Esther shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
‘You have no idea? That’s rich. I never know what you’re thinking, standing there doing things with your mouth that don’t include speaking. Dreaming of South America! Like I’ve trapped you here. If you weren’t so secretive …’
Grace tuned out Bernice and watched Tate. Whereas she felt uncomfortable, he didn’t appear disconcerted at all by the scene unravelling in front of him; he seemed intrigued, like a child who had wound up a clockwork car as far as it would go and was now studying the way it zoomed around on an unpredictable, unstoppable drive.
Just as she suspected, he liked to stir things up and see what happened.
He caught her eye and the look was mischievous, not
malevolent. ‘Guess it’s time to go,’ he said, jumping to his feet and returning the brochure to the stand. She caught the wry lift of his eyebrows.
‘Bye, Bernice,’ he said as he headed for the door. ‘Bye, Esther. Hope you get to make your dream happen. Don’t leave it too long. Been to Peru. Mind-rocking.’ As Grace followed Tate, Bernice was still berating Esther and gave a barely-there wave goodbye, but Esther looked almost animated. As Grace passed her, she noticed those little teeth were back on her lip again.
CHAPTER
12
On the door of Picture London, Grace found a note that could not have surprised her more if it had said,
There is a mongoose living in the printer
. It was from Alistair, informing her that she wasn’t to worry about the door being open – he was in early.
She must have stared at it a couple of seconds too long because Tate said, ‘Something up?’
‘No, not at all.’
Tate followed her into reception, shouted, ‘Pepperoni pizza for Mr Alistair Sawclose,’ and with a neat sidestep and a huge laugh disappeared into Grace’s office. She watched him go and wanted to drag him back and shake him. She waited, irritation zinging around in her, for Alistair to emerge and, when he didn’t, she tried his door. It was locked. She knocked.
‘Yes, yes,’ he called, ‘be out in a minute. Got some things I need to crack on with. Didn’t want to be disturbed. Left you some stuff on your desk.’
Grace stared at the door handle. Did he mean disturbed by her? He must – she was always first into work. She walked back to her own office. What was so secret that she couldn’t see it?
Tate was sitting in the easy chair, his coat over his lap, looking as if even ice cream wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
‘Al safely under lock and key?’ His tone told her he knew the answer to that and she was working on ignoring the mangling of another name when she became distracted by the cardboard head and shoulders of a smiling Chinese woman balanced on a broken milk crate between the two front windows. A wrapper stating
Full-fat cheese
had been stapled to her mouth like a speech balloon.
‘Like it?’ Tate asked. ‘Found it round the back when I was putting the trash out. One of Bernice’s old displays, I guess.’
Grace knew it was a test, but even so was finding it hard to make her mouth into any other shape but one that said, ‘Yeuch.’
‘Al said I could stamp my mark on the place if I liked … through here. You don’t mind, do you?’
How dare Alistair let him junk up her office? ‘It’s very unusual,’ she said, turning her back on it, which unfortunately meant facing Tate.
‘Unusual? That’s right up there with interesting as a cop-out. You hate it, don’t you?’
‘Of course not. Oh, what’s this?’ She fell on the small pile of papers on her desk with relief. There was another of Alistair’s notes:
Been busy over the weekend. Suggested copy for the website, for the leaflets and for the emailers. Run it past Tate when he gets in too, will you?
She skimmed through the copy and saw Emma’s hand in it. Much too well written and to the point for Alistair. She handed it to Tate with the note and took her coat off. She saw him look across at her and waited for him to say something, but he just went back to reading the copy.
‘May I hang your coat up for you?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Nope, don’t expect you to do that for me, even if you did ask so nicely.’ He nodded at the papers. ‘Yup, looks fine to me. He’s called me challenging. Haven’t been called that since seventh grade.’
Grace doubted that were true, but laughed in the appropriate place and, after hanging up her coat, took the papers back from him. She opened the blinds, turned on her computer and got some Sunday supplements out of her bag to swap with the out-of-date ones in reception. Tate took one from her and started to skim through it.
‘So,’ he said, not taking his eyes from the magazine,
‘never got a chance to ask you downstairs where you’d like to head off to, Gracie?’
She was checking her emails, thinking about her father and how much of his hobby he would be strewing around her flat while she was out; she was thinking about Mark and where they might go to eat when he came back. She was not engaging with Tate Jefferson and whatever game he was playing with her now.
‘It’s Grace,’ she replied sweetly. ‘No “ee”. And I’m a city girl: Milan, Paris, Berlin. Anywhere with a five-star hotel, good restaurants, fantastic galleries. A spot of shopping. That’s me.’
He lowered the magazine. ‘Really? You live in a city and you want to get away to other cities? That’s what gets your pulse racing? All that shallow, big-bucks stuff? Don’t want to see more of the world than that? Don’t want to kick off your shoes and relax?’
Grace lowered her head to hide her smile. It had taken him less time to arrive at the subject of kicking off shoes than she had thought.
He was shaking his head. ‘Never want to lie on a beach, swim in the sea, stand on top of a mountain?’
Memories of doing all three, sometimes naked, sidled into Grace’s brain and out again.
‘Never want to just cut loose? Don’t tell me you didn’t
even bum around for a bit before college.’ He leaned forward. His green eyes seemed to have a sharper glint to them. ‘Gilbert said you were up in Edinburgh.’
‘Oh, I’m not into cutting loose … I thrive on keeping busy. We’re all different, aren’t we? But that’s enough about me. What about you? Where would you go if you could?’ She feared that adding
back to America?
might sound too barbed.
‘That’s easy.’ He threw the magazines on her desk and stretched out in the chair, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed. ‘Anywhere the sun shines most of the time and I can jump in some cool water, haul myself out and just dry off in the heat.’ He had the air about him of a very contented blond cat.
Grace felt a wobble in the force field she had built around herself as she watched him – a recollection of listening to cicadas in the evening by the pool at the villa and still being able to feel the heat of the day on her skin. Luckily Alistair appeared in the doorway at that point, and the force field stopped wobbling.
‘Morning, campers,’ he said, appearing almost feverishly bright, and Tate opened his eyes, sat up and looked at Alistair as if he had no idea what the hell he meant.
Alistair was oblivious. ‘Didn’t expect you so early, Tate. Good weekend?’ Not waiting for a reply, he turned to Grace. ‘What did you think of the copy?’
She told him it was fine, then turned to Tate and he nodded.
‘Great,’ Alistair said. ‘So, Grace, can you get those amends done … set in motion? I have some other things to sort out.’ He was going for the door, but stopped and came back to make a big show of checking his watch. ‘Oh, and could you give Tate a quick scoot round how we operate? You know, booking people into tours, taking payment, that kind of thing. Just show him the ropes. I would do it myself, but something has cropped up. A meeting. I have to go out now and then I’ll be back fleetingly before my Salvador Dali tour at one. OK? As you were.’
He did a weird salute that got another double-take from Tate and was on his way back to his office.
Tate was still looking at where he’d been standing.
‘Always as jumpy as that?’ he asked.
‘Jumpy?’
‘Like he’s got fifty thousand volts jazzing round his system or a serious coke habit? He’s wired.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’ She pretended she had found something really interesting on her screen so she did not have to see the disbelieving face Tate turned towards her. She felt pretty incredulous about Alistair’s behaviour herself. A meeting? This early?
She heard Tate move and then he was hanging up his coat and dragging the easy chair around to her side of the desk and positioning it right next to her. The difference in the height was a good six inches and when he plonked himself down into his chair he had to look up at her.
‘So, getting the idea it’s you runs this place, Gracie,’ he said. ‘Am I right?’
‘No, no. Alistair’s very much a … hands-on boss … owner … person. He … he sees the bigger picture. I just deal with the details.’
There was a disbelieving laugh. ‘Imagine you’re always hauling Alistair’s ass out of the crap.’
‘That’s not how I see it,’ she said carefully. ‘Now, can we get on?’
‘OK, Gracie.’ Tate’s tone was softer now. ‘Ignore me … just wanted to make sure you were happy, you know.’
Grace ignored the cold, hard shimmy in her stomach at that. ‘Yes, quite happy. So—’
‘So, these ropes you’re gonna show me.’ He clasped his hands together and held them towards her as if he were offering her a gift. He lowered his voice even further. Looked more intense. ‘Tight as you like, Gracie. I promise not to cry out. I won’t ask you to stop, whatever you want to do to me.’
She stared down at his face and couldn’t think of one single bright and breezy thing to say, and what might have
started as a joke on his part shifted into something darker and more disturbing.
No. More exciting.
He wasn’t speaking either and she knew she needed to do something to sweep away the silence which had a life of its own – like an electrically charged fog. She was no longer aware of anything except his hands held out to her and the look in his eye.
‘Stepped over some kind of invisible line there, huh, Gracie?’ she heard him say and it roused her enough to answer, ‘No, not at all,’ before she managed to stop looking at him and concentrate on her computer screen. She tried harder, managed to dredge up, ‘I was just a bit confused about what you meant. Hah, very good … ropes, tying. Get it now. You’ll have to excuse me. Bit slow this time of the morning.’
It was gibberish, but like a godsend, Alistair was back at the door.
‘Forgot to say, Grace, I’ve ordered a secure cabinet for my room. New regulations … Chamber of Commerce alerted me to it. Confidentiality of client information, getting much stricter …’ He waved towards the reception area. ‘Especially in premises that are open to the public. It won’t come today, of course. Just mentioning it. Off now.’
He was gone. She heard the outer door close.
She waited for Tate to take up where he had finished off with her, but he was frowning. He was still looking at the spot where Alistair had been standing.
‘Cat on a hot tin roof, our Al. Seems nervy about something. Gonna have a heart attack if he goes on like that.’
‘He’s fine, just a bit excitable.’
‘I’ll say. So, you gonna show me your stuff?’ Tate raised his eyebrows and grinned, and Grace silently thanked Alistair for breaking the mood and steering them safely back into harmless innuendo. She slowly began leading Tate through the process of taking bookings and how clients could pay through the website, by phone or by popping into the office. If they did phone or visit, she emphasised how important it was to make sure the details were put on the computer: it had to be kept up to date. And no accepting bookings without payment – Alistair was very definite about that, having been stung a couple of years ago by a group of eight that took the tour and melted away before payment. She could see Tate nodding away as she showed him the website, but she sensed that he was amused by her earnestness. He would have her down as a ‘rules first, last, every time’ person.
‘We limit the tour size to sixteen people, and this programme will tell you if you’re trying to go over that,’ she explained, pointing at the screen with her pen. ‘It’s more
to do with the galleries than us; most won’t countenance really large groups.’
‘Yeah, and there’s only so many people you can put to sleep at one time, Gracie,’ he shot back with his laugh.
She graciously inclined her head, able to deal with wanting to spike him with her pen. ‘So, basically, you can’t go wrong as long as everything goes on the computer. I tend to print off the names of the people beforehand, just so I have an idea who to expect. Language requirements, that kind of thing. Gilbert usually rings in a couple of hours before his tours and I tell him the names over the phone.’
‘Yeah, Gilb. Interesting guy. Said he works for other companies. Does some kind of history tours too.’
She nodded.
Gilb
?
‘He does. Now, your tours … we’ll need to set up a separate page for them and show where you’re taking people. Um, you’ve got the gallery names here: Whitechapel, the Institute of Contemporary Arts, the Saatchi Gallery, White Cube … yes, quite a few, but what about the studio visits?’
He went over to his coat and dug around inside it, coming out with a small notebook. When he was sitting back down, he opened it and showed it to her.
‘I’ve drawn up a rolling programme, see, depending on the size and location of the gallery. If it’s a big one, I won’t
do any studio visits. Where it’s a smaller one, I’ll fit in a couple of studios as well, maybe three if they’re all close together, like in Hoxton or Hackney. I wanna make sure all these places get a bite at the cherry … need to mix it up a bit.’ She knew he was studying her. ‘Hey, Gracie, you’re looking at me like I’m a dog that’s just proved it can dance on its hind legs.’
She realised she had been, amazed that he had obviously been doing some planning. Good planning.
‘I was only thinking how complicated it is for you, that’s all,’ she said blandly. She carried on, explaining how important it was to make it clear where he would meet the clients and what to do if they were late or didn’t arrive at all. What to do about complaints. Some basic health and safety issues. As she talked, she was aware he was starting to fidget, and as she finished explaining what the policy was regarding tips, he stood up.