Modern Heart: City Love 3

by Belinda Williams

  No one, junior or senior, ever enjoyed joining Tony in his office.

  Inside he sat behind his expansive desk. I sat on the elegantly curved cream leather sofa designed to make visitors comfortable, except of course it was the most uncomfortable sofa conceived by man. It looked good, definitely designer, but it bordered on painful. The sofa was also a much debated topic in the Shout offices. Was it a strategic choice on Tony’s part to put visitors on edge? Or was it just like him? Glossy on the outside and hard as nails on the inside?

  I forced myself to focus. Tony was watching me carefully.

  This was standard procedure. He’d wait for you to talk, which of course was extremely unsettling when he’d asked you into his office in the first place. Fortunately I didn’t scare easily. It was probably the major reason I’d been promoted to creative director. I returned his gaze for a moment, then reached over to the matching glossy cream coffee table and picked up the latest issue of the advertising industry magazine, Big Ideas.

  I was halfway through it when he spoke.

  “Initiating Garry, I see.”

  I looked up at him and shrugged. “He was going for the attention grabbing angle.”

  “Fucking idiot.”

  I raised an eyebrow. I agreed completely but wasn’t going to say that out loud because Tony was the one who hired him.

  “With your mentoring, he’ll come round,” Tony said.

  Is that what he called it? I figured it was probably safest to go for a more positive approach. “Ruby’s copy was strong.”

  Tony nodded. “She’s been here a bit longer. Knows how it works.”

  “I think she’d be even stronger if she was paired with one of the other creatives.”

  “She would, but working with Garry will be character building.”

  Possibly. Or she’d get sick of it in a few months and jump ship to another agency. It wouldn’t be the first time we lost a talented staff member due to Tony’s insensitive staff management policy.

  “Now, about your request for leave.”

  Ah, so there it was. The reason for my visit. I nodded and waited for him to speak.

  “Afraid no can do. Sorry.” He pushed back from his desk, meeting over.

  I set the magazine down slowly. “Tony?”

  “Mmm?” He’d started rifling through his top drawer for something, his focus no longer on me.

  “Can I ask why?”

  “What? Oh, sure. In May we’ve got the health services account campaign launch. I can’t have one of my most important staff members absent for that.”

  Being referred to as an important staff member was about as good as compliments got in Tony’s world.

  “If I’m correct, the campaign doesn’t go live until late May, and I’ve requested the first week of May off.”

  “So?”

  “So. I’ll only be away for five days and at that point the focus will be on the account managers getting the files to the media. The artwork will be finalized.”

  “Scarlett,” he rebuked. “You know better than that. Campaigns never go according to plan.”

  And nor did my life apparently. After getting over the shock and fear of being offered an exhibition in New York City, I’d worked myself up to excitement and a degree of pride.

  “Tony, I wouldn’t normally ask for special concessions but this is a once in a lifetime—”

  “Do you make a living out of your art?” His voice was hard, and it made me shift uncomfortably on the damn sofa.

  “No, but—”

  “But nothing. This is your career, Scarlett, and you’re bloody good at it. You’re one of the best creative directors Shout has had in its twenty year history.”

  I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Had Tony “Ruthless” Ridge just genuinely complimented me?

  “You need to prioritize,” Tony went on, oblivious to my speechlessness because he’d gone back to shuffling papers in his drawer. “In a different situation a jolly to New York City flaunting your ability to throw some paint on a canvas would be a fun trip. Not this time, I’m afraid.”

  “I may never get a chance like this again,” I said quietly, but I wasn’t sure why I was bothering.

  “Then you need to figure out what’s important to you.” He slammed the drawer. “I’d hate to lose you.”

  Holy shit.

  He’d just given me an ultimatum.

  I stood up stiffly, not sure where to look.

  I heard him sigh. “Scarlett. You’ll thank me one day. You might even be in my shoes mentoring an employee like I am now.”

  Mentoring? I swallowed the ball of fury rising in my throat. If this was his attempt at mentoring then he could shove it up his goddamn ass.

  I nodded, for once deciding it was better not to say anything, and walked from his office in a daze.

  Back at my desk, I stared blankly at the computer screen while the reality of the situation slowly sank in.

  My bastard of a boss had just cost me the biggest opportunity of my art career. I’d have to contact New York and cancel.

  Eleven years old

  I hated the piano. Loathed it with every fiber of my being.

  Some nights I’d lie in bed thinking about the ways I could get out of piano practice. Faking sickness was out. It made no difference to my mother. Piano practice happened rain, hail, or shine. I’d have to be dying for her to even remotely consider missing a practice session. Even then I had visions of her wheeling the piano into the hospital beside my deathbed so I could play one last time.

  My mother loved the piano.

  Correction.

  My mother loved the fact that her daughter played the piano. It fit with her ideal of the obedient Chinese daughter. Which I was not. It was her last attempt at reforming me. She clung to the practice sessions stubbornly like a woman possessed.

  Twice a day. Every day.

  Every single day.

  I found the morning sessions the worst. Each morning I’d wake and for a moment I would forget. For a moment I would think about my day. I’d think about my latest drawing, or what I wanted to tell my friends when I arrived at school – and then I’d remember. Piano practice.

  If I played well I’d be finished in half an hour. If I fumbled during a piece and God forbid my fingers should slip or carelessly trip on a note? My punishment was an hour long practice.

  I often wondered if there was anything I could do to make myself like the piano. I mean, I liked listening to music. I even liked the idea of making music. But with piano there was no art. No creation. It was reading the notes on a page and learning a musical language. A few of my friends had started writing songs on the piano. I liked the idea of that. Experimenting with the notes and piecing them together until you formed a melody. That made sense to me. Sitting at the piano and playing someone else’s compositions did not.

  “Ska-lit! Play that section again. You get it right this time,” my mother demanded.

  I stifled a sigh. It was seven thirty in the morning. Today it was cold and my fingers were stiff. I felt like a rusty machine in need of oil.

  I attempted the verse again. It flowed better this time, but it didn’t surprise me when my mother shrieked at me.

  “Lazy girl! Anyone can play the notes. You need to do what teacher says and play those notes with gustoso!” The Italian word sounded clumsy and harsh coming from her mouth.

  How was I supposed to play a song with happy emphasis and forcefulness at seven thirty in the morning? I was currently working on September, from Tchaikovsky’s The Seasons, which was also known as a hunting song. Every time I played it I thought of a bunch of old fashioned men dressed up in red jackets and funny trousers bouncing around on their horses. They’d be holding big guns because they’d all been hunting. I liked to think that occasionally one or two of the guns accidentally went off as they were bouncing around on their horses and scared them silly.

  “ Ska-lit!”

  I jumped and stumbled over the notes, the brigh
t G major tune slipping into a minor interlude.

  “Stop! Go to page one.”

  I didn’t look at my mother. I knew what the expression on her face would be. Fierce disapproval. It made her small, slanted eyes almost disappear and I hated it when she looked like that.

  I turned the sheet music back to the first page.

  “Read me the tempo,” she instructed.

  “ Allegro non troppo.” I bit my lip. The non troppo part always made me want to laugh.

  “Means?”

  “Fast, but not too fast.” In other words, not crazy fast.

  “And the style?”

  “Sempre marcato. It means I should play it with emphasis.” My piano teacher had picked this piece. I wondered if she’d had my mother in mind when she’d selected it. Forceful, fast, and not quite crazy.

  “Play again and this time get it right.”

  She made me play it three more times until she was satisfied. Once she’d left to go into the kitchen I sat and stared at the piano keys. Endless possibilities.

  Carefully I reached over and placed my hands on the keys. I played softly, letting the notes fall where they wanted to. It was like listening to a foreign person. Occasionally they would make sense but most of the time their pidgin English sounded jumbled and odd.

  “Ska-lit! Close the piano now.” My mother rushed in from the kitchen, her hands already on her hips by the time she was at my side. “Why I waste all this money and time practicing with you for you to sit and play nonsense? Get up. Go get ready for school.”

  I looked at the black and white keys one last time before shutting the lid. Surely all the great classical composers had played some nonsense when coming up with their music?

  “ Ska-lit!”

  I jumped up and walked to my room.

  I really did hate the piano. It was a shame because with all the years of forced practice I was becoming pretty good at it.

  In my room I pulled out my latest sketchbook, hidden under a pile of soft toys I no longer played with in the corner. I stuffed it into the back of my bag before zipping it up.

  If I was good at piano but hated it, I wondered, how good could I become at something like art, which I genuinely loved?

  I didn’t get the chance to think about it anymore because my mother’s sharp reprimand ordered me out of my room and to leave for school.

  Chapter 8

  “No!” Cate wailed. “That’s unbelievable.”

  I was in the process of breaking the news to my friends about canceling my art show. Cate seemed even more upset than I was.

  “Are you absolutely sure you can’t talk him around?” Christa asked.

  We were sitting beside the coffee table at Christa’s and Cate’s apartment. The Thai food in front of us sat half eaten and I realized I probably should have waited until after dinner to tell them.

  I reached for my wine. I was already on my third glass of the evening. “Unless I want to lose my job, I’m not going.”

  “There must be a way,” Cate said.

  I had to admire her determination but she hadn’t met my boss.

  “You haven’t met Tony,” Christa replied grimly, mirroring my thoughts.

  “Life’s a bitch,” I muttered, and swallowed the rest of my wine. I put the glass down on the table and eyed my dinner. With a shrug to no one in particular, I ignored the food and poured myself another glass of wine.

  “Getting drunk won’t help.”

  I looked over at Maddy. She was sitting on the sofa, holding a glass of pregnancy-safe mineral water.

  “It won’t help but it might make me forget about it for a few hours.”

  “If you’re drunk you won’t be able to figure out a plan B,” she told me calmly.

  “There is no plan B.” I gulped another half glass of wine.

  I knew what she was trying to do. Her voice of reason routine was to be expected. She was the one in our little group who was always in control, always watching out for us. I appreciated the sentiment, but right now all I wanted to do was get impressively intoxicated.

  Maddy reached over and gently removed the glass from my hand. “There’s always a plan B,” she said quietly. “You just don’t see it yet.”

  “You’re not suggesting Scarlett resigns from her job, are you?” Christa asked in alarm.

  “Of course not.” Maddy pushed the Pad Thai in front of me and passed me the fork. “We just need to put our heads together and see what we can come up with.”

  “I think we should call John.” Cate sat with her arms crossed, looking particularly proud of her idea.

  I pointed the fork at her. “You’re not calling John. Leave him out of this.”

  “Why?” Cate uncrossed her arms and frowned at me. “He’s the one who got you the exhibition in the first place. He might think of something we don’t.”

  “You’re not calling John,” I repeated. “John Hart isn’t the solution to everything.”

  Cate appeared dubious but had the good sense not to press the subject further.

  “You could go anyway,” Christa suggested.

  “Bubbles, we’ve been through this. I do that, I lose my job.” I shoveled a mouthful of noodles into my mouth. It didn’t taste anywhere near as good as the wine.

  “No, you missed my point,” Christa said.

  The alcohol was starting to take effect and it took me a moment to focus on her. She was watching me, her blue eyes shining brightly.

  “You return to work and pretend everything is normal,” she continued. “Tony was right, you were wrong, New York is forgotten. And then when May comes, you get on a plane and go anyway.”

  I put my fork down and reached for my wine again, ignoring Maddy’s glare. After a more respectable sip, I shook my head at Christa. “It still won’t work. I might have a job when I get on the plane, but I sure as hell won’t have one when I get back.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be fair, would it? Not if your Great Aunt Cindy has died and you have to return to China with your mother for the funeral.”

  For the first time since the meeting in Tony’s office I felt my dark mood improve. There was no way it would work, of course, but I could appreciate the underhandedness of it. “I like your thinking, but surely it’s going to look suspicious. My Great Aunt Cindy, who no one has heard of until now – including me – just happens to pass away the same week I was planning to go to the art show? Nice try.”

  “It’s only suspicious if you’re the sort of manager who pays attention and gives a shit,” Christa reasoned.

  “Which Tony is not,” I said slowly. I had to hand it to her, she actually had a point.

  “Surely it’s still a pretty big risk?” asked Cate, her conservative accountancy background showing. “Are you prepared to lose your job if it doesn’t work?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “But are you prepared to risk losing the opportunity to show your work in New York?” Christa countered.

  I sighed. “I don’t fucking know. Do you have another bottle of wine?”

  “No more wine,” Maddy said. “You need a clear head to finalize the selection of the artwork, which is due tomorrow, if I recall correctly?”

  Shit. She was right. Maddy’s memory and organizational abilities bordered on scary at times.

  There would be twenty paintings in the exhibition and I had to email Barbara, the gallery owner, with photographs of my selection tomorrow. If she was in agreement with my choices, a representative from the shipping company would be arriving on Friday to pack and ship the artwork.

  “Have you decided on the final selection?” she asked.

  “Almost. There’re five spots I’m still unsure about.”

  “Well, you better get some food into you and go home so you can sort it out,” Maddy instructed.

  Damn her. It was the last thing I felt like doing tonight. However, if Christa’s idea had the remotest chance of working I should aim to move forward as originally planned.

 
; “What happens if Scarlett has sent the paintings and she still has to cancel the art show?” Cate asked.

  It was a fair question and one I’d been trying hard to ignore.

  “Worst case scenario they ship the paintings home at Scarlett’s expense,” Maddy told us. “But to be brutal, it’s your paintings people are interested in, not you, Scarlett. Would it really matter if you didn’t attend at the last moment due to unforeseen circumstances?”

  Once again, she was right. I didn’t envy Paul living with Mrs. Knows Everything – not that I’d heard him complaining.

  “Realistically, I don’t have to attend,” I allowed. Then again, what artist wouldn’t want to be at their first major international art showing? But I guess I’d live.

  “So you go home and select the paintings tonight,” Cate said, her positive attitude restored. “Then a couple of days before you’re due to leave, Great Aunt Cindy dies suddenly. Your entire village is in mourning over the loss of such an amazing woman. Your mother, who was essentially raised by Cindy, is so distraught that she’s unable to travel to China alone and you have to accompany her. Perfect!” Cate clapped her hands together joyously at Aunt Cindy’s demise.

  Never mind I had no Aunt Cindy, my parents were originally from Shanghai and not the country, and the idea of my mother being so distraught about anything that she was unable to cope was ludicrous.

  “I’ll give it a shot,” I announced.

  “Yay! I’m so excited!” Cate cried.

  I rolled my eyes at her. “Anyone would think this is your exhibition.”

  “Of course not, silly, but I was starting to freak out that I’d have to cancel my flights.”

  I stared at her. I’d had absolutely no idea she planned on flying to New York. Christa and Max would be coming since Maddy was unable to because she’d be getting close to her due date. I hadn’t even considered asking Cate. Filled with guilt, I gave her what I hoped was a look of pleasant surprise. “I didn’t know you’d be able to make it.”

  “I only booked the flights last week. I was waiting for the right moment to tell you, so I guess this is it. I’m so excited. I’ve never been to New York.”