12. Inferiority Threat - Class B

 ‘So, what is it you’re doing here?’ I ask, wanting desperately to change the subject.

‘Well, Miss Bernier,’ Samson responds, placing an awkward amount of stress on my wine-savvy surname, ‘I know you’re new to the gallery, but I’m sure you already know that we host a lot of events here. All kinds of things, from collection and exhibition openings to charity benefits to private parties. Many, many things. But our biggest problem is that most of our events are fashioned for people with a certain income. People who can afford to buy our art, auction on it, et cetera. Although we do attain a relatively decent income from ticket sales of those who just wish to come during gallery hours and look at the art, at the end of the day we are not a museum; we are a gallery. Our biggest profit will come from those who can afford to buy the art, not just a ticket to view it.’

I nod and make sure to say, ‘right’ and ‘mhmm’ at all the right moments to indicate I know exactly where he’s going with this, even though I have no idea.

‘As I’m sure you have already gathered,’ he goes on, (although, like I said—nope, gathered nothing), ‘this gives us a sort of…how should I put it…a reputation for pretension. And our ticket sales have been affected by this reputation. The average middle-class person who would normally just seek to buy a ticket has lost confidence in coming here due to a false inferiority complex that has developed through negative press.’

I’m still nodding enthusiastically and my neck is beginning to get sore. Then one of the suits steps forward and I read his name tag.

James Shillings

Marketing Assistant

‘Have you ever gone into an up-market boutique like, I don’t know, Versace or Chanel or something like that?’ James Shillings asks.

‘Sure,’ I reply.

‘Of course we have,’ Patrice cries, ‘who do you think designed this handbag, James? Do you see these L’s and V’s? Yeah, you know it was Louis. And by Louis, you must know I mean Vuitton.’

‘Er…right, great,’ James replies awkwardly and turns back to me, ‘So have you ever been into one of those places, dressed casually, just intending to look around, perhaps spend some money if something catches your interest and you feel like the people who work there are watching you? Like they’re trying to decide if you have enough money to be in their shop? You start to feel a little self-conscious, especially if you get the impression that they’ve decided you don’t, in fact, have enough money to be shopping there.’

Actually, I know exactly what he’s talking about. Patrice lets out a small chirpy-sound beside me which gives me the feeling that he also knows what James is talking about. Those pretentious designer handbag stores. I’m always so scared to go inside of them. It’s almost like they have some sort of magic detection system which sets off a silent alarm the second I walk in to inform them that all I can afford is a coin purse (and that’s only if I don’t eat for two weeks). I am then labeled an “Inferiority Threat-Class B” with the suggested course of action being “derogatory removal.”

It reminds me of this time a few years ago when Dad took all of us to France with him on his annual trip to check in with Dionte and the home base of Bernier Vineyards. I remember I had tried to go into a Chanel boutique with my brother, Arthur Macxis (who, by the way, looks a bit like Jack Sparrow, which obviously earns him the label “Image Appearance Threat-Class A”), and the security guard at the door had blocked us out, saying something in French about there being too many people inside already. I looked through the window and only saw two couples and an old man. Naturally, I questioned the security guard’s math skills and he got all flustered and brought one of the Chanel clerks outside just so I could be denied entry in French for a second time. It was nice and embarrassing. Especially when he allowed some woman to go inside right in front of me and proceeded to say ‘special client’ in English when I got angry.

However, it’s one of my favorite memories because Mac and I were still lingering outside of Chanel when my parents and Uncle Dionte caught up with us. Unaware of my relation to the Bernier fortune, the security guard gave a respectful little nod and said, ‘Bon jour, Monsieur Bernier’ as he opened the door of Chanel for them. So I took that opportunity to say, ‘Il mio papa, special client?’

So, yeah, I fucked up the French by speaking in Italian. But when his face went pale white and resembled the little frowning square on the “Silverlight plugin has crashed” webpage, I knew he’d gotten the gist and that was all that mattered. Derogatory removal of threats DENIED. And be damned sure, a crash report is coming.

‘I’m aware of those experiences,’ I say.

‘Well that’s the sort of pickle we’re in,’ Samson says, ‘The every-day public has a designer boutique idea of us and it’s affecting our revenues and that’s obviously not what we want at all. That’s why we initiated this business relationship with the Mauffer-Lynne P.R. Firm. David, here, along with his fantastic team, is going to help us create a public image that will appeal to the masses as well as the elite. It’s sort of an image makeover. Get the crowds back.’

Well, wasn’t that just fucking peachy? My first day working at the Charles Hamilton Gallery of Contemporary Art and I already have to quit. This was supposed to be the first day of my fabulous new life and that life did not include a business relationship with Mauffer-Lynne P.R. Firm. Of all the P.R. firms in all of England they had to choose David’s, didn’t they? Of course they did.

Of course they fucking did.

I call Becca as soon as I get back to my desk and tell her everything. For a moment she’s silent, but I know she’s still on the line because I can hear her breathing.

‘Shit, Nat,’ she eventually says, ‘That’s bad luck. Like really bad luck.’

‘Thank you for stating the obvious,’ I reply.

‘I mean, what are the chances? Do you think maybe it’s a sign?’

I had been fiddling with my ball point pen but stop when she says that. ‘What do you mean, a sign?’ I ask.

‘Like a sign from the cosmos or something?’

‘What the fuck are you on about?’ I snap, sitting straight up in my chair, ‘What cosmos?’

‘As much as I don’t want to say this because I think David is an arrogant prick who I’d like to see run over by a three-man bicycle, do you think maybe the cosmos brought you two together again?’

I scoff. ‘Or I did something that really pissed the cosmos off and now I’m being eternally punished. Oh, and there’s something else—’

‘What?’

‘I made up that I was seeing someone.’

‘Like an actor or something?’

‘No, idiot. It had to be semi-believable. I said I was dating that friend of Connor’s, Thomas Davison…’

‘The one in fitness?’

‘Right, exactly,’ I say brightly, ‘Thomas in fitness.’

‘Why on earth would you say that?’

I frown. ‘It just came out. The whole encounter is sort of a blur to me anyway. Random sentences were just spraying out of my mouth like a geyser or something.’

‘You haven’t even met him, Natasha. What if you don’t even like him?’

‘Why would you try and set me up with someone I might not like?’ I gasp.

‘Don’t try and turn this on me,’ she says immediately, ‘He’s a nice guy and I think you’ll get on with him. But how am I supposed to know if you’ll get on with him enough to bone him? That’s really your call.’

‘I really hate that phrase,’ I reply flatly, ‘and, either way, Thomas Davison is in luck because even if I don’t like him, I’m going to force myself to like him anyway.’

‘What if he doesn’t like you?’

‘That’s really not helping.’

‘Right, sorry, that’s not what I meant,’ Becca says quickly, ‘Of course he’ll like you!’

‘Fuck off,’ I reply, and then apprehensively looked around to see if anyone had heard which no one seemed to have. ‘So when do we get this Thomas Davison thing rolling? What’s the game plan?’

‘Ok, he’s not a murder mystery pub crawl,’ Becca replies, ‘And remember, I told you about your welcome home party on Friday? You kind of have to be there or the whole ‘welcome home’ theme will be spoiled. Anyway, Connor’s going to bring Thomas to that.’

‘Great, then I’ll bring myself along. And I’m going to invite my new friend from work, Patrice.’

‘Does she eat meat? Because there are only like two vegetarian dishes.’

‘Yeah, I think he eats meat.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ says Becca, ‘I thought you said Patrice.’

‘I did.’

There’s a pause. ‘Okay, good. I invited your parents.’

‘No! Becca, you didn’t!’

‘And Mac too. But I doubt he’ll bother coming. And also Jade...’

I groan. This party is such a hot mess already and it isn’t even Tuesday yet. And on top of that, my first day of work is almost over. This means it's almost time to visit dear old Mummy and Daddy. I wish it were appropriate to ask around for a Paracetamol and then say, 'but actually, if you've got a Xanax in there, you can hold onto the Paracetamol. I just need the Xanax.'