the sight of more people arriving. u€le arriv“ng.‘Ooh, look, more guests!’ And waving my guest list like a get-out-of-jail-free card, I quickly make a dash for it.
Of course, I can’t go back until the coast is clear and so once I’ve ticked the new guests off my list, I go looking for Nate. I find him pacing up and down, gesticulating in the air, and talking to himself. At least, I think he’s talking to himself, until I notice a tiny blue light flashing on his ear and realise he’s wearing his Bluetooth headset and he’s on the phone.
Still.
I suppress a tug of disappointment. He’s been on the phone to the studio all evening and I’ve hardly spoken to him. Still, I suppose that’s what it’s like being some hot-shot TV producer, I tell myself. Seeing me, he throws me an apologetic look and I throw a ‘No worries’ one back. It’s fine. I’ve got lots to do, anyway.
Turning, I go back inside the gallery. It’s still pretty busy, and I do a bit of mingling, chat to a couple of journalists, shake lots of hands. Organising events isn’t one of my strengths, and OK, I admit a couple of my emails bounced back because I’d sent them to the wrong people, and then there was the mix-up with the catering company.
Well, I say mix-up, but it wasn’t my fault. How was I to know that Finger-Licking Fun wasn’t a catering company? When I looked it up on the Internet, it talked about ‘catering for your every need’, so I sent them an email asking for their pricelist and I got a completely different menu of services than the one I was expecting.
Still, I have to say I’ve done a pretty good job here. Though a lot of them are more interested in the free food and alcohol than the artwork. Sometimes it’s as if they don’t even notice it, I muse in disbelief, looking around me in wonder at the amazing brushwork and kaleidoscope of colours we have displayed on the walls and feeling a familiar longing to paint again, to create, to let my imagination run away with my paintbrush . . .
But that’s just me being silly, I think, sweeping the thought away quickly. After all, I tried that, remember, and look where it got me: broke and on the dole. No, this is much better. This way, I get to work in an amazing gallery in New York and organise events like this. I mean, how lucky am I?
I scan the crowd with a feeling of satisfaction. Pretty much everyone we invited is here. There’s Mr and Mrs Bernstein, who are friends of Magda and huge art buyers, that supermodel whose name I can’t remember, a journalist from Time Out . . .Wait a moment, who’s that?
My eyes land on a guy with a baseball cap out of which is sticking a shock of dark, curly hair. He’s wearing a baggy green army T-shirt and a pair of jeans with rips in both knees. I look down at my guest list and scan the names, but everyone’s ticked off. Apart from Jemima Jones, and he doesn’t look much like a Jemima Jones.
I observe him for a few minutes. He’s walking around gobbling up meatballs like Pacman and downing glasses of champagne. I watch as he drains one glass and takes another from a passing tray. Eating and drinking all the freebies without even a passing glance at the artwork.
I feel a stab of annoyance. I know his type.
Forget wedding crashers. This is a gallery crasher.
‘Excuse me.’
As I tap him on the shoulder, he jumps, spilling his champagne, and turns round like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing.
Which he has.
‘Er, yeah,’ he replies, his mouth full of meatball.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ve ticked you off the guest list.’ I smile politely.
‘The guest list?’
‘Yes, of all the people invited,’ I say pointedly, and wave my clipboard.
He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me as if he’s thinking about something.
I fidget uncomfortably. ‘And your name is . . .?’ I prompt.
‘Hey, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ Narrowing his eyes, he waggles a finger at me.
I step back and look at him sideways. There is something vaguely familiar about him, but yet . . .‘No, I don’t think so.’ I shake my head dismissively.
There’s a pause and then—
‘Little man!’ he says triumphantly, spitting a meatball crumb at me.
I remove it from my dress.