I was thinking about what I would say on Foruki’s invitations. And although the three of us were each in our separate worlds, we had never been so close; all bonded by a prevailing sense of excitement.
The next day, I prepared to meet with the owners of Artusion and the PR lady later that afternoon. To calm myself I went into the studio early and began to paint a portrait of what I thought Foruki looked like. Having him there on canvas would make him seem more real. I painted an abstract face in oranges, reds and yellow with only a slight hint of white. I didn’t get time to finish it but he seemed as though he would be the kind of man I would have liked to work for; peaceful and not at all temperamental. ‘I’ll try and do my best for you, Foruki,’ I said to the man on the unfinished canvas. Washing my hands and changing back into my suit, I made my way to the restaurant.
Situated in Mayfair and literally just around the corner from the wedding venue, Artusion was due to open in a fortnight. As soon as I stepped in I heard Madame Butterfly playing in the background. This was most definitely a sign. It was spacious, elegant and minimalist, designed in black, white and red. The manager, Christophe, introduced himself and led me to an office, saying that both the owners were in town and were keen to meet me.
‘Emanuel Hikatari and this is my business partner Michael Hyland. I deal with the restaurant, Michael deals with the gallery.’
They both appeared to be in their early thirties. Emanuel Hikatari was tall and lean, while Michael Hyland was even taller and robust; he had a very gentle smile and a perfectly symmetrical nose. For a moment I felt like I was in one of Matisse’s paintings, balancing on this man’s nose and seeing every single feature: large round eyes, unusually long lashes. What were his hands like?
He held one out to shake mine; it felt warm and confident. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
I couldn’t quite place his accent.
‘And Emily Bruce-Williams you know, of course.’
He was introducing me to the PR lady. I’d only spoken to her, never met her before, but I held out my hand as if we were life-long friends.
‘Hello again, Emily.’
After the introductions Emanuel Hikatari got straight to it. ‘Emily tells us you’re representing a Japanese artist. His name?’ he asked coldly.
‘Foruki,’ I replied.
‘Surname?’
He didn’t have a surname. ‘That’s what he likes to be known as.’ Why was he being so hostile? Could he see through me?
‘I’m half-Japanese, I’ve never heard of him and it is an unusual name.’
‘It’s a pseudonym,’ I replied.
My hands felt sweaty. He turned to his colleague. ‘Have you heard of this, this pseudonym?’
‘No, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing,’ he answered. His eyes were infinitely warmer than his partner’s and his voice was not arrogant. ‘Where has he exhibited?’ Michael asked with interest.
I couldn’t lie about the Japanese galleries, they would know. So I said I discovered him in Japan and then reeled off a list of well-known artists I had represented to add credibility to what I was saying.
‘Where in Japan?’ Emanuel Hikatari asked.
‘Tokyo, I discovered him in Tokyo,’ I replied assertively. I turned and directed my answers towards Michael. ‘He isn’t famous, he doesn’t want to be famous, I had to persuade him to come to London; and for his first exhibition here I want to find somewhere that reflects his personality – innovative yet understated.’
Emanuel interrupted, ‘Can you guarantee press coverage? That’s what I want to know.’
‘Yes,’ I said looking at him confidently, with absolutely no idea of how to get press there.
‘I’ll leave it entirely up to you, Michael.’ He excused himself, saying he had another meeting to go to, and left.
As soon as Emanuel Hikatari left the room, the PR lady suddenly stirred to life and began twirling her long blonde hair; she too had felt the thaw. Once again, she explained the concept of Artusion and how it was important for them to find the right artist for the exhibition. She went on to say how they were maximising coverage by opening the restaurant with an installation done by the Turner Prize winner, alias wardrobe man, Maximus Karlhein.
‘But after the initial PR, I want the first real exhibitor to be a painter. I don’t mind if he’s not famous – it’s about the work. Have you brought any slides with you?’ Michael asked.
‘No, but I can get some to you.’ I should have thought about slides but I had thought it was going to be much easier than this; it was hardly as if I was trying to get Foruki into the opening exhibition of the Tate Modern.
‘Let me show you around the place,’ he said getting up.
He towered above me and we walked towards a spiral staircase. He let me go first and I had a strange sensation of being able to feel his presence even though he was two or three steps away from me. It was making me nervous and I just focused on trying not to trip or fall down those stairs, and as we reached the top he glanced at my face to see my reaction.
The staircase led to an opulent yet minimalist gallery. The walls were white, it was bright and spacious with large arc-shaped windows that overlooked London. The floor was intricately done in mosaic with Japanese letters. It was perfect.
‘It’s not finished yet but it will be soon. I do apologise if my partner was a little short with you, it’s just that there is so much left to do and so little time.’
I knew the feeling.
‘So what style does Foruki adopt?’
‘Abstract.’ I kept the conversation to a minimum in case I said the wrong things, and although I had become somet
hing of an expert I didn’t want to lie to him. He had the kind of eyes that made him incredibly difficult to lie to.
‘And you, Nina, how long have you been an agent?’ He didn’t call me Ms Savani as he had done in the room downstairs. Was he trying to catch me off guard, did he think that I didn’t sound competent? I didn’t want to blow it now.
‘I was a lawyer in the art industry for almost four years and gave it up recently to represent Foruki.’ There, almost the truth. I wanted the conversation to end there because he was making me feel nervous and I too wanted to play with my hair like Emily Bruce-Williams.
‘So you’ll drop the slides off by tomorrow?’
‘I’ll courier them over to you,’ I replied, trying in vain to sound professional. Then I looked at my watch, thinking that I’d have to find someone who would have the slides ready for the next day. ‘I have another meeting to go to but it was a pleasure and I would be grateful if you could contact me as soon as possible once you have reached a decision.’
‘I certainly will,’ Michael Hyland replied, smiling.
I rushed off and finally managed to find someone who would take pictures of the canvases and develop them into slides for the following day.
After the man had left I attempted to finish Foruki’s portrait, but saw nothing except fiery hues of red in large bold strokes so that is what I painted. His eyebrows appeared to be the only thing salvaged from this fiery storm. I couldn’t stop thinking about Michael Hyland. Yes, OK, he definitely had something about him and was attractive, but that was it. Engaged people could still find other people attractive, that was no crime. Married people found other people attractive – dad and Cilla, for example. ‘She’s the dynamite,’ he had accidentally blurted when he first saw her many years ago on Blind Date. Ki and I had split our sides laughing as my mother disgruntledly went to attend to her rotis.
Later that evening, Ki had probed further as to his fascination with her.
‘I know she’s good-looking, Uncle, is that why you like her?’ she had sniggered.