‘Under the chin.’ I stick my tongue out and stuff a cheese cube into my mouth. ‘Happy?’
Lainey is silent but, from the pinched look on her face, I can tell something’s brewing.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Are you going to show his work?’ she says with a look and a smile that implies she’s two seconds away from naming our first-born.
‘What?’ I ask, scrunching up my face. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t like him.’ I speak around the cracker in my mouth. ‘Also, I tried searching for him this morning on my way over and came up blank.’
‘What do you mean blank?’ she says with a laugh. She knows when I say ‘tried searching’ it means I’ve been Googling for hours. ‘I mean, of course I know what blank means, but …’
‘Blank as in what have I got to go on but a first name and occupation? I skipped out on asking his surname so, now, it’s like a needle in a haystack. In fact, if you type in Kit slash art slash Sheffield, all that comes up are those squeaky black plastic art kits that you buy ten-year-olds at Christmas time.’
‘So?’ she begins. ‘Message your dad, he’ll tell you. Actually, I’m going to message him.’
‘Ah, no thank you very much.’ I snatch her phone from her hand and toss it gently onto the sofa. ‘I don’t want Kit knowing I’m searching for him. Heaven forbid he thinks he’s right.’
‘Who are you going to show then, if not the first artist who throws themselves at your feet?’
I shrug.
‘Let’s see what I’ve got here, then,’ she says, eyes wide.
Lainey disappears to the kitchen again, and I listen as she riffles through her handbag, muttering to herself about ‘It must be here somewhere’. She returns, brandishing her iPad and a small red leather notebook above her head like an athletics trophy, and she’s grinning from ear to ear.
‘What is that?’
‘My little red book of artists,’ she says. ‘Everyone who’s ever emailed Webster and asked for gallery space or done the old “asking for a friend” type message on socials.’
I’m curious and terrified all at once. I watch as she flops down in the space next to me and folds her legs up under herself. She hands me the notebook and I begin thumbing through the pages. Surely, she doesn’t think this is the answer to Kit’s secret spy identity.
‘Are you serious?’ I ask. Some of the names I recognise as the big stars of London’s art scene, others could be just random names from the phone book. ‘There aren’t as many names in here as I thought there’d be.’
‘Artists are funny creatures,’ she says, grabbing the book and holding it open at ‘A’. ‘Some of them are way too backward at coming forward. Others are trying to climb through the windows like the zombie apocalypse.’
Starting on the first page, we type each name into Google and start scrolling through pages of art. From the weird and the wonderful, classic to experimental, we wade through Instagram showcases and Twitter rage-fests as we compile a list of potential artists for my gallery that didn’t yet exist.
‘Who’s next?’ Lainey asks.
‘Christopher Dunbar,’ I read from the book. ‘Very professional-sounding name, innit?’
‘I think I remember him for that exact reason,’ she says, fingers flying across the keyboard. ‘Very measured and polite and—’
‘Oh, shit.’ I gasp as his website and his face loads on the screen.
‘What?’ she asks.
‘That’s him.’ I point. ‘That’s Kit.’
‘It is?’ she cries.
‘Yes!’ I say, tapping on the unsmiling face peering back at me from the screen. The photo is black and white, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to be edgy or arty, or if he’s just in pain. It’s hard to tell.
‘That’s him?’
‘Yes,’ I shriek. ‘He approached Webster?’
‘He certainly did.’
I reach across and tap the ‘About’ tab. A brief biography loads quickly.
‘Christopher “Kit” Dunbar runs an art school on his sprawling Loxley property. Fifty acres of roaming paddocks and views of the reservoir, with bird-watching huts and random shelters dotted around for when inspiration strikes,’ I read the website aloud, wondering why I didn’t think to search for the art school this morning. ‘Not that he’s boasting about size or anything.’
‘Oooh, and he has an online gallery.’ Lainey’s finger hovers over the screen.
‘Click it, click it.’ I bat my hand towards the tablet and wait for the images to load. ‘Let’s see if he’s as good as he likes to make out.’
Part of me wants his art to be so bad it looks like a kindergarten reject, covered in pasta shapes, gold paint and glitter, not even fit for the family refrigerator. What’s left of the calm curator part of me wants it to be so good it makes me question why we weren’t already friends; let alone the fact we’d never crossed paths before. So, when the page loads and I’m presented with several different images, my axis tips.
One at a time, lively, colourful portraiture loads on screen, daubed in large brush strokes with bright squiggly colours, and far too full of emotion for a man who seemed pained at the idea of something as simple as smiling at me. There’s a landscape in a similar style and a few other random still life pieces, but it’s the portraits that truly showcase his talent. I’m both curious and moved.
Immediately, I want to see his works up close, to touch them and see the layers of texture, the hardened globs of paint. I want to ask him how and where they’re created. I want to breathe in the smell of his studio and relish the view from the window. If there even is a window. Above all, I do a complete reversal. I must exhibit his work. I detest him and, yet, my stomach puckers and my breath catches.
‘Are you seeing what I’m seeing?’ Lainey points to a sold price beside one of his pieces.
‘I’m trying not to,’ I admit, but the undeniable truth is commission on those pieces would have any gallery owner salivating.
Inwardly, I kick myself for turning him down so quickly yesterday. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn’t it?
The rest of the site is clean and minimalist; a sign-up page for his art school and contact form tells me not much more than I learned by spending time with him.
‘Loves discovering new and emerging artists, provides support and advice to those at the start of their careers,’ Lainey reads.
‘Saint Christopher of the Thinners,’ I grumble. ‘For all the support he offered yesterday.’
She pivots in her seat and looks at me as I pace the room. ‘I feel like this has just answered some of life’s big questions for you.’
‘I mean … maybe? Dad says he hasn’t shown his work publicly for years. But, then, he just about jumped on me for space at Webster yesterday. He was like a dog with a bone. And he’s emailed you in the past, so what gives?’
‘Maybe he was just querying everywhere, or maybe he doesn’t want to do local.’ Lainey flicks back to his photo and mutters something about him being attractive. ‘But you’ll never know if you don’t ask. And, if you don’t ask, the answer is always no.’
I nod and shrug and mumble around the hangnail I’m trying to destroy. ‘It’s just such a curveball, let alone the massive risk. I was on this trajectory. I had everything mapped out. I was going to get this job as senior curator, work at it a few years, head overseas for a few more then come back with my knowledge and magical contacts and make it explode. All while maintaining a work–life balance, finding a supportive husband, and popping out a few kids.’
She scrunches her face. ‘I think you need to look at this a different way.’
‘How so?’ I take a pause.
‘Have you considered asking the vendor to rent the property to you for a set period?’ she asks. ‘You can open your gallery and have a go at it without quite as much commitment as a mortgage. You’ve been saving for your own place, so you can probably cover the cost of rent, but it
mitigates your risk a little. I mean, what’s a few months’ rent in the scheme of things? At least if it goes tits up, you don’t get repossessed.’
I scratch my fingers through my hair. While I’m reluctant to touch my savings, I don’t have a lot of options at this point, and this isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever heard. ‘True.’
‘As you said, if you go north, you could set yourself up as the person, the woman to speak to about art in the area. You’ll be responsible for holding the best shows in the city, all while doing it under your own brand. Not for some crotchety old man, not while begging for corporate donations. You. Your words. Your soul.’
‘It would be a great opportunity to reset, wouldn’t it? Clean slate and all,’ I say, blooming on the buoyancy of her words. After my last few days, she was exactly who I needed to talk to. I am so glad I didn’t cancel on her this morning when I thought I might be running late.
‘I think it might be. Why not give it a go? Hold an exhibition, have a killer opening night and, if it works, then you can scoop up the property. And frankly, if John still won’t come to the party after he sees what an amazing businesswoman you are, leave him behind in your trailblazing dust. It’s time you took the leap and put yourself first instead of playing second fiddle to everyone else’s wants and needs.’
‘How did John become part of this discussion?’ I ask.
‘He’s always been part of the discussion.’ Her eyes flutter at my apparent stupidity. ‘You need to do something about him. Whether you both come to a decision to move forward and make things official or if you, you know.’
I sigh. ‘I know.’
‘I mean, what do you want from him?’ she asks.
‘Well, you know …’ My voice trails off. ‘Everything?’
Lainey scrunches her face like I’ve just pinched her in a tender spot. ‘You know what? Sit down. As your best friend, it’s my job to tell you the truth.’
I look at her, a glass of water poised at my mouth. Slowly, I lower myself back into my seat.
‘This has been going on for how long now?’ she asks.
‘Almost nine months,’ I say. ‘Off and on.’
‘Right, well, if he can’t give you a shred of commitment, if he can’t even decide what you are to him in that amount of time, he’s the last person you need to be keeping around.’ She stops only long enough to draw a deep breath. ‘You need to ask yourself if every day with him is getting you closer to what you want in life. Don’t bend to suit him, and don’t ask him to bend for you, because it will not work. Find someone who clicks into place like a jigsaw puzzle. If he doesn’t do any of that, then ride like the wind, Bullseye, because it’s not worth it.’
Her words floor me. Where Adam took the softly, softly (for him) approach yesterday, Lainey is straight out the gate with a raw truth that only she can muster. There’s a niggling awareness in me that she’s absolutely, nail on the head right. Still, the sad irrefutable truth is that I adore John and, as much as he likes to tell me that he’s happy with the way things are, there are moments in the dead of night that tell me otherwise.
Huddled beneath blankets, we talk about his family, his parents and their acrimonious divorce, summers spent in opposite cities, and growing up fast. I can tell you the name of his favourite childhood pet (Rusty, a longhaired whippet), and that he lives for the Back to The Future trilogy.
He speaks highly of Adam, even if they don’t always see eye to eye, even though listening to him talk about contract law is guaranteed to put me to sleep in under ten minutes. I love how he looks at me in the morning light. I love how he smells, a heady mixture of soap and man and warm bed. I love how he feels in my bed, at how well we match both in and out of it.
Still, she’s right. We accept the standard we walk past, and I’ve been letting this issue slide for far too long. The only person winning from this is him because, no matter what happens and how many times we avoid the topic, I stupidly let it slide and then nothing changes.
Not to say I hadn’t thought all these things and more, but hearing Lainey speak her opinions aloud makes me realise I have so many more options in life than my own limitations, but there’s really only one solid achievable plan that appeals to me at the end of it.
I don’t want to work for someone else, slogging away for the benefit of others. It is time to put me first, to put my name up in lights and show everyone what I am made of. All I need to do is convince Christopher to run an exhibition after I turned him down. The thought of having to deal with him again is already spiking my blood pressure, but I’ve convinced countless suited men to donate millions to a gallery before, so surely this wouldn’t be too epic a battle.
The big problem would be snaffling the old bank on a limited lease. And, like Lainey said, if I don’t ask, the answer is always going to be no.
Chapter 8
Some of my favourite childhood memories centre around Christmas Eve and that giddy feeling of something amazing about to happen. As I grew older, that was replaced with the fizzy excitement of a driving test or university placement, knowing that each corner could change my life. It was the anticipation of everything not quite in my grasp, but waiting right around the corner, which is how I feel about life right now.
My night was spent switching between job rejection emails and trawling RightMove. Competitive me got riled up each time my inbox pinged, hoping for that change of direction I was desperately after. But each job I lost out on only spurred me on to want to find the perfect building for my gallery.
I picked through listing after listing of similar sized buildings, in both London and Sheffield, comparing features, locations and costs. That way, no one could accuse me of jumping the gun and racing for the first option that popped out. But of all the places I found, modern or classic, none of them felt right. I couldn’t see my dreams reflected in their windows the way I could the old bank building.
Speaking to Lainey only solidified my feelings. I could use the money I had saved for a deposit to pay the rent. I wasn’t flush by any stretch, but I had enough to get the business up and running. After all the calculations and what-ifs, I worked out I had six months to prove myself.
In that time, I could host an amazing opening night – because parties – and be in business long enough to know whether my experiment worked. At the end of that time, if it hadn’t worked out, I could pull the pin knowing I’d at least tried. Wasn’t that the least I could ask of myself? Losing money was a risk I was going to have to take, no matter how scary it was.
I scribble the number of the estate agent down in the front of my diary, but waiting for the morning to roll around so I could call was like waiting for my lotto numbers to come up.
Phone pressed to my ear, I pace my kitchenette as the dial tone rings out a handful of times. It’s almost midday before I do get hold of someone and, when we get to talking schedules, the earliest I can see the building is Wednesday. I flop back on the sofa and stare at the ceiling. A spider scurries away.
This isn’t the worst thing in the world. While I’m in London, I’m a few hours away anyway, but knowing that isn’t stopping the bird in my ribcage from dive-bombing into every window it can find in the great comedown.
Still, it’s an opportunity. Before I get onto the big-ticket item of a venue, I can’t walk into this venture without knowing my competition or my game plan. With nothing else to do, I toss an overnight bag in my car and shoot back up to Sheffield to study some of the galleries in the area.
Dad dances on the spot at the sight of me strolling into his store mid-afternoon, takeaway cup in hand, muffin in my mouth and looking for a place to sleep. There’d never be any problem staying with him, but it’s always polite to ask. The store is empty aside from him.
‘I can’t say this is a massive surprise.’ He smiles as he downs a box of brushes and crosses the store to hug me.
‘Okay if I camp with you a few nights?’ I say. ‘Until Wednesday?’
‘What surprises me is you w
ent home in the first place,’ he says. ‘You can’t shake it, can you? That building, I mean.’
I wrinkle my nose and jiggle my head a bit. ‘I think I’m going to do it.’
‘Good.’ He grins as he begins unwinding a key from his keychain. ‘Well, you have my support.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’ I dangle my old keys from my finger, brimming with all the touristy charms and keyrings a university student would pick up in her first year in London. ‘If it’s okay, I’ll be home for dinner. I’ve got some things to do first.’
‘Haven’t developed any allergies, have you?’ he calls after me. ‘All that fancy London food?’
‘I’ll bring the wine,’ I answer as I shoulder my way out the door and walk to the first gallery on my list.
I can’t pretend I’m going to be the first person to own a business. It would be stupid to do so. There are always going to be others. But if I’m going to survive past the first few months, I need to find my point of difference. What are others doing, and what was I going to bring to the table that would be so completely unique that I’ll be overrun with artists jostling to show their wares?
Talking to gallery owners as I wander the city gives me an opportunity to start piecing together what’s happening in the area, how they source their art and who they work with. One has a revolving roster of the same artists. Another that’s in an old house and smells of mothballs and old carpet showcases landscapes from only locals, and another that’s strictly modern art has a dedicated student space. Still, it’s not quite right for me.
I want an openness and inclusivity, and an ever-changing schedule will bring fresh, exciting voices that capture attention. Whether they’re modern art or classic doesn’t bother me. I know from my work at Webster that I can straddle both worlds. And, as much as I’d love to be able to headline with massive artists, I need to be realistic. Until I make a name for myself, the big names will be elusive. I hate to admit that he’s right, but Christopher Dunbar may very well be exactly who I need right now.
Accidentally in Love: An utterly uplifting laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 8
