Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Two weeks later
Mr. McLaren has issues. The red sports car is only the beginning.
Everyone at the museum knows it. He doesn’t have the capacity to think about anyone other than himself.
Or, at least, that’s the conclusion of the rumor mill, after several thorough analyses in the tearoom.
Everyone’s seriously annoyed with the messes he leaves in his wake and his entitlement.
And that includes me, here for two amazing weeks so far into my dream internship. It turns out there’re two summer internships after all, but it’s been confirmed there’s only one actual job at the end. The last intern standing wins, if you want to get all gladiatorial about it.
The same internship that Mr. McLaren still happens to be on too.
I grab my notebook from my desk. The rest of the Curatorial team’s frantically sending out last-minute emails before the rest of the day disappears in a staff meeting.
Our desks are all clustered together in a bank in the corner of the humming office.
It looks like any old office: no cool things here, just vintage staplers and dog-eared folders and stress like a workplace anywhere else.
Everything cool is in the galleries and collections storage.
“Five minutes.” I give Dee a quick smile along with the heads-up about the meeting.
She nods curtly as she taps away on her laptop. “Be right there.”
I head off toward the boardroom. It’s upstairs, where the executives live. It’s a much sleeker, upscale environment that makes me feel totally intimidated. The only time I go up there is for our weekly meetings. Get in, get out.
Mr. McLaren, the other intern who started at the same time as me, clearly is not broke or in desperate need of a job, if his fancy ride is anything to go by, because his intern’s stipend isn’t paying for it.
I’m guessing that car is either trust fund money or some kind of family money or maybe from the proceeds of drugs or some other secret life of crime.
He doesn’t even have a museums degree.
I mean, honestly, how could you not have issues when you’re twenty-one and have had everything you could ever want handed to you?
Cars, internships, whatever. Even now that the sleek red McLaren has mysteriously disappeared—he’s always going to be Mr. McLaren to me since that first day.
And to the other junior staff, since the nickname I’ve given him has caught on like wildfire.
Okay, maybe I should dial it back a little about Mr. McLaren. I know next to nothing about him, except for what I’ve seen over the last two weeks. Maybe I’m being unkind.
Maybe.
To go back to the McLaren in question, it wasn’t stolen or totaled or anything dramatic like that. Not that I know about, anyway. I didn’t do anything to it, even if it’s stupidly tempting, because I have some self-restraint.
Last Friday afternoon, Mr. McLaren drove out in his shiny sports car as usual, and on Monday morning, he rolled past me driving what must be a fresh off-the-lot Land Rover to his prized assigned parking spot.
And in central London, which is about as unlikely as finding yourself a pet unicorn wandering Hyde Park looking for a good home.
I go past the office tearoom on my way to the meeting. I don’t have enough time to make a cup of tea, but it’s long enough to hear someone say, “He must have traded in the McLaren. Probably for two or three Land Rovers, but who’s counting?”
Rumors keep our breaks lively.
Sylvie from Accounting says, “There’s plenty of room for a car collection on his family’s estate, somewhere outside of London, I’ve heard.”
Because of course his family has an estate. They need space to park their cars.
Nancy from Communications says something more logical. “Maybe it’s a loaner, if his car’s getting serviced.”
But it’s been three days of the Land Rover, which is a lot of service for a new car.
What we can all agree on so far about Mr. McLaren is that he’s the sort that leaves messes for others to clean up and that he’s generally too posh to function, as my English coworkers say.
Which is totally classist of us, and I’m middle-class enough to feel guilty about being so judgy.
It’s not something to be proud of. I mean, I don’t think I’m usually that judgy.
Collectively, though, we’re definitely judgy.
According to Carine, who is prone to some amount of exaggeration, he’s so spoilt that he doesn’t even know how to use a kettle, because somebody else would boil water for him.
Like, say, his personal staff. I can’t say that’s true, but I did see him leave his dirty mug in the tearoom sink beneath the sign that reads: Please wash your dishes—this means YOU!
I’ve also used the copier after him, where he casually left a paper jam for me to fix.
I hurry upstairs, the first one into the sleek donor-friendly boardroom for our meeting. The windows overlook the Thames, broad and brown, and the drizzly day beyond. I take a seat toward the back, setting down my notebook and phone on the table.
As for Mr. McLaren, on that first day, he didn’t know me—then—from the next guy wading to work in a downpour, so at least it wasn’t personal.
Since the first day, I’ve given him a wide berth. And it’s becoming personal now.
At least avoiding Mr. McLaren has been easy enough, because he was job shadowing the museum director at first for a day, I guess to learn what happens at the top, and then he was off helping the Development team with sponsorships.
Which makes sense, because look at him. Donors would love him, giving up their wallets and a spare kidney without hesitation.
They’d fall over each other in a fight to be the first. Meanwhile, I’ve been with Lily Hayward, my supervisor and one of the museum curators.
She’s great. Which is where I want to be, in Curatorial.
None of this explains why Mr. McLaren’s sat down in the boardroom—right beside me, despite all of the empty chairs—to join the Curatorial department for our weekly team meeting held on Wednesday afternoons. His cologne is unfortunately swoonworthy.
Mr. McLaren reaches over for the coaster in front of me and slides it over in front of him before he sets his tea down.
I scowl and glance over at him for about a half second, already annoyed. He could have at least asked for the coaster, the entitled bastard.
Rude.
Mr. McLaren’s all pressed and premium-looking.
Hell, even his shirt has French cuffs. At first, I wondered if that’s what all the guys wear in London, but I haven’t seen anyone else at the museum wearing them, except maybe the director.
Mr. McLaren has glossy dark hair styled in an artfully careless way, a crisp white shirt that wouldn’t dare wrinkle, and he wears an understated, though clearly very expensive, watch.
It gleams. If watches had a new watch smell like cars did, I bet this room would be full of its premium scent and aspirational lifestyle.
Something like the French Riviera or maybe peacock feathers.
At least he makes good bait, since he smells of money, a perfect fit for getting new sponsors for the museum’s exhibition.
By comparison, my denim shirt has faux pearl snaps, and I’ve added a whimsical enamel rainbow cat pin on my shirt pocket flap. My look isn’t the sort that prospective donors go wild over.
And of course, he’s handsome. In that irritatingly classic, magazine way. The guys I go for are anything but traditionally handsome. Give me quirky, give me strong features, give me someone from the fringe.
But right now, this isn’t about me and the guys I’m into. I’m here to work.
“Do you have a spare pen?” Mr. McLaren asks me absently, patting down his chest pocket and then his trousers.
“No. Sorry.”
Forget him.
I avoid his gaze and look down at my notebook, pretending to study the blank lined page like I’m decoding ancient runes.
Instead of that, I neatly write down the date at the top of the page and add “Curatorial Meeting” and underline everything in my glitter pen.
I decide to add my name with a flourish, Dylan Alexander, since I swear Mr. McLaren is still looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his existence or give the slightest hint that I’m intimidated by him.
Not. One. Bit.
I add a second underline under my name for good measure, pursing my lips. My gaze is riveted to the page as people start to file in.
When the door opens again, at last I look up.
Lily comes in with her laptop under her arm, her long hair reaching to her mid-back.
She’s tanned after her latest trip last week, to the south of Spain or maybe Croatia, planning another exhibition.
Optimistically, she wears a floral dress well suited to a Mediterranean summer, where it’s properly hot, but probably not meant for another drizzly June day in London.
Behind Lily, Dee carries in a file box. She sets it down on the table with a thump, and her curls bounce with the effort. Dee always looks a bit frazzled, and this afternoon is no exception. She sits down with an audible sigh.
After a few more stragglers join us, Lily calls the meeting to order. Someone else has loaned Mr. McLaren a pen.
“First,” Lily begins, “I have some exciting news. Let’s give Will a warm welcome as the newest addition to our team, coming to us from Development. Will’s here with us on an internship like Dylan for the summer. I’m very glad you’re joining us, Will.”
It’s everything I can do to keep my face smooth as I consider Lily. If she has any feelings about it, she gives no sign.
Will’s on our team now? What happened with the Development team? Did they kick him out? Did he screw something up?
Did he lose all their pens?
If he screwed something up, why on earth would we take him?
“Thanks for the welcome. I’m sure I’ll learn a great deal from everyone.” Will smiles, all styled charm. Of course, everyone smiles back. We dutifully murmur a welcome in unison.
Lily continues smoothly, scanning the room. “Will’s going to be working with us for our upcoming London Design exhibition—”
That’s about where I stopped taking information in, the proverbial scratch across a vinyl LP.
What did Lily say? That can’t be right. That’s the main exhibition I’m working on.
I don’t think I can quite keep the hint of a frown from the corners of my mouth, despite my best efforts and generally not having a frowny sort of face. Or typically being a frowny sort of person.
“It’s going to be a very busy few weeks, and I’m very grateful Will is open about trying different opportunities during his internship. Thank you, Will. Your flexibility is much appreciated.”
He gives her a disarming smile. “No, thank you.” Mr. McLaren turns to me. “If you want to try out Development for a couple of days, I wholeheartedly recommend it. They’re lovely upstairs.”
I wish I were back in my room so I could scream into my pillow. I’m not going anywhere, thank you very much. What’s he even doing here?
Then, embarrassingly, my phone chimes loudly in front of everyone, and a Grindr notification pops up.
Hey gorgeous
It’s Raj. For tonight’s date. At least it wasn’t a dick pic. Unfortunately, Mr. McLaren sees the message too.
Shit.
Hurriedly, I stuff my phone away. Mr. McLaren flicks an eyebrow at me in obvious contempt. Like he never needs to get laid.
“Nice,” he whispers so only I can hear him.
I frown back. Raj and tonight’s date is the least of my problems. The last thing I want right now is to be called out for being unprofessional by Mr. McLaren, of all people, who is probably genetically predisposed to professionalism, and I’m, like, well, usually a hot mess.
Even if—and especially a mess when—I’ve really worked hard for something, like this internship.
And now, here he is, waltzing over something he doesn’t need or probably even want.
I fidget my angst into my glitter pen, twisting its cap.
“Let’s settle into work, then,” says Lily. “Dee, could you please hand out the agenda? We have much to cover today.”
How am I supposed to avoid Mr. McLaren if we’re expected to work together?
What a nightmare.
It’s something for tomorrow-me to deal with.
Because tonight-me has a hot date on my personal mission to get to know the men of London in a fresh queer scene.
In the meantime, I focus on Lily and the rest of the meeting with my phone safely hidden away.
I make a beeline for home as soon as we’re finished, well away from Mr. McLaren.
At least till tomorrow, when, unfortunately, I’ll have no choice but to work with him.
Cue disaster.