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?

8. Best Dressed Cactus

I look to who, I assume, is Beverly Stating and immediately my emotions go to war over whether to laugh or be very afraid. The first thing I notice is her hair pulled back into the tightest bun I’ve ever seen, tugging at the dull skin around her face as though it’s made of saran wrap.

God, it looks painful.

She reminds me a lot of the terrifying headmistress I had in primary school, Ms. Chepshire. And, let me tell you, that woman was a harpy if I ever did see one. She once made this boy called Kenneth wee his school uniform by simply saying ‘hello’ to him. And another time, this boy called Robert threw water on her in the playground because he’d just seen Wizard of Oz and thought he was doing everyone a favor. It really was a pity when she didn’t melt. Especially for Robert.

‘That’s me,’ I say brightly, getting up from the chair and putting on my fakest, most ass-kissing smile.

‘Right on time,’ Beverly replies as though this pleases her, ‘Now, am I pronouncing your surname correctly? Berrr-nee-ay’. Is that right?’

Technically it is. But last time I checked, we’re in England. Neither one of us has a French accent, nor are we cigarette-smoking, beret-wearing Parisians. So, if she’s planning to pronounce only my surname with that horrible French accent and proceed to say every other word in a perfectly normal English one, things are going to get weird. My first boyfriend, William, had been guilty of such a crime.

He had gone to Nicaragua for six weeks during the summer we were dating. I’m pretty sure it was a sort of mission trip, building ovens for the natives or something. Anyway, for the few weeks leading up to the trip, he talked about it a lot. And every single time he said ‘Nicaragua’, he pronounced it as though he had been born and raised in Central America.

But only that word.

None of the surrounding words. All of those remained one hundred percent English. Just the word ‘Nicaragua’. I don’t know who the hell he thought he was, but pronouncing one word with a different accent than the rest is never acceptable. If you’re going to roll one ‘r’, just go ahead and roll them all. Don’t be lazy.

‘Bernier is fine,’ I say, pronouncing it with an English accent.

‘Okay,’ she says, ‘Right this way then.’

Her office is smaller than I’d expected, although I’m not really sure why I had expected it to be any bigger. I mean, she doesn’t even have a real waiting room. I watch her circle around her desk and then indicate to one of the chairs across from her. ‘Take a seat.’

I pull out the chair and sit. For some reason I feel like I’m in trouble. It probably has something to do with the fact that I’m not even sure what my job title is. However, there is no mistaking Beverly’s as it is printed on a metal frame standing on the corner of her desk.

Beverly M. Stating

Gallery Floor Supervisor and Staff Manager

I wonder what the ‘M’ stands for. If I were to base my guess on suitability, I’d say it’s probably something like Muriel or Mildred. But there’s always that chance that someone’s parents were having a super off-their-rocker day and agreed, ‘we’ll give her a normal first name so she’s not bullied in school, but the middle name is ours,’ and then decided on Beverly Medusa or something.

When I think of middle names, I can’t help also thinking of my brother, Mac, who really is one of those victims of his parent’s off-their-rocker day. Well actually, considering we’re talking about my parents here, let’s call it an off-their-rocker ‘state’, for accuracy purposes. Anyway, his actual first name is Arthur, which I think is fine, but he apparently doesn’t, so he goes by Mac, which is a shortened version of his middle name, Macxis.

Yes. Macxis.

I don’t know if my parents were in the middle of watching I Claudius while halfway through their second bong or something when deciding what names to bestow upon my poor unborn brother, but whatever the case, there is no excuse for that sort of spelling. I guess, in their defense, they had no way of knowing that in twenty years that word, ‘Macxis’, would sound more like the name of a computer software system than a gladiator, or whatever the hell they were going for. Maybe they thought it didn’t even matter. I mean, it’s just a middle name, right? Who even cares what we throw in there? It’s the first and the last names that really matter.

Well, the jokes on them. Now, the little boy that they thought they would be calling Arthur, is a twenty-three year old named Mac. So, either an actual computer or a type of microwave pasta.

Wouldn’t it be funny if the ‘M’ in Beverly’s name stood for Macxis too? Or Microwave?

‘Let me just see if I can find your paperwork in here…’ she mutters as she digs through the file cabinets in her desk. I take this time to observe my surroundings. Overall it’s a pretty common office. Except for two things.

The main décor of Beverly (Macxis?) Stating’s office consists mainly of Cactus plants and trophies that are clearly homemade and engraved with superlatives like “#1 Cottage Pie Cooker” and “Best Dressed Nightie”. Well, at least she’s the best. It beats mediocrity, I suppose.

After a few minutes, Beverly notices me admiring her awards and says, ‘My husband and I make them for each other. It’s one of the method’s we learned at the last ‘Keep Your Passion Alive’ convention that Selena Horn holds each year over in Kingston.’ She pauses, waiting expectantly for my reaction, so I give an enthusiastic nod even though I have no idea who Selena Horn is. ‘We just adore her—my husband and I,’ she goes on, ‘The idea of this particular exercise was to present your spouse with a trophy each month for whatever they did the best.’ Then she gives the trophies a proud glance. ‘We don’t really do that one anymore but it was one of my favorites.’

Words escaped me so I flash a giant smile instead. Aside from the fact that I am in complete shock that this woman has managed to snag a husband at all, she has found one who attends what sound like relationship conventions with her and participates in exercises to “keep the passion alive”. Either that man is hiding all kinds of guilt or Beverly had found herself a soul mate.

‘This is Bernard,’ she says, turning the photo on her desk to face me.

Yeah. Bernard looks like someone who would genuinely enjoy relationship conventions. Soul mates it is.

Realizing I’ll have to speak actual words at some point, I go for the standard response of, ‘he sounds great.’

‘He is, indeed,’ she replies, ‘But, anyway, onto more important things like…oh I don’t know…your job!’ 

Right. My job. That thing that’s more important than her husband. I’m hoping she will tell me what it is without me having to ask.

‘Although Gallery Attendant is, as you know, an entry-level position,’ she says and I quietly breathe relief, ‘don’t think that there aren’t a number of crucial responsibilities that you’re entrusted with.’ She pushes some papers toward me. ‘These are a few outlines of our expectations for you, as well as some of the gallery’s procedures. The bottom one you’ll have to sign and date to indicate I went through them with you.’

Once I’ve finished skimming the outlines and signing where I’m instructed to sign, Beverly takes me on a short tour of where I will be working. It’s a large, open room with strategically placed desks and a long counter that is clearly used only as a coffee station. I’m pleased to see not only a nice, expensive coffee machine but also an espresso machine. There is also a beige plastic-looking machine which could possibly be a juicer. I make a mental note to confirm this suspicion later.

There are a handful of people working behind the desks and all of their heads pop up when we come in. What is it that is so fascinating about the new girl? Is it just that everybody’s wondering what kind of flavor I’ll bring to the mix? Am I going to be an added pain in their collective ass or someone they look forward to seeing at work? I imagine being the super-fun-new-girl that brings all kinds of innovative ideas and brightens everyone’s day, but I can’t help the nerves that squirm around in my stomach as Beverly demands everyone’s attention.

‘This is Natasha Bernier,’ she says as though she is leading an extremely important press conference. ‘She is the newest Gallery Attendant and member of our family. Please make her feel welcome.’

There’s a murmur of hellos and I feel like I’m back in primary school. God, if she makes us play that game where we all say our names and three interesting facts about ourselves, I’m going to throw myself through the window right now.  

Actually, that’s not a good plan. We’re on the ground floor. I could very easily be retrieved from the pile of broken glass outside and dragged back into the room, meaning the only thing I’ll have achieved is lowering my interesting fact count by one, seeing as I’ll have already demonstrated that I am, in fact, a suicidal psychopath. One down, two to go.

If only I’d stashed a flask of vodka in my briefcase that I could go take a swig from in the toilets.  Then I’d be the coolest new girl ever. Although, I suppose I’d also be the worst gallery attendant ever, drunk on the job on my first day. Not that anyone would be able to tell—they don’t know me. For all they know, that could be my natural personality. But then I would be forced to keep up the charade or someone might think I’m suffering from depression when I switch from fun to sober…so I’d have to be drunk every day. That could get expensive. And really fattening. It could also get me in a lot of trouble if I were ever discovered. Maybe I should just stick to being sober during the day time, or at least, while I’m at work.

Everyone’s eyes are still on me. Maybe just today I could…

No, forget it.

Natasha, you’re fired.

7. Just Me and My Discman

Luckily, it is the right bus stop, so things are perhaps looking up. I am just going to leave all those negative, David-infused thoughts with the rubbish Cosmo on the bus and walk forward into my brand new life.

It’s a perfect plan.

All I have to do now is find the Charles Hamilton Gallery of Contemporary Art. Time is running short and it’s almost 9:00 and I’ll be damned before showing up on my first day a second late. This Beverly character sounds like she’ll be the one doing the damning too. God, I could be stupid. All I had to do was check where to go from the bus stop before I left this morning.

Most people could just whip out their phone in a situation like this. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people. I’m one of the other people, the ones in a silent war of reluctance when it comes to technological advancement. And it’s not because I’m taking some cultural stance against our society’s growing dependency on technology or whatever, either. It’s just that, with every new update and every new model, comes a whole new world of complexity; and usually by that time, I’ve only just finished figuring out my new model—which has inevitably, now become the old model. 

I was the last person that I know to even get a smart phone when they first came out. I clung onto my little Blackjack (yes, Blackjack, not even a Blackberry) until I had no choice but to get an iPhone because my parents updated our family phone plan. By the time I got my first iPhone, I’m pretty sure the majority of the human race had moved onto iPhone 2, and the Patricians, perhaps even iPhone 3. And it’s not only phones I do this with. Remember the Stone Ages, when the iPod hadn’t been introduced yet? We all used Discmans (never Discmen) as our portable music device. This was obviously an issue since anytime you moved the Discman, even if you were as gentle as possible, even if you were moving it from one silk-cloud-cushion to another, it would skip. I didn’t care though. It was me and my Discman. Even when the iPod came out and everyone got one and would tell me over and over again how much more convenient their new little piece of musical equipment was than my Discman. ‘It doesn’t skip,’ they would tell me. ‘It’s smaller, lighter, and you don’t have to rely on CD’s anymore. No more CD burning, no more scratches, no more skipping if you cough anywhere near its vicinity!’

But I didn’t care. I was loyal. I knew all I needed in this life of sin, was me and my Discman. I truly was down to ride til’ the very end, just me and my Discman.

And ride to the very end I did, until it became an actual effort to find Discmans at the shops. That was about five years ago. That’s when I finally got an iPod. I’m not ashamed.

However, this is the problem I have now, with my iPhone 4. I won’t move on and it’s so ancient that it takes at least a minute to open an app, let alone figure out what the hell to do once the app is open. Frankly, I don't think I deserve this. I never asked to be a Jetson. I was perfectly happy being a Flintstone, just me and my Discman.
With a sigh, I hit the map button and wait.

And wait…

…and wait.

Ah, bugger this. I’ll just ask someone so I don’t waste any more time.

‘Excuse me, sir?’ I say, hurrying over to a newspaper vendor who looks like he might possibly live inside his stand, ‘Could you point me in the direction of the Charles Hamilton Gallery?’

The man stares at me like I’ve just spoken to him in Flemish. I wonder if they call it the CHGCA.  You know, like the kind of people who regularly attend contemporary art exhibitions and will discuss so many different high-end galleries that it becomes a sort of pretentious-art-nuts code. ‘Yes, I just bought an extremely rare piece from the PVGM this month.’ ‘Oh really, Frederick? That’s marvelous. Is it anything like the one from the MFAKG?’ ‘Certainly not, Pamela. This one’s much more like the things you often find at the AHOLE.’

Whatever the case, this guy is definitely not familiar with the pretentious-art-nuts-code. He seems more like the drugs-under-a-bridge type.

‘There’s two museum-lookin’ places a couple streets over thatta way. Not sure if either of ‘em is what yeh lookin’ for, though,’ the man says.

‘Thanks.’

‘That’ll be two pounds,’ he adds, holding his newspaper smudged fingers out at me.

‘For what?’

‘The newspaper yeh buyin’.’

‘Oh no thank you, I don’t need a newspaper,’ I say, smiling politely.

The man stares at me blankly. Am I talking in Flemish again?

‘Two pounds for the newspaper yeh buyin’,’ he says again, still reaching out his hand.

This is pointless. I turn and walk quickly in the direction he had told me, feeling a little sexually harassed. It’s a shame I left my rape whistle in my evening bag. I’ve always wanted to use it and have never really had an opportunity. For all I know that could have been it.

And I blew it (the opportunity—not the whistle).

Obviously.

What is wrong with me? First checking directions online and now my rape whistle? I wonder what else I’m forgetting.

My hands instinctively go to my boobs. Okay, good. Remembered my bra. Some thug-looking kids who witness my undergarment check start hooting at me as I pass by.

Damn.

Another blown opportunity to blow my rape whistle.

But enough about blowing. Jeez.

By the time I find the gallery, which is definitely not one of the “two museum-looking places” to which my newspaper friend had directed me (both of those were banks), I have approximately three minutes to find Beverly Stating’s office without appearing late. And by appearing late, I mean being late.

The inside of the gallery is very modern. It is wide and open and almost completely white. I swear my vision does something funny when I first walk in, like when you go inside after being out in the sun for too long with no sunglasses. Except the other way around...

Anyway.

It is bright shiny white like the mane of a unicorn or the polished ivory tusk of an elephant or the sharp, glazed tooth of a tiger. Or, you know, some other white body part of an animal.

Anyway, again.

First on the agenda is to find Beverly Stating in less than three…wait, no…two minutes. I spot a receptionist sitting behind a desk on the left wall. (It’s a white desk, by the way. I was surprised too). The receptionist is extremely perky as she lets me know I’m expected. I follow her through the gallery, glancing at the paintings and sculptures that are set up and displayed to perfection, and eventually we go through a door toward the back of the showroom.

Ah, offices and cubicles. My heart drops a little at the sight of them. Of course I realize I’m at the bottom of the gallery staff food-chain, so naturally most of my time will be spent behind closed doors rather than with the art. But the confirmation of that notion is disappointing nonetheless.

The receptionist leads me to an office with three plastic chairs lined up outside. Then she tells me I can sit and wait for Beverly in the waiting room. I glance at the chairs, unsure whether or not they are the ‘waiting room’. I would have given them ‘waiting area’ at best, but they also look like they could be excess furniture, like when people put old armchairs or bed frames on the lawn outside their houses with signs that say ‘Take me,’ and you can almost hear the underlying, ‘pleasee.’

Desperately wanting to avoid being the idiot that sits on Beverly Stating’s rubbish furniture, I say, ‘The waiting room,’ and nod as though I know exactly where to go. But I don’t move.

‘Just right here,’ the receptionist says, motioning to the row of chairs and looking at me strangely, ‘Bev should be out in…’ She glances at her watch, ‘…exactly one minute.’

I look up at the clock on the wall. 8:59. So in exactly one minute it would be 9 a.m. sharp, just as promised.

‘Thanks Abigail,’ I say to the receptionist. As soon as the words are out I know I’ve gotten it wrong.

‘It’s Amanda,’ she replies with a forgiving smile and walks off.

Of course it is. Of course Abigail isn’t the name of the receptionist at my new job. Because Abigail is the name of David Phillip’s girlfriend. The one he left me for, and as evidenced by my Freudian slip, is not something I have yet forgotten, as much as I like to convince myself I have.

This first-day-of-the-rest-of-my-life is really not going as planned. The whole point is to shut the David Phillips door and let him rot in the past. Why then can I not seem to escape him? First the Cosmo and now my name slippage and it isn’t even 9 a.m. sharp yet.

‘Natasha Bernier?’

I snap from my thoughts at the sound of my name. 9 a.m. sharp.

My mistake.