9. The Monster in my Chianti

‘Your desk will be over here next to Patrick’s,’ Beverly informs me, leading me toward it.

‘It’s Patrice,’ snaps the thin, clearly gay, black man at the desk facing mine.

Beverly ignores him completely and says, ‘Patrick is our other Gallery Attendant, so from this point on, I will leave you in his hands and let him show you all the tricks of the trade.’

I nod and slip quietly into the chair at my desk, attempting to seem unaware of everyone in the room watching me. Beverly smiles curtly before turning to leave.

‘Thanks Bev!’ Patrick or Patrice shouts after her, ‘That was tiresomely moving!’

Beverly stops long enough to whip her head around and flash him a cold glare before disappearing back inside her office.

‘When I first started working here,’ says Patrick or Patrice, as he leisurely leans back in his swivel chair, ‘the other Attendant, Stacey, who you just replaced told me I’d get used to the bitch. But let me tell you something now.’ He straightens up and squares in on my face. ‘It was a lie. I’ve been here for three years and I’m still not used to the bitch. I’m just a little more comfortable with her. And I’m going to do you a favor since we’re going to be working together now and not lie to you like Stacey lied to me. You probably won’t get used to her because she’s a real pain in the ass.’

I laugh and feel a little better with that bit of honesty.

‘I’m Patrice,’ he says, holding out his manicured hand for me to shake, ‘Don’t you dare call me Patrick or I might have a tantrum right here.’

My eyes wander over to his desk and I notice his nameplate has post-it notes stuck over it with ‘Queen Patrice’ written on them. There were also three framed photographs of Meryl Streep, each with three different signatures on them.

‘Did you meet her?’ I ask, motioning to the pictures.

‘Of course I did!’ Patrice replies with a burst of enthusiasm. ‘But only once.’ He pushes one of the frames toward me. ‘This is the actual autograph of Ms. Streep herself. I waited for days to achieve it! Well actually, about six hours outside of Harrods. But I would have waited days if that’s what it took. And these here I just forged myself. I thought it gave them a better look.’

‘I agree,’ I say, aware that I have no business sabotaging the possibility of making a friend in the workplace.

I pull my briefcase onto my desk and take out the book I’d stolen from Melody’s shelf. Patrice makes a sour face as he reads aloud, ‘A Cognitive Approach to Social Restrictions: OCD.’ Then he looks at me with disgust. ‘What the hell are you reading?’

‘I just grabbed it off my flatmate’s shelf this morning before I left. Thought it looked interesting.’

‘Darling, you must have some kind of twisted idea about what is interesting. Come with me and I’ll show you something interesting.’

He takes me out into the gallery where a few people have already shown up to admire the art.

‘Come over here and look at this contraption,’ he says, bringing me to a sculpture that looks like a snowman made out of Play-Doh. ‘Can you believe this is what people these days are paying money to come and view? If I had known this was all it took to be a world renowned artist I would have paid more attention in my primary school art class.’

It’s true. The particular piece we’re looking at is one of those contemporary pieces that is a little iffy. And I admit, I’ve never been a fan of the sort of thing where a black line is drawn down the center of a white canvas and then it’s considered a genius stroke of contemporary art.

But hey, who am I to judge? The creator of the Play-Doh snowman has clearly managed to get his sculpture displayed in a fancy art gallery. That’s more than I can say for myself.

I check the title of the sculpture. Friar Wandering through Cerebral Canals.

‘She had another “sculpture” displayed here that looked a bit like a rubber snake inside of a fishbowl with some red paint splattered at it,’ Patrice says, ‘It was called “Viper of my Consciousness.” I’m starting to think I should put the pile of dirty dishes living in my sink into a box and title it “Bane of my Existence.”  They’d probably love it.’

‘Maybe there’s a deeper significance that we mere mortals are just not getting,’ I reply.

Patrice smirks. ‘I like you,’ he says, ‘Let me just get my handbag and then we’re going to lunch.’

Once we reach the small sandwich café around the corner, I make no hesitation in ordering a much-needed glass of Chianti at 11:30 a.m., and I’m very pleased when Patrice says ‘make that two.’

When we’re about halfway through our drinks, a wasp plops into Patrice’s glass and he lets out a loud gasp before shouting, ‘Oh my GaGa, it’s ruined!’ Then he looks up at me and says, ‘Well, now we have an excuse for another round. I do hope they let me take this one with me though, so I can present it at the gallery as my latest piece: Monster in my Chianti.’

Once we’re given our sandwiches, I ask him about the life of a Gallery Attendant.

‘What do you mean?’ he asks, mouth half-stuffed with egg salad.

‘Like what would the daily activities of an average day include?’

‘Hmm...’ he says, thinking aloud, ‘Well my day usually starts at the coffee counter. Then I may go back to my desk and read my horoscope or a few emails from the Meryl Streep Fanclub. Or sometimes I go on BeautyNet and see what I would look like with colored contacts—which, by the way, I look fab.’ He pauses to take another bite of sandwich. ‘Then I sometimes play Angry Birds. If it’s not lunch hour by then, I usually go into the toilets and pluck my eyebrows until it is. After lunch I roam around the gallery to look as though I’m “attending” it. Sometimes I pop into the back art room and sneak a look at the upcoming pieces. When I get back, Bev’s usually left a pile of papers on my desk for me to file. More often than not I shove them underneath my desk to do later, unless Samson Greene is on the premises—he’s the Gallery Director of Art and Events. You’ll get to know the look of him. So if he’s around I file them to look busy. After that…hmm…I guess I brainstorm about what I’m going to wear to the next event the gallery hosts.’ He stops and looks thoughtful for a minute. Then he grins. ‘I think that about sums up my day.’

I take a long, happy swig of my second Chianti. I can tell I’m going to like this job. And I think this the whole walk back to the gallery. And all the way up the marble steps. And even through the doors leading to the bright whiteness of the interior.

But then everything goes wrong.

‘Oh bloody great,’ Patrice whispers fiercely, glancing over at a chic conference area in the back corner, ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. Now I’ve gone and jinxed myself. See that man over there? That’s Samson Greene. There goes my leisurely afternoon. I mean, first a monster in my Chianti, and now this. Whatever next? ’

There’s a group of four important looking men, all dressed in dark suits, focusing on some large posters of pie charts. But when my eyes fall on the man presenting the charts to the others, my stomach does a lurch so intense, I’m surprised I don’t vomit up my small intestines. It seems what’s next is the monster in my Chianti.

My palms become sweaty and I start breathing heavily. Oh God, the last thing I want to do is have a panic attack on my first day of work.

But why? Why, why, why, why?

This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.

What the hell is David Phillips doing here?