The Women Who Ran Away - Sheila O'Flanagan Page 0,13
that you based your thesis on it.’
‘Gender inequality in the arts,’ Deira said. ‘Not only painting. You should know. You read it.’
‘Well, you poked a sleeping beast with it anyhow.’ Kevin didn’t confirm or deny that he’d read the thesis he’d asked her to send him after he’d interviewed her for the job. Which made her wonder if he’d actually bothered. ‘So, off you go. He’s talking about twenty or so paintings, but you’ll need to have a look at the space they have and see what you think.’
‘You want me to do it?’
‘Why not?’ Kevin said cheerfully. ‘You’re the one with the big ideas around here.’
Deira had great fun curating the exhibition for Gavin Boyer, who was unexpectedly easy to work with. The space in the company’s building on Dawson Street was ideal, and Gavin himself was supportive of the suggestions she made. On the night of the opening, he made a speech to the invited guests in which he thanked her profusely for all her help. Deira couldn’t help being charmed by him and delighted by his compliments. It was good to be praised for doing a job that she’d loved, particularly as that praise was in front of the Minister for Arts and other important people in business and industry. Hopefully, she thought, as the glass of white wine she was holding grew too warm to drink, hopefully these people would remember that it was Hagan’s that had sourced the paintings and put everything together.
‘Deira, isn’t this lovely!’ Thelma Roache, dazzling in a raspberry velvet dress, her normally loose silver hair pinned in a neat chignon, caught her by the arm. ‘Thank you so much for suggesting my work. I want to have it seen by as many people as possible, and more people come into an insurance company building than an art gallery.’
‘Gavin – Mr Boyer – has highlighted this new cultural space to all the company’s customers,’ said Deira. ‘But it’s not only for customers; it’s open to everyone. I’m sure loads of people will want to come.’
‘Obviously I want that to happen.’ Thelma beamed at her in return. ‘I’m not so much of an artist that I still dream of starving in my garret. Knowing that they’ll be seen is a big thing.’
‘I’m sure they’ll sell,’ Deira said. ‘And I’m sure the other artists’ will sell too.’
The exhibition had concentrated on four female artists. Deira had chosen them for the diversity of their work but also because their paintings were alive with colour and movement. Thelma, at almost seventy, was the oldest. Looking around the room now, Deira was delighted at how well all of the work was presented, and she couldn’t help feeling another thrill of pride that she’d been involved.
‘Great job, Deira.’
This time it was Gavin Boyer himself who was beside her. ‘Hugely successful.’
‘It is, isn’t it.’ She beamed at him. ‘And you know what I like most?’
‘What?’
‘That it’s going to be part of everyday life for people who come in and out of your building. That the art is just there. Not something they have to make an effort to go and see. I have to admit that I was a bit sceptical about your motives at first,’ she added, ‘but I’m really pleased to have been part of it.’
‘I’m pleased you were too,’ he said. ‘I’ve never met anyone as enthusiastic as you about their work.’
‘Oh, I’m sure everyone who works for Solas is equally enthusiastic,’ she said.
Gavin laughed as her tone betrayed her doubt. ‘You’d make a terrible liar,’ he said. ‘But whatever their enthusiasm for working in pensions, at least they’ll all love the artworks.’
At that moment, a slender, dark-haired woman in a stylish blue shift dress joined them, accompanied by two teenage girls in jeans and T-shirts.
‘My wife, Marilyn,’ said Gavin. ‘And my lovely daughters, Mae and Suzy.’
Deira knew now that Gavin was forty years old and that his wife had stopped working outside the home when his second daughter was born. They must have married very young, she thought, as she greeted his teenage daughters, neither of whom seemed overly thrilled to be there.
She spent a few minutes talking to Gavin’s family before being approached by one of his colleagues who wanted to introduce her to the Minister himself. This is me now, she thought, with a jolt of pride, as she said goodbye to Marilyn Boyer. I’m the sort of person who gets introduced to the Minister.