Stuck On You

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘You won’t get your edge back, you’ll get murdered,’ I point out.

  I swear, I see his eyes light up with delight.

  ‘Tomorrow, bright and early at the office,’ he says. ‘Get straight to work, trying to get in touch with him, or in touch with his people. Let’s make this happen.’

  I sigh.

  ‘OK, but can you watch it without me?’ I ask. ‘I’m knackered, I need to get home, do things in my apartment, prepare for tomorrow, try to get enough sleep…’

  Working for Damian involves lots of long days. I’m starting to try and put my foot down now and then because I’m so exhausted so often. I think he ploughs through on a combination of adrenaline and caffeine, but I suppose his job is his life, so he’s always going to be fiercely passionate.

  ‘Oh, OK, sure,’ he replies. He seems a little disappointed that I’m not sharing in his enthusiasm. ‘Well, maybe try and watch the end of it, if you haven’t seen it. I’ll take it from the top. Do you want a car?’

  By ‘a car’ he means a lift from the chauffeur service that he uses. Imagine a really fancy Uber, but only for the super-high profile, with luxury cars, bottled water and – most importantly, to the clientele at least – discretion.

  ‘No, no, I’m fine, I’ll get the Tube,’ I insist.

  You would think it would be nice, to have a driver, to be chauffeured around in luxury – I thought I would love it, but I kind of hate it. I don’t know, it just feels so awkward.

  ‘You sure?’ he asks.

  ‘Yep,’ I reply.

  ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ he says as he fumbles with the remote, skipping back to episode one.

  ‘Yep, see you tomorrow,’ I reply.

  I thought sourcing escorts to have their photo taken was going to be tricky… now I’ve got to call a potential murderer. I definitely don’t get paid enough for that.

  6

  It’s been a long time since I had to do it, so I could be remembering it wrong, but isn’t it nerve-racking, calling someone to ask them out on a date? It’s that feeling of putting yourself out there, hoping and praying they say yes, that you don’t embarrass yourself or, worse, that you don’t get hurt.

  Obviously I’m not calling someone up to ask them out today. That would be completely unrealistic. I’m calling a serial killer.

  OK, so technically I’m calling his publicist, and he might not be a serial killer. But it’s not dissimilar to asking someone out on a date. I’ll be putting myself out there, hoping he says yes, desperately hoping I don’t get hurt… *gulp*.

  I’m transferred between a few people before I’m put on hold. I play with the Post-it Note Adam left for me yesterday.

  It reads:

  NO CHRISTMAS PARTY AGAIN THIS YEAR, HUH? THE BOSS IS A REGULAR SCROOGE. DON’T WORRY, NEARLY THE WEEKEND. HOPE YOUR WEEK IS GOING WELL.

  I grab a Post-it and a pen.

  The week is really dragging. Re: Christmas party… Rumour has it no one wants to hang out with the boss. Can you blame them? Haha. x

  Oh God, I put a kiss. Why did I put a kiss? I never put a kiss. At least it’s an old-fashioned piece of paper and not a text message that I can’t rewrite. I can just toss this one in the bin and write it again… but… you know what? I’m going to leave the kiss. Screw it. Why not? It’s just one of those things you do when you message with someone. Totally normal – or as normal as this abnormal situation will allow, at least.

  ‘Hello, Ms Kirke.’ A man’s voice on the phone snaps me from my thoughts. I decide to just stick with the kiss and shove the Post-it in the drawer.

  ‘Hello, yes,’ I reply.

  ‘This is Ken Foxton, I work for Mr Mackie – I understand you’re trying to arrange a photoshoot?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘Let me stop you there,’ Ken interrupts me. ‘Mr Mackie doesn’t do press.’

  ‘It’s not a press thing,’ I point out. ‘I work for portrait photographer Damian Banks, and he’s really quite captivated by Mr Mackie, and his journey, and he’d love to shoot him for his forthcoming exhibition.’

  ‘What’s the angle?’ he asks.

  ‘The angle?’

  ‘The theme,’ he continues. ‘What’s the theme of the pictures?’

  ‘Oh, erm… no theme, Mr Banks is just very interested in Mr Mackie. Call it artist’s intuition. He just sees something in him that he thinks will shine through the photos he takes.’

  That sounds like bullshit, doesn’t it? But that’s how Damian describes it. He doesn’t just take photos of anything, Damian takes photos that tell stories, that show something beneath the surface… perhaps that’s why Ken is so worried.

  ‘I’m going to be honest with you, Ms Kirke, because we are always honest here,’ he starts. Sounds a little like he doth protest too much if you ask me. ‘This sounds like another fishing expedition. Another thinly veiled attempt for people to get up close and personal with Mr Mackie, to pry into his personal life, to try and catch him out. Mr Mackie has complied with the requests of the authorities throughout a deeply tragic and unimaginably difficult decade. He has made statements to the press as well as giving full access to the ’Til Death Do Us Part documentary team. He will not be hounded nor will he be made to feel like he’s in any way responsible. The documentary was intended to put this all to bed so that Mr Mackie can get on with his life.’

  Given the change in Ken’s tone, and the clear firmness with which he is suddenly speaking, I’d hazard a guess he’s reading me the official line drafted to shut down any calls from journalists.

  ‘I do appreciate that, Mr Foxton, but I can assure you, Mr Banks is not a journalist. He just—’

  ‘Ms Kirke, as I’m sure you can imagine, I am a very busy man. Unfortunately, it is a firm no from us.’

  ‘I understand,’ I reply. ‘Well, should you have a change of heart, you have my number.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he replies. ‘Good day.’

  Oof, he hit me with a ‘good day’. Is that a middle-aged man’s verbal equivalent of replying ‘K’ to a message when you’re moody and you want to shut the convo down?

  I’m a little frustrated. I just want to do my job and, while no one is under any obligation to work with Damian, now we’re going to have to go through the whole process of finding someone else, and believe me it isn’t easy. Although I’m a little relieved. Terry Mackie gives me the creeps. The last thing I want to do is be in a room with him.

  I puff air from my cheeks and grab another Post-it.

  He’s only got me calling possible serial killers for him. Not sure how much longer I can take this gig.

  Damian sticks his head outside his office door. I quickly shove the Post-its under my notebook.

  ‘You fancy going for lunch?’ he asks.

  Damian often invites me out for lunch, but I usually say no. For starters, I like my lunch break to be an actual break, rather than the inevitable work lunch it always winds up being if I go with Damian. Then there’s the fact that my co-workers already think Damian and I are big buddies and hold me at arm's length accordingly. The last thing I need is for them to see me fraternising with the boss.

  ‘I’m having a bit of trouble with your serial killer,’ I reply. ‘I’m going to look into other angles. I’m a bit busy for proper lunch today. I’ll probably just pop out and grab something – thanks though.’

  He looks a little disappointed.

  ‘No worries,’ he says. ‘Can you grab me something? You know what I like.’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply.

  You’ve got to love how things just shifted from Damian taking me out for lunch to me going out to buy him something. I’m not complaining, it’s my job after all, but so is working out how to woo a maybe-murderer.

  ‘I’m starving, if you fancy going now?’ he says.

  ‘OK, erm, I’ll go now and finish what I’m doing when I get back, then?’

  ‘You’re a star,’ he says as he disappears back into his office, closing the door behind him.
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  I sigh, sulking for just a second, before springing into action.

  I stick my note to Adam in the usual place, in the drawer, close my laptop and grab my bag.

  As I walk through the main office my phone starts ringing.

  It’s a number I don’t recognise so I answer it out in the hallway.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, can I speak with Sadie Kirke, please?’

  ‘Speaking,’ I say brightly.

  ‘Hello, Sadie, this is Robyn Young calling from the Ashworth Gallery. Do you have a moment to discuss your application?’

  Oh, God. I don’t know if I pushed it out of my mind because I didn’t think I’d hear anything so soon, or if I just dismissed the concept entirely because I didn’t think I’d hear from them at all, but I am so not prepared for this.

  ‘Of course,’ I reply, trying to keep my bright and breezy tone in place.

  ‘We were very impressed by your CV and Xara told us all about you, and your work with Damian Banks. I can’t wait to find out more! We would love for you to come in for an interview.’

  ‘Oh, wow,’ I blurt. ‘Yes, certainly, I’d love to.’

  Play it cool, Sadie, don’t seem desperate.

  ‘I know it’s short notice, but do you have any availability on Monday?’

  ‘I’ll just check my schedule,’ I lie, pausing for a moment to actually seem as if I’m checking something. ‘I have some time around 1 p.m., if that works?’

  Around 1 p.m. I’ll be able to style it out as my lunch hour. It isn’t too far away, so that would be perfect, otherwise I’ll have to lie to Damian and tell him I have a dental appointment or something.

  ‘Yes, 1 p.m. on the dot, that works for us,’ Robyn replies. ‘We’ll see you then.’

  As I make my way out of the building, I’m smiling so wide, I’m surprised I fit through the doors. Someone from the Ashworth actually wants to meet me – to interview me for a job. My God, I want this job. I want it so bad. My smile drops into something less comfortable as fear and feelings of inadequacy bubble to the surface. It’s not enough to land an interview, is it? You have to actually get the job.

  I’ll have to call my sister over the weekend. This is her arena. I’m sure she can coach me, practise with me and help me prepare for the interview. She helped me prepare for my interview with Damian, which almost certainly helped me bag the job.

  Then again, look how that turned out…

  7

  I have a large glass of white wine in one hand. The other is hovering above my laptop as I aimlessly scroll through the Harvey Nichols website.

  Damian told me to buy my own Christmas present, and gave me a generous budget, so I’m looking at fancy moisturisers, something that will counteract how much this past year has aged me.

  ‘Perhaps we should do some more practice questions,’ my sister Selena suggests.

  Selena, my older sister, works in recruitment. She commutes to York for work (from our home town on the Yorkshire coast), where she mostly finds jobs for engineers. While art might not necessarily be her field, Selena gives expert advice on how to impress potential employers. She’s coached me through every interview I’ve had, and I’ve always found her advice so valuable. And then there’s the helpful fact file Xara armed me with, so that I can swot-up on the gallery ahead of my interview, just in case they quiz me on how much I know.

  ‘OK, shoot,’ I reply.

  ‘OK, some random tricky quick-fire questions… what is your least favourite thing about your current position?’

  ‘Hmm, as much as I love it, it would have to be handling Damian’s dirty drawers,’ I say playfully.

  ‘Oh, Sadie, tell me you don’t have to do his washing?’ Selena replies, seamlessly switching from interviewer back to sister.

  ‘No, well, he has a laundry service. So, while I don’t actually do his washing, I do round it up for the person who does. Someone comes to take it away, washes and irons everything, brings it back. I sneak my own stuff in, from time to time, if it’s something with tricky washing instructions.’

  ‘God, how the other half lives,’ she says with a sigh. ‘I wish someone would come and take some of my washing away – or Mark and Ben’s, at least.’

  Selena is only two years older than me but she’s like a proper adult. She’s married to a lovely man called Mark, she has a gorgeous six-year-old called Ben, she has a proper job and a good haircut, and she lives in such a stunning house.

  ‘You love your family’s mess,’ I remind her.

  ‘I guess I do,’ she replies. I can almost hear her smile. ‘By the way, you can’t answer questions like that.’

  ‘Selena, I was definitely joking,’ I say. ‘Real answer, here we go: the only real downside to my current job is being restricted to working with one artist. Damian’s work is truly incredible but the variety that would come with working at a gallery, rather than with an individual, is what I want.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Selena replies. ‘OK, next question. What’s the best thing about your current position?’

  ‘He just bought me triple digits’ worth of skincare products for Christmas?’ I offer up. ‘Even if I had to pick them myself. I don’t take offence though – after all, if I’m buying the presents to send to his family, he’s not going to take the time to shop for his assistant, is he?’

  Selena laughs.

  ‘I mean, again, obviously you can’t say that but… well, just out of interest, what is the best part of your job?’

  ‘Honestly… it’s my notes from Adam,’ I say with a sigh.

  ‘Oh my God, your Post-it boyfriend, seriously?’

  ‘Selena, you laugh, but we’ve really got to know each other over our notes. We brighten up each other’s day. It’s the highlight of my time in the office, when I open up the drawer and see a little note about what he did over the weekend attached to a bag of chocolate buttons or something.’

  ‘You two really should meet up,’ she says. ‘Unless… could he be married?’

  ‘It did cross my mind,’ I admit, slightly embarrassed. ‘But he isn’t wearing a wedding ring in the picture on our desk and whenever he talks about what he’s been up to it always sounds like he’s been doing things alone or in groups.’

  ‘And you say he’s hot?’

  ‘He’s definitely a good-looking boy.’

  ‘Then you should definitely meet up – especially if you get offered this job, and you take it.’

  In all of the excitement and the nerves it didn’t actually occur to me that if I did give my notice, I wouldn’t just be leaving Damian, I’d be cutting off contact with Adam too. We’ve spent so long swapping notes now that, I don’t know, I almost feel as if I’d miss him.

  ‘Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ I say. ‘I’m hyped for Christmas. Can’t wait to see you all, get out of London, get some sea air. Are things suitably festive there now?’

  ‘Things are unrealistically festive here,’ she replies. ‘Even Santa Claus himself would describe it as “a bit much”.’

  I grew up on a small tidal island just off the coast of Yorkshire and I am not exaggerating when I say that almost everyone there gets really into the festive spirit. We have a winter festival, competing Christmas light displays – for God’s sake, the Christmas shop is open all year round. Needless to say, I’m very excited about it.

  ‘I am even more hyped now,’ I tell her. ‘OK, ask me another question. I need to nail this interview.’

  ‘Serious answers only from now on, OK?’ Selena insists.

  ‘OK, promise,’ I reply.

  As Selena runs me through everything I could be asked I give her my best responses. Then Selena tells me what was wrong with my replies and gives me something better to say. This is great though, just what I need. I need to get this job. And if – by some miracle – I do, then, well, I guess the next thing to do is work out how to tell Adam.

  8

  Robyn Young must be in her late forties, but I wa
nt to be her when I grow up. I know, she’s probably only about fifteen years older than me, and I – at thirty-three – am already technically a grown-up, but, given how immature I am, I think I can get away with saying it.

  My interview – which is going really well, thanks for asking – is being conducted by Robyn and a man called Curtis, who I would also be working with, if I were lucky enough to land the job.

  Robyn and Curtis are both so stylish. Both have a unique look, a little quirky, sure, but not your stereotypical arty types. You know the one: art-teacher-looking, hair scraped back, pencil behind the ear, paint down the fingernails. Robyn and Curtis (who I’d guess was in his sixties) look more as if they work for Vogue. Ultra-fashionable. Not a hair out of place.

  I decided to play it safe for my interview. I straightened my long blonde hair, before winding it up into a tight, trendy bun on the top of my head. I'm wearing wide-leg black trousers (so wide they hide the black heeled boots I’m wearing on my feet) and a white shirt with lace ruffles down the sleeves. I look very much myself but the most clean-cut version possible. I guess, with this being such a prestigious gallery, everyone has to dress to impress.

  ‘We’re all such big Banks fans here,’ Curtis says. ‘How have you found it, working for him?’

  Is it OK to lie during job interviews if it’s for the greater good? I hate lying. It’s not that I’m bad at it, I can lie my pants off in a pinch, but depending on what I’m lying about, and to whom, makes a difference. Guilt eats me up, which is probably why I let Damian take the piss sometimes, because I know it’s my job, and I know he doesn’t have anyone else he trusts, or anyone else he can rely on.

  ‘It’s been quite the challenge,’ I say honestly. ‘My days can look so different, from one to the next. My responsibilities have been far greater than I anticipated when I started but I have risen to the challenge. I have extended my list of skills, travelled to some amazing places, met lots of seriously talented people in the industry.’