by Anthony Burn
She shook her head to each question and added, ‘Not since university. Actually, he dumped me for another guy.’
‘Seriously?’
She nodded, and a pained expression crossed her face but quickly disappeared.
‘Ouch, that’s tough!’ I’d read on her profile that she had studied at Sussex. ‘I’ve heard there’s a big gay scene in Brighton.’
‘Yes there is. I just never expected to be directly involved with it,’ she said.
The waiter cleared our plates and there was a brief pause while we waited for the next course.
‘Can I ask you about your name?’ Lauren asked. ‘It’s quite unusual, and I wondered if it had any significance, or how your parents chose it.’
‘I think they just overdid my mum’s gas and air when I was being born,’ I joked.
I explained that Keegan was a family name, which had been passed down through the male line for generations, originally as a surname, until somewhere along the line it had become a middle name. My maternal grandfather was Walter Keegan Jensen. He’d had only one child, a girl, so the line could have stopped there, but my mother had been a traditionalist; I was named Keegan Archibald, in honour of both grandfathers. Growing up in the late eighties and early nineties, the trend for unusual kids names had already begun, and most people just assumed, incorrectly, that my parents were massive football fans who had named me after a well-known player and manager from the North East.
We chatted amiably about family as we ate the rest of our dinner, Lauren’s face conveying her delight with every new taste sensation. I told her about Drew and Amy, about my parent’s divorce and my mother’s subsequent death, for which she expressed sympathy, but which I shrugged away. I mentioned my father’s second wife, but decided to spare her the details. She asked me what I did for a living, and I told her I was a web designer but I didn’t mention I’d closed the business; I reasoned that there might be a more opportune time to disclose that fact.
Lauren, in turn, told me about her parents, their work and their long, happy marriage. She told me about her brother, Jack, who was two years older than her and who had married a ‘lovely American girl’. He worked as a software engineer for a large corporation just outside Seattle. When I asked if she meant Microsoft, she laughed and said he would spit blood if I suggested that to him.
I brought the subject back to art and asked her if she’d heard of transitory illusionism.
She looked puzzled. ‘That’s a new one on me.’
Explaining about my tour of the other galleries, I told her about the woman who had invented styles as she went along, and how I’d called her bluff with the fictitious artist before ducking out of the shop. ‘I felt a bit bad about it afterwards. I’m not normally like that.’
‘Nothing more than she deserved,’ Lauren assured me. ‘People like her give us all a bad name.’
I took out my phone to show her the artworks I had selected, and she considered each one carefully, zooming in and out on different details while making approving comments. ‘I like all of these, Kee. You’ve got a very good eye.’ She turned the phone and flicked through to show me her favourites.
‘So, you think they’re worth buying?’ I asked.
She studied the images on the screen. ‘To be honest, the other day when you asked me to look at them, I thought you meant the originals. It’s difficult to give you a proper appraisal from photos because it’s hard to see the details. When I zoom in, the image pixelates. And another problem is a camera always distorts the colours.’
‘Would you be willing to go and look at them?’
I braced myself for excuses, but she surprised me with her enthusiasm. ‘I’d be happy to, but having said that, I should warn you that even then it’s still a subjective opinion. I can tell you if I think the artists are talented or if their techniques are good, but nobody can say for sure whether they will appreciate in value. There are no guarantees. If it helps, from what I’ve seen here, there’s none I would definitely advise you against. How many were you thinking about buying?’
Her face coloured, and before I could reply, she said, ‘Sorry, Kee, that was rude of me. I shouldn’t have asked you that. It’s none of my business. I’m sorry.’
I smiled. ‘Please don’t be. At least, not twice! I’ve sort of made it your business. In any case, you’re still calling me Kee, so we’re definitely friends. You can ask me anything.’
She visibly relaxed. ‘Okay. Sorry.’
‘I would like all of them, but I don’t have enough wall space without crowding them in, and I don’t want to do that. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about starting a collection.’ I told her about the guy I’d overheard on the plane to Hawaii, and she laughed with me as I recounted some of the details.
‘I don’t want to end up like him,’ I said, ‘but it did get me wondering where he kept them all.’
‘Yeah, we sometimes get people like him in the gallery. They’ve got no real appreciation of art, they’re just interested in what the paintings are worth and whether they can make money from them. He probably keeps them in a vault and rarely looks at them. I always think it’s such a pity after all the effort that went into creating them.’
I agreed with her sentiment. ‘It does seem a shame. Anyway, it got me thinking that I could buy or rent a place to hang them, like my own private gallery, but it wouldn’t be the same as having them at home. If I had to make an effort to go and look at them, I might not bother that often, and then it would be no more than a glorified vault.’
She nodded her understanding, but said nothing.
‘So, I thought the next logical step would be to open my own gallery. That way I would not only get to look at my art every day, but I would also be sharing it.’
She laughed. ‘Do you mean you’re going into competition with us? Should I be worried?’
‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘I don’t know enough to do it on my own. I would need help from someone who knows her stuff… someone who could manage the exhibits and decide which artists to show.’
She laughed again. ‘Are you offering me a job, Kee?’
‘Actually, yes, I am. If you’re interested. I would give you complete control over the artistic side. You would get to choose what to hang and where. I would take care of the admin, running the website and social media. The other part of your job would be to teach me. I want to learn as much as possible.’
‘What do you think about acting as an agency for emerging artists?’ she asked. ‘Instead of just having their work in one gallery, you could promote them to other galleries, private and business clients, and exhibitions around the country, or even around the world. It saves the artists having to continually promote themselves, and you would earn commission for doing it.’
‘Like a literary agent does for writers,’ I said. ‘That sounds like a great idea. Do you do that at your gallery?’
She pulled a face, and her voice lost some of its spirit. ‘No, I suggested it to my boss, but he said it was far too much work.’
‘Well, I’d be happy to give it a go.’
She grinned, and gave the impression that she still wasn’t taking me seriously. ‘How much are you planning to pay me?’
‘I’ll pay you double what you’re earning now.’
‘I’m on one hundred thousand a year,’ she said, her face expressionless.
I was surprised, but unconcerned. ‘Okay, two hundred grand it is.’
Her face lit up. ‘I’m winding you up. I’m only on forty-five thousand.’
‘Good hustle,’ I told her, ‘but I’m still happy to pay you two hundred.’
‘Great! When can I start?’
‘As soon as you like. How about tomorrow?’
Her grin faded, and she looked at me quizzically. ‘We are still joking here, aren’t we?’
‘I’m not,’ I said, trying to convey as much sincerity as possible.
‘Oh my God, you’re serious!’ Apprehension dawned in her eyes, and her
voice became panicky. ‘I was just playing along. I totally thought you were having a laugh.’
‘Can I level with you, Lauren?’ I kept my tone as calm as possible. ‘Last year I came into quite a lot of money. I can afford to open a gallery and keep it running for several years before it needs to make a profit, but that’s not my plan. I want to run it as a proper business that stands on its own two feet. I just can’t do it on my own. So, yes, I’m completely serious. If you’re interested.’
The heat returned to her face, and she squirmed in her seat. ‘I’m really sorry, Kee. It’s totally like my dream job. I’d love to be in charge of running a gallery. I’m really sorry to say this when you’ve bought me such a wonderful lunch, but I can’t accept your offer. I’m so sorry, but thank you for thinking of me. I’m really very grateful… Sorry…’
She looked more worried than ever.
‘Please don’t apologise, Lauren,’ I said, feeling guilty for upsetting her. ‘I’ve embarrassed you, and I’m the one who should apologise for that. I’ve enjoyed meeting you today, and I’d hate to think I might have spoilt it, so I’m happy to let it go, but if you don’t mind, can I ask why you feel you can’t accept?’
I was afraid I might have pushed too far again, but her voice recovered and she smiled as she said, ‘I am grateful, Kee, and you seem like a nice guy, but the truth is, I only met you last week. I really don’t know you. The job sounds great. Almost too good to be true—’
‘And if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. I’m sorry, Lauren. I get it now,’ I said, and suddenly I did: I was a complete stranger, and I was asking her to give up her steady job for one that was only real in my head, in a gallery that didn’t exist yet. She only had my word for it, that I could pay her what probably seemed like crazy money. As I thought about it from her point of view, I could see it sounded like a con, and she could only guess if there was a hidden agenda. I recognised that she would have to be stupid to accept, and I was relieved to find that she wasn’t.
I reached into my pocket for the time device, preparing to undo the damage, but before I turned it, I had another idea. I took my hand away, knowing I could always go back if I got it wrong again.
‘I’ve just thought about it some more, and I can see that it all sounds like pie in the sky, so of course you shouldn’t accept. I’ve given you no reason to trust me.’
‘I don’t distrust you,’ she protested.
‘Thank you, but that’s not quite the same as saying you do trust me, and I’m fine with that. If you’ll let me, I’d like to prove to you that you can.’
She looked apprehensive again. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Well, you said you were willing to help me out, and if you’re still happy with that, I’d like to take you up on it – not just to look at paintings, but to help me set up my gallery and find the artists to fill it. I’m not asking you to give up your job, but if you have any spare time, I would be happy to pay you for it. You know, like a consultancy.’
‘How much time are we talking about?’ she asked.
‘As much as you could spare,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to intrude into your private life, but I was hoping you might agree to five to ten hours a week, for say the next four or five weeks. Whenever works best for you. I’ll pay you whatever you think it’s worth.’
It took her a while to answer, and I thought she was going to turn me down again, but then she said, ‘I work on Saturdays, but I have Mondays off. I could help you then, and maybe for a couple of hours after work sometimes, to make it up to ten hours a week – if that’s okay? I want to say I’d help you for free, but to be honest I could do with some extra money right now. Is that alright?’
‘That would be great. But Lauren, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to work for nothing. How much would you consider a fair amount?’
Her face conveyed concern as she thought it over, and I could tell she was wrestling with getting the best deal for herself without appearing greedy. At last she took a deep breath and asked, ‘Would thirty pounds an hour be too much?’
‘I’m sorry, Lauren, I can’t agree to that,’ I told her. ‘I’ve never heard of a consultant being paid less than five hundred an hour.’
Her eyes widened, but I couldn’t tell whether she was expressing surprise or alarm. ‘You’re crazy! That’s far too much. I’m not a consultant.’
I thought I might have frightened her off again, so I said, ‘That’s exactly what you are, and to be honest, at London prices, five hundred is pretty cheap. I’d be getting a bargain.’
‘But if I do ten hours a week for four weeks, that comes to—’
‘Twenty thousand,’ I interrupted. ‘But listen, I don’t want to commit you to set times. I don’t want to get in the way of your plans, so how about if I pay you twenty-five thousand for fifty hours, and you do them when you can?’
‘Really? Are you sure?’ Her humour returned as she asked, ‘Can I have that in writing?’
I laughed with her. ‘Yes, of course, you can.’
She became earnest once more. ‘Actually, Kee, could I really have a contract? A proper legal one, not something downloaded from the internet.’
‘I think that’s a very good idea,’ I told her. ‘I’ll get one drafted as soon as possible and make sure you’re completely satisfied before we sign it. So, subject to contract, do we have a deal?’
I held out my hand, which she shook hesitantly, and I could see in her eyes that she was still finding it all quite difficult to believe.
‘Just one more thing, so we’re clear,’ she said, quietly.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘I won’t sleep with you.’
I looked her directly in the eyes, and gave her a cheeky smile. ‘Okay, I’ll make a note to delete that clause from your contract.’
Sixteen
With her contract signed and witnessed by a local solicitor I’d employed, Lauren and I began looking for a property on the following Monday. The day brought contrasting fortunes, starting on a low and rising to a zenith as it progressed. The premises we had shortlisted were with three different agents, and I hadn’t been able to arrange sensible appointments, which meant a lot of going back and forth and time to kill in between.
We made thorough inspections but none of the places were right for a gallery. Only one building had the kind of space we wanted but we had to dismiss it because its location couldn’t have been worse. We tried to be positive but by mid-afternoon it was clear we were simply making the best of a bad job.
‘I’m sorry,’ I told her. ‘It looks like this is going to take longer than I expected.’
Her disappointment was evident but she tried to be encouraging. ‘It’s only the first day. Something will turn up—’
She was interrupted by my phone ringing. I answered the call from the first agent we had seen that morning.
‘Did you say you were interested in Mayfair?’ he asked.
‘Yes, absolutely,’ I confirmed.
‘Well, I’ve literally just taken instructions for a property off Berkeley Square.’
I told Lauren, and her face lit up.
‘When can we see it?’ I asked.
‘Well, I’m at the property now, if you wanted—’
I didn’t give him time to finish. ‘We’re on our way.’
I flagged down a black cab, and we arrived at the address the agent had given me fifteen minutes later. The frontage was old-fashioned, but not so much that I couldn’t live with it: three large plate glass windows took up most of the facade, with a substantial wooden framed glass door on one side.
The agent was waiting inside and opened the door for us as we approached. His greeting was warm and welcoming, but the building was less so, and our faces dropped as soon as we crossed the threshold. The space was no longer than it was wide, about ten metres in both directions, and far too small for a decent gallery.
The agent saw my reticence, and gestured to the rear. ‘There’s more.
’
He took us through an archway in the back wall and down a small corridor, opening doors on both sides as he went to what had clearly been used as offices, before we entered a larger space at the back of the building. This room was the same width as the front but twice the length, and as I looked around I noticed Lauren’s expression mirroring my own thoughtfulness.
‘I suppose you could use the front as a reception area, with a sort of introductory gallery, and then have this as the main gallery back here,’ she said.
‘Introductory?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, like one piece from each of your artists, and then they have their own sections in this part.’ She sounded doubtful, but I could see it as a possibility.
‘What about these offices?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘They’re a bit in the way really. I suppose you could use each one to feature a different artist.’
I was as unconvinced as she sounded, but as we’d come through I’d rapped the walls with my knuckles, trying unsuccessfully to determine if they sounded solid. I asked the agent, ‘Are the office walls structural? Would the landlord allow us to take them out?’
‘I don’t know. They might be supporting walls,’ he said, ‘but I can check that out for you. Let me show you upstairs.’
He led the way up a narrow flight of stairs at the back of the building, to the next floor which was unobstructed for the full width and length of the building.
Lauren said exactly what I was thinking. ‘Why couldn’t this be the ground floor?’
‘I’d like to use this floor too, but it would mean having to put in a better staircase.’ I turned back to the agent. ‘We would definitely want to make structural changes. Can you find out if that’s okay?’
He got busy with his phone while we checked out the top two floors of the building; they were divided into smaller rooms, which had apparently been used as living accommodation, but the accumulation of dust and cobwebs showed they hadn’t been used for years. As I wasn’t intending to live above the gallery they were of little to interest me, so we made our way back to the ground floor. We found the agent still in conversation while walking between the small offices and rapping on the walls in much the same way that I had done.