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.'

11. The Land of Good Wine and Suicide Doors

‘You’re dating someone in fitness, huh?’ David says, flashing a grin at one of the other suits like I’m the lamest thing in the world and he’s just said something incredibly clever. The other suit enthusiastically returns this grin (so clearly, David is his boss) and soon they’re both grinning like Neanderthal dumb-fucks that have just pulled up the ladder to the “boys only club” tree-house.

It’s all very Teen-Witch-Top-That—and if you don’t know what I mean by that, click the link, you’re in for a treat.

I really wish Patrice were a witch right now. That way, he could rub his magic handbag and turn me into a badass who comes up with snappy responses that are actually clever (not just things that seem to be clever because I’ve got my goonies around me to act as a laugh track, like David). Actually, any response at all would do, because I’ve got nothing. So I just stand there. Like a giant knob-head.

Suddenly, Samson Greene starts muttering, ‘Bernier…Bernier…hmm,’ completely oblivious to the Cold War happening around him. He slumps down onto the white sofa and assumes the pose of The Thinker, eventually saying, ‘I believe I must know another Bernier…I’m thinking it’s…ah yes, Fernand Bernier! You know, with the Bernier wine. Any relation?’

I groan internally and tell him that Fernand Bernier is my dad. This causes Samson to jump back up with enthusiasm and go from resembling an iconic bronze sculpture, to one of the Wiggles. ‘Yes that’s it!’ he cries, pointing his finger at me, ‘He buys quite a lot of art from us, doesn’t he? Wonderful man. Do tell him I said so.’

‘I surely will,’ I say, avoiding any acknowledgment of David’s stupid smirk, which I can see in my peripheral vision, and feel in my clenched, ready-to-knock-a-fucker-out fists.

Also, I just lied to Samson Greene because I will do nothing of the sort. As if my father needs any more flattery. That the director of art and events at my work is gushing all over him would probably be one of the last things I’d mention. It would just give him and Mum one more reason to utter silly and pretentious things, followed by Dad saying, “a toast to us? Go on, Sybil, darling, shall we pop open one of the Moet & Chandons then?” to which Mum would respond by placing her hand over her chest, tilting her head back, and producing a weird, tittering type of laugh that sounds a bit like a hooting owl.

And anyway, it’s not really my father everyone gets so excited about, is it? It’s his wine business—a.k.a. his bank account.

I really don’t know what it is about money that everyone is so fucking fascinated with. Of course, it’s important to be able to support yourself, and it’s great to live comfortably. And if you’ve got the money (ahem, earned the money), then that’s great too—go on and treat yourself. Upgrade to a nice Lexus or have a fancy meal at Sheridan’s Steakhouse. But in what world does anyone need a bright-fucking-yellow Lamborghini that costs 250,000 pounds, has a black lightning bolt down the side and suicide doors? I mean, if you’re going to be ridiculous and spend that much money on a single thing that you don’t need, why buy something that looks like it’s been stepped on by Optimus Prime? At least buy something original, like a hot air balloon made of Aztec gold and dinosaur bones, that can fly to Mars and runs on Marmoset breath.

And speaking of suicide doors...actually, let's just speak of suicide doors. I mean, come on, suicide doors? Really? Who the fuck decided that name was a good idea? Unless, of course, it was the result of an office mix up at Door Naming Inc. or something.  Perhaps, instead of receiving the proper car-door-name-suggestions, Lamborghini ended up receiving the crazy, neo-Nazi bloke’s idea about putting exit doors along the external walls of the Empire State Building’s top floors. And then the geniuses at Lamborghini thought to themselves, “eh? Suicide doors? That’s a bit weird…and yet, sounds kinda snazzy…would be a very fast way to go…and a furious one too…” and then the rest is rich-tosser-history.

I think my real problem is with the people who make wealth their identity—and especially, those who use someone else’s hard-earned wealth to do it. Seriously, why do so many people suddenly find a partner more appealing if the partner turns out to be rich? Why do so many people settle for partners they don’t even find appealing at all because they’re rich? So they can be secure in knowing that they never have to actually use their brains again? Because they’re lazy fucks that want the monetary and material rewards of hard work without actually doing any of it? Because they are just that superficial and they’re brains are just that empty, that they need to distract themselves with toys, and then use those toys to buy the approval or envy or “respect” of others?

I think I’ve steered off course…

More to the point, why does a person suddenly become inferior or superior based on their net worth? And then people, like Samson Greene, feel the need to get on the good side of a person who has a lot of money, probably because they think they might be able to benefit themselves from the relationship in the future. It’s all selfish and silly and, unfortunately, something I can never avoid. Because when it comes to money, my father has it.

He has a lot of it.

Dad’s family is from France. His grandfather had owned a small vineyard just outside of Chablis. Since then, each generation of his family has spent their lifetimes expanding the vineyard into vineyards and living off of selling their wines.

What my father did, along with his brother, Dionte, and his sister, Fantine, was turn Bernier Vineyards into one of the largest French wine exporters in Europe. Dad had moved to England to run the company here, Dionte had stayed to run the one in France, and Fantine had gone to Spain. Dionte’s son, Ricard, had moved to Italy to work on starting something over there, but last time I checked the Italians had their own wine so I don’t know how well that venture is working out.

The point is that Dad’s a wine mogul. And people get a whole new attitude with me when they find out this information, so I like to keep it as quiet as possible.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate ‘being set for life’ and never really having to worry about money. It’s a nice safety blanket and all, but I was never one to rely on living off of my parents and doing nothing with my time. I’m not really the Paris Hilton type. That’s why I went to university and got a degree. That’s why I insist on having a job and paying for my shitty flat myself. I'm kind of like Rachel from Friends. My mother has trouble wrapping her head around it. When she finds out the square footage of where I live she’ll probably have an aneurism. Or jump out of a suicide door. But at least she won’t have a Lamborghini.

This reminds me—I have yet to speak to my parents since I’ve been back from New York. And on an even brighter note, they probably have yet to notice.

I make a plan to stop by their house on my way back from work. Mainly to see the dogs, and also to show Mum my fake Louis Vuitton bag. It’s the only reason I bought it (from a man on the side of the road, for the steep price of twelve dollars). At first, Mum will think it’s real and she’ll be so excited that I’ve finally given in and bought “a proper handbag.” Then I’ll tell her it’s a knock-off and she’ll probably give me a smack on the arm, and say, ‘why do you do such things to my frail heart?’ But the look on her face will be worth the smack, I’m sure. To be fair, the plan works in her favor too, since my attack on her so-called “frail heart” will give her a reason to open a new bottle of Bernier Vineyards Chablis.

And in the words of Sybil Bernier, a.k.a, dearest Mumsy: ‘how can a good wine ever be a bad thing? Am I right or am I right?’

You’re right, Mum.

10. We Meet Again, Batman

I have to get out of the gallery. In no way, shape, or form can I allow myself to be seen by David Phillips. Not right now.

I’ve gone over what our first meeting since the break up would be like so many times in my head. I’m always wearing an effortlessly but smolderingly sexy outfit and my hair is perfect and I have a handsome new boyfriend with a nicer car than his and a better job than him. Usually in my fantasy my new boyfriend is Sting. I guess I’m willing to compromise with that since in the real world I’m pretty sure Sting is married and in my fantasy I am NOT a mistress or a side girl.

But that’s my only compromise. Nothing else is up for negotiation. David left me heartbroken and humiliated for another woman. The next time he saw me I had to be better than her. I had to make him think, ‘Damn, I should have never left Natasha.’ I wanted to be breezy and nonchalant about how amazingly well I’m doing.

This is certainly not how it was supposed to happen.

I am not supposed to see him for the first time in a year coming back from my lunch break on my first day of work, a little tipsy on Chianti and with no 6-carat diamond ring on my finger or pretend Sting on my arm.

This cannot be happening.

‘Shit, you have to hide me,’ I whisper to Patrice, tripping over my own footing as I fling myself behind him.

‘Samson isn’t that scary.’

‘Not Samson,’ I hiss, ‘the one with the pie charts. That’s David.’

‘The David?’ Patrice gasps, his mouth dropping open.

I had told Patrice all about David and New York and my new fabulous life over lunch. He had loved it and told me my life was like a less glamorous version of Gossip Girl. And I can see the intrigue all over his face as he stares at David now.

‘He’s almost exactly like I pictured him,’ he whispers, mesmerized. This is most likely due to the fact that I’ve always thought David looks a bit like Rufus Sewell and despite David’s insistence that he didn’t see it (clearly a pretend attempt at humility), I knew I was right and told Patrice over lunch. So all he really had to do was picture Rufus Sewell and he’d be on the right track.

‘See, what did I tell you?’ I say, and for a minute allow myself to get side tract by inner gloating at having been right. Then I quickly remember the emergency situation at hand, and snap, ‘But I really need to get out of here.’

‘Oh right.’ Patrice walks next to me, attempting to block me from view should they happen to look our way.

We’re almost to the door of the offices when a posh voice calls out, ‘Patrick?’

I feel Patrice go rigid and turn slightly the other way. ‘Mr. Greene, hello,’ he calls back with a quick wave, ‘Good to see you again.’ Then he whispers quickly to me, ‘Go, go! Before it’s too late!’

He says it like we’re in some sort of James Bond thriller and I need to leave him in a burning car that’s about to explode if I’m ever going to save myself. I can tell he is just relishing the drama of the situation. Whatever the case, I really do want to get out of sight before it’s too late.

I reach for the door to the offices and I’m almost home-free when I hear Samson Greene say, ‘And who is with you there, Patrick? Come over here. Meet our new marketing team.’

The blood rushes to my face. How am I going to get myself out of this? I could just pretend I don’t hear him and make a dash through the door. But it’s my first day. And I really don’t want to piss off a gallery director on my first day.

But I really don’t want to face David Phillips either.

Patrice and I stand frozen for a moment.

‘Well? Come on,’ Samson says, his voice becoming irritated, ‘what’s wrong with you two?’

Slowly, I turn around, avoiding David’s eyes as we make our way over to them. Samson is tapping his foot impatiently but for some reason I like the look of him. Maybe it’s his balding, gray hair. Or perhaps his obnoxious Monet print tie.  I don’t know.

‘And who might this be?’ he asks, clasping his hands together.

I open my mouth to introduce myself but David’s husky voice beats me to it.

‘Natasha Bernier.’  

I’m really not sure why my life has suddenly become the strange and intense dialogue of an action film trailer, but he says it in this ‘we meet again’ tone like he’s Batman and I’m Catwoman and things are about to get interesting. He’s such a pig-headed ass.

‘She’s the new Gallery Attendant,’ Patrice adds.

I allow my eyes to linger over to David and immediately regret it. My hope was that over the course of the year he would have ended up looking more and more like Quasimodo. But unfortunately for me he looks like he’s just stepped out of GQ magazine in the newest Armani suit last worn by George Clooney.

Damn it.

On top of that, he’s looking at me intensely with his dark grey eyes. And despite all my attempts to avert my attention from him I eventually look back and he has the nerve to flash me a smile. I shoot him a look that I hope conveys the message of how dearly I want to castrate him right here in the middle of the gallery.

Samson is studying David who still hasn’t taken his eyes off me. I think there might have been a small awkward pause but I’m too focused on David and his shimmery black hair to even know what is happening.

‘…and you two already know each other?’ Samson eventually asks.

‘We do,’ David answers, breaking our gaze without hesitation.

The fact that this disappoints me for even a second makes me boil with rage. More at myself than David. But actually, also a lot at David.

‘We used to share a flat in Greenwich,’ he says, ‘Lovely place. You know, I even met the bloke who lives there now the other day at Costa. We just got to talking about cricket and he mentions that his place looks onto a cricket club and turns out, it’s the very same flat! Isn’t that a coincidence?’

I feel my fists clench. Is he fucking kidding me?

Samson and the other suits are nodding interestedly at this little tale but I can’t even bring myself to fake a smile. Is that really how he’s going to sum up our near two-year relationship? “We used to share a flat”. That’s it? Like I was merely a flatmate he’d picked up in the classifieds? And then to seem more concerned with talking about meeting the random guy who lives there now, as if that’s more important than explaining to these people that we were in a committed domestic relationship for two years and then one day you decided to run off with the Pamela Anderson of marketing research, who probably lacks a real brain but makes up for it with not-so-real breasts?

David turns to me. ‘So how have you been, Nat? I can’t believe it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. How was New York?’

‘How do you know I went to New York?’ I snap defensively.

I had really hoped David wasn’t aware that I’d taken off to New York because I was so traumatized by our break up.

‘I bumped into Connor at…well, can’t quite remember where it was to be honest…but he told me you were spending your last year of uni abroad in some really renowned art program, run by one of Warhol’s protégé’s or something.’

I don’t think I’ve ever loved Connor so much in my entire life. That he would lie for me like that and not even mention it (not even to Becca, who would have told me) makes me want to propose marriage to him on Becca’s behalf. Never again will I make fun of his funny last name or his Tommy Bahamas shirts or his bifocal-spectacles-not-glasses.

‘Oh yeah,’ I say nonchalantly, ‘he may have mentioned that, not too sure. But yeah, that’s where I’ve been the last year. New York. The Big Apple. The concrete jungle…city…that never sleeps…’

Ok, I need to get a grip on life or shut up altogether. It has to sound like the most fabulous year of my life and not one spent moping over him. I think about where to begin.

Convent living? My pals Mao Tung and Mao Ling? Christmas spent in the dormitory common area with Becca, the floor prefect Gonzo, a fig pudding, and a CD of Christmas carols by Elvis? The time I mistakenly thought I saw Brooke Shields in a pastry shop and ended up having to listen to a woman (who actually looked nothing like Brooke Shields) give me a fifteen minute long sales pitch for Chanel makeup, only to tell her I couldn’t afford anything she had just mentioned? Or perhaps how none of my relatives bothered to visit me for the entire year? And how I was so angry at my parents for that, that I refused to accept any of their charity money and had to buy a winter coat with money from my university meal plan?

There’s a lot of riveting stuff there that I could mention. What I really want to do is say something super shocking and badass like, ‘You know what, David? I’m about to light this place up like it’s the fifth of fucking November.’ Except, you know, a version that’s actually appropriate within the context of our conversation.

I go with the standard response. ‘New York was wonderful,’ I say, ‘I felt just like one of the girls on Sex and the City. It was such a great experience and really changed my whole outlook on art and culture. I just got back a few days ago and was very disappointed to leave.’

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

David watches me carefully, clearly trying to decide if I’m telling the truth or not. The nerve of this guy! Thinking he can still read me like a book after a year. Well, I’ve changed a lot and I am not going to allow him to get inside my head.

‘Glad to hear you enjoyed yourself,’ he says, still eyeing me, ‘and I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we’re glad to have you back in England.’

‘It’s good to be home,’ I agree, ‘I have a great new flat and a great new job.’ I flash a sweet smile at Samson. ‘And I’m seeing someone.’

Fuck. That last part just slipped out. I really hadn’t planned for that.

‘Really? You are?’ David asks and the sound of genuine shock in his voice really rubs me the wrong way, ‘After three days?’

Damn, that’s right. I just got back from New York on Friday and it’s only Monday. Fuck again.

‘Yes, well, he was staying in New York for a few months so we started things up there, and now we’re both back in London so we’re just going to pick right back up,’ I say, using the only thing I can come up with in 0.2 seconds.

David nods. ‘Anyone I know?’

‘Probably not,’ I say quickly.

I really wish he would stop asking questions about my non-existent boyfriend because I’m not sure how quick on my toes I can be and still come up with a believable story. I’ve really dug myself a dirty ditch this time. Why am I such a moron?

‘Try me,’ says David, a smirk tugging at his lips, ‘Maybe it’ll be a coincidence, like me meeting the bloke in our old flat.’

I feel my palms get sweaty again. This couldn’t be any worse. Think, Natasha, think, think, think.

‘Thomas Davison,’ I blurt out, surprised by my own candid memory of his full name. Then I add, ‘he’s in fitness.’

So this is good. I am now dating a man I haven’t even met. And, from the looks of it, a man I will have to force to date me once I do meet him so I can keep up with my own pathological web of lies.

If it had been a personified version of my own life I had been speaking to, then it definitely would have been appropriate to say, ‘I’m about to light this place up like it’s the fifth of fucking November,’ thanks to my PE4 level of deceit. Sorry, Life, but I've lit the match. You may or may not exist anymore. 

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?