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  But I can’t stop here. After compliments like that, I decide I’ve got nothing to lose. I need an answer.

  ‘Roland, tell me about this lunch meeting,’ I probe. ‘Did they talk about plans beyond Van Gogh? What can I expect to be working on after that? Is it the Women in Renaissance exhibition maybe? I adore that period, and it would be a great win for the museum.’

  ‘Okay.’ He wriggles uncomfortably, like he has an itchy bomb in his pants. I’d allow myself to entertain that idea if it weren’t for the fact I might laugh in his face. ‘I’m really glad you asked, because there’s been a lot of chatter about who’ll be filling my role and what the office is going to look like—’

  ‘And?’ I cut over the top of him, too excited to care for rigmarole or patience. Now is good. My heart is beating against my ribs like a muffled xylophone. Flight of the bumblebees, maybe.

  ‘Management went through each interview: yours, Steve’s, and the other applicants. They looked at responses, qualifications, roles within the team, work that needed to be done, and matched it all up against the criteria matrix, et cetera and so forth.’

  He swallows. Hard. And he isn’t making eye contact, instead looking anywhere but at me.

  I roll a hand in the hope that the breeze I create will hurry him along. I know I ticked all the boxes on all their checklists; I’d studied the job ad profusely, made notes and carried index cards around the entire week before my interview. Hell, Lainey was even roped into no less than six mock interviews. Nobody could tell me I didn’t meet the qualification criteria – I hold a Masters in Curating and Collections, something Roland likes to throw out to the investors like it’s a dangling carrot. If that isn’t enough, then poke me with a fork because I am done.

  ‘They’ve decided to run with Steve.’

  He says this with such finality that it’s like dropping a brick from a height. For a moment, I can hear nothing but my own blood racing through my ears.

  ‘Steve?’ I ask, knowing how incredulous I sound. Not even sorry; I can’t help it.

  Roland fumbles, for what I don’t know. ‘W-w-well, y-yes. He’s got the experience of his stint at MoMA, and he does consistently great work.’

  ‘He was at MoMA for ten whole days,’ I deadpan before mumbling, ‘And that was including the jetlag.’

  As I say this, I can see Roland’s frame shrink back. He knows this is bad, and not at all the answer I was expecting. I also suspect he knows this makes no sense either, other than the preferential treatment of friends, but no more words come. My mouth gawps like a sunbathing goldfish.

  ‘All right then.’ I nod and purse my lips.

  What else am I supposed to say? I can’t argue, because it would only make me look bad. Assertiveness is often dismissed as aggressiveness in women, and it’s no different here in the art world than it is in any other corporate office. Roland’s leg starts bouncing, and a sinking feeling sets in. This is about to get worse. I’m acutely aware that there is now complete silence in the office behind me; no radio, no chatter, nothing.

  Until laughter erupts outside. I glance sideways to see Steve hovering over the desk of one of the other male curators, a sly look trained my way. He knows that I know, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Right now, I want to grab him by his scrawny designer-shirt-clad shoulders and shake the smug out of him. But I can’t. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I can taste the iron tang of blood.

  I am furious in a way I don’t think I have ever been before in my life. I wasn’t even this angry when I was nineteen and my brother borrowed my clapped-out Ford Escort and deposited it into a brick wall.

  The next few minutes don’t register, not really. Breath coming in short spurts, I get up from the seat as calmly as I think I can, and yank the door open so hard I’m surprised the hinges are still intact. Walking into the open-plan area from Roland’s office, I reach for the first empty box I can find and drag it over to my cubicle.

  Family photos and postcard artworks are tacked on the walls of my desk partition, a designer ceramic pot that found a new life as a pen holder is slumped in the corner, and a folder of plans that has been dropped on my keyboard during the time it took for Roland to drop his bombshell leaves my computer trilling its disapproval. A tiny brass plaque with my name engraved sits above my monitor as if to taunt me.

  I tear everything down and toss it into the ratty box. There’s no rhyme or reason, and I’m far from gentle with any of it. When I’m done, I reach into my messenger bag and feel around for my next target. From the corner of my eye, I can see the room at a standstill. Roland is pleading with me to come back into his office and talk, but he’s an underwater mumble in a raging torrent of anger.

  What am I even doing? Who the hell knows? All I can tell you is that I am not putting up with this anymore. I am not being overlooked in favour of jobs for mates, not anymore. I am not smiling and nodding while I watch the incompetent leap-frog over me. Again. I am not working nights and weekends and overtime just to be kept in a holding pattern. I have had enough. Time to draw a line in the sand.

  And I draw it in Taylor Swift-red lipstick. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab a sheet of paper from my in-tray and scrawl ‘I QUIT’ across it in big bold letters, the lipstick crumbling and mashing as I go. Grinning at Roland, who I can’t quite hear over the siren call of blood in my ears, I hold my sign aloft like I’m about to announce a wrestling match.

  The office erupts into a cacophony of noise. Roland shouting for me to stop breaks through the hoots and hollers. I push past him, head held high until I pause below the glowing Exit sign and clock my sight on Steve. One hand on the emergency exit door, I raise the other up in line with my face and indulge in one last act of pettiness, showing him my middle finger. The drum of my chest is replaced by the clacking of heels as I flee down the stairwell, and, somewhere behind me, I’m sure I can hear the faint clatter of clapping.

  Chapter 2

  Above my head, the shining face of Big Ben lights up against the dusky sky, reminding me that as of 5.09 p.m. on a muggy Friday in July, I am now unemployed. A busker croons by the Westminster tube entrance, but I’m not sure his upbeat Ed Sheeran covers are going to cut it tonight. I don’t need castles on hills or to sing at the top of my lungs. The exhilaration of leaving the office is beginning to wear off, so I need food and drink and the company of a good friend to help unravel the humiliated knot in my stomach.

  When I finally stop and take stock, I realise that I am absolutely, bottom of the well without a ladder terrified. I could barely afford to live in London on my wage, let alone without it. Sure, I’ve got some savings stashed away, but they won’t last forever. Hell, they probably won’t last until the change of seasons.

  A summer breeze tickles the backs of my wobbly legs as I hoist my messenger bag higher on my shoulder and scramble to stop my small box of junk cascading out of my arms and onto the pavement. It’s not like it’s an Aladdin’s cave of treasure, but it is mine and I’d rather keep it that way. I jab at the pedestrian crossing, once, twice, three times in quick succession while my mind runs over the last excruciating thirty minutes of my life.

  ‘Hurry up!’

  The woman next to me glares at me with all the patience of a lottery winner waiting on a cheque. Ironic, really. She probably wouldn’t be too excited if she were me, though I don’t say that aloud. In a pocket I can’t reach, my phone continues to vibrate. It has since my heels hit the street.

  A Hop-On Hop-Off bus rolls over Westminster Bridge and through the intersection, the flash of camera phones turns the top deck into a mobile disco. It’s joined by a swarm of Deliveroo cyclists trying to beat everyone through the intersection. As they pass, the last of them chiming wildly on their bell, the lights change, and I join the throng as we pull each other across the street. It’s a regular Friday evening synchronised swim.

  I muddle my way through the crowd. It’s not as simple as it looks when everyone’s clambering up and down the s
teps for the tube and I’m not. I find myself unusually irritated with the slow movers and the tourists who bottleneck because they need to work out the best vantage point for just one more photo of Big Ben.

  I get it, I really do, but he’s under scaffolding and I need to be somewhere. Leave him (and me) in peace.

  Slipping through all that, I turn into Parliament and head for the Red Lion. With its dark façade of railway tiles, glittering signage, and bushels of flowers, it brings a bit of old-world charm into every Friday evening. I glance in the windows quickly as I approach.

  ‘Hungry, miss? Table for one? Two?’ A waiter catches my eye.

  ‘Two, thank you.’ I smile politely. By the time he pulls his notepad from the pocket of his apron, I’m already pointing out Lainey, who’s perched at a bench for two in the back window.

  With an arm outstretched, he lets me wind my own way through the maze of diners to where my friend sits, already looking cosy with a bottle of white.

  I’ve known Lainey going on sixteen years now. Outside my family, she’s the longest, dearest friendship I’ve had. We met one fly-riddled, sticky afternoon after an all you could handle beer and pizza bender organised by the student union. I’d sat myself down on a grassy hill and peeled off my shoes and socks just to feel something cool under my feet and photograph some of the boxy modern architecture.

  With a harrumph, she flopped down beside me and shook out a bag of liquorice while muttering about boys who couldn’t take a hint and how, under no circumstance, did she want to go and look at the Def Leppard plaque at the spoon factory. When I chimed in about how it reminded me of a boyfriend I’d recently broken up with, it set us on the start of our long trajectory of broken hearts and happily ever afters.

  After university, she decamped to London, heading straight from undergraduate into working for a smaller gallery. I stayed in Sheffield to complete my master’s before landing an assistant role at Webster Fine Art. When a position in my office opened up a few months later, I sent her the job ad, she applied, and we’d worked together ever since.

  Tonight, even with her day off, she looks like the poster child for corporate office perfection, whereas I’m sure I left the office looking like the love child of Beetlejuice and Alice Cooper.

  Her smile slips as she takes one look at the box in my arms. It registers that tonight is not one of those happy endings we like to celebrate. Mugs, tattered diaries, pictures and old Cup-a-Soup boxes are the office worker’s walk of shame.

  ‘What the hell have you done?’ She gawps as she reaches across the table to fill my glass while I busy myself with hanging my bag and coat over the back of my chair.

  ‘This is what happens when you have a day off,’ I titter with a wave of the finger. ‘I might have quit.’

  She gasps, recoiling slightly. ‘You did not.’

  ‘Oh, but I did.’

  ‘What the fu …’ she says waspishly. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I lie with a huff as I collapse into my seat. Having confessed to someone makes things seem suddenly more real. I just quit my fucking job.

  ‘As it turns out, the meeting with Roland this afternoon was to tell me that, although I’m amazing and our investors love me, someone else was getting his job. I might have had a brain snap and decided enough was enough. I’m sick of being passed over in favour of less skilled men.’

  ‘Oh, what?’ She bashes down on the table. A symphony of stainless-steel clatter joins her outrage. I love how passionate she is about anything involving her friends and family, even if it occasionally draws the ire of surrounding diners. Where I’d spent the last thirty minutes trying to tamp down an ‘it’s not fair’ tantrum, her outrage bubbles forth freely and it reminds me of why I love her so in the first place. ‘Who got it?’

  I rub my face and flip the menu over as if I’m ever going to order anything other than fish and chips, mushy peas and curry sauce. ‘Bloody Foot Fetish Steve.’

  Now, I’m not one to spill secrets, but he got that nickname after an especially rowdy office party that involved him walking off into the night with a woman who charged by the hour. Not that there’s any shame in that, but let’s just say the stories that filtered back in the ‘Don’t tell anyone, but …’ game of telephone were a riot. Hence, an office nickname was born.

  ‘Penis.’ Lainey tips her glass in my direction. ‘That’s what it is. It’s the sausage factory churning them out again. You’re perfectly capable. I mean, sure, you don’t have the sailboat for weekends with the boys, and you have to sit down to wee, but does it matter?’

  ‘I know how to do this job. I have lived art for years,’ I press, hands jazzed out by the side of my head. When I raise my eyes to meet Lainey’s, hers crinkle and laughter bubbles up between us. ‘And I do sit down to wee.’

  A waiter appears beside us, a cautious bounce in his step and an unsure smile. I order my regular fish and chip dinner and the longest Long Island Iced Tea they’ll legally pour me.

  ‘You know what, I should be on the Vimtos.’ Lainey pokes the air. ‘But I’ll have what she’s having.’

  ‘Why the Vimtos?’ I ask as our waiter departs.

  ‘Wedding tosh tomorrow.’ She waves a hand. ‘Tell me more about this meeting.’

  ‘Somewhere in the mix I’m sure he said they were moving in a more contemporary direction,’ I continue. ‘Can’t quite remember.’

  ‘What has that got to do with anything?’ Lainey asks. ‘You studied art, not just classical art. You fucking photograph it too, in case they forgot. If I sliced you with this knife you’d probably bleed out like a Jackson Pollock.’

  ‘Maybe, but I haven’t taken a decent photo in years,’ I grumble. ‘Yours today notwithstanding, the most I can manage is a Polaroid that reads like a Bond movie … for my eyes only.’

  Life has been too busy for me to even consider photography. All right, I could if I forced myself but, after working long hours, finding time to socialise, and life in general, I must admit that it’s one of my life’s failings.

  ‘Plenty of time for that now,’ she jokes.

  ‘What I don’t understand is that Roland made sure to tell me how much the investors loved my knowledge of classic art.’ I look at her. ‘Do you think that might be it?’

  ‘That sounds like a rubbish excuse.’ She refocuses her attention on me and folds her arms across the table. ‘They’re not just going to dump the Italian bloody Renaissance in favour of an exclusive run of modern art. They know what brings visitors in and doing a complete switch into a new direction will only be a bad thing. Katharine, you were the best of all of us, you know that. Let’s not even get into the workaholic tendencies.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘For what that was worth.’

  Her mouth flatlines. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I have zero idea.’ I draw my fingers through my dark hair, tugging it out of the French knot I always style it in. An instant tingling relief crawls across my scalp. ‘Anyway, going on about it won’t fix it, will it? Talk to me about you. What’s happening on Planet Lainey and Frank? How did your job interview this morning go?’

  ‘I think I’m in with a shot.’ She does a hair toss. ‘Soho tech start-up, another ten thousand a year, don’t mind if I do. Can start immediately post honeymoon.’

  ‘Great,’ I enthuse. ‘That’s brilliant. I’ll keep everything crossed. What about wedding plans?’

  She lights up immediately, the whimsical, breezy look of a bride in love floats across her face and softens her features. Reaching into a handbag the size of her torso, she produces a glossy ream of magazine. It lands on the table with such a thud the tealight candle flickers and cutlery clatters again. I push the candle aside to get a better look. I’m not keen on setting fire to the table; an arson charge never looks good on a résumé.

  As we eat, we pore over pages of shimmering gowns, sharp suits, perfectly styled place settings, car hire companies, and every other painstaking detail a bride
and her groom could possibly need to think about on their way to the altar. It’s an exciting time, and I couldn’t be happier for my friends. Lainey and Frank are two halves of a walnut, perfectly snug in their world, cocoon-like in the way they protect, love, and look out for each other. In my softest moments, it made me a teensy bit jealous.

  They’d been engaged for eighteen months now, the sparkling black-tie party held at Sky Garden. Now, it was a matter of planning things at the pointy end. Wedding invites were recently posted, and the RSVPs had begun trickling in. It was now down to picking suits, final dress fittings, and searching out the perfect pair of shoes.

  ‘You know, I have to ask, because I’m a qualified panic merchant.’ Lainey downs the last of her drink and fixes me with a nervous look.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay with not being maid of honour?’ she asks, her face cinched as if waiting for the fallout.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Glass held to my mouth, I let out an amused snort. ‘I think it’s great. I love you, but hell if I want to traipse around under layers of warpaint and three-inch heels all day.’

  She breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Gosh, I love you. It’s just, my sister would go spare if she weren’t involved. My mother would book the seventh circle of hell as a honeymoon destination, and Frank and I already agreed on having a maid of honour and best man only. Did I tell you they tag-teamed me into giving her the role? I got puppy dog eyes and “your sister is desperate to be a part of your big day” at ten paces. The little shit is making life difficult though.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’ I shake my head and peel apart a flaky piece of fish. I’m not sure if it’s the most amazing meal I’ve had, or if the alcohol’s helping, but the fish is smooth and buttery, and I could easily eat a tonne of these chips. ‘I will be there with bells on. Helping with the invites and place cards is more than enough involvement for me.’

  In the last few years, I’d found calligraphy a great way to unwind and put my failing skills to the test. I think it has something to do with the fact I was better at writing than producing anything photographic. Smooth strokes of a pen always seemed more finite, more foolproof than selecting just the right f-stop or lens. I also didn’t need a darkroom to see the final results. Working on wedding stationery had been a fun way to stretch my artistic muscle while still being part of something magical.