Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The day passes like molasses, thick and sticky.
When I head out at the end of the day, it’s surprisingly warm and muggy for an early summer day in England, according to my colleagues, the clouds thick overhead.
I ended up spending the day in the meeting room, which I suppose is kind of like a private office.
I’m all too happy to shake off the weird day and meet up later with my flatmate Russell for a drink around the corner.
In front of the pub, people stand with drinks and cigarettes and vapes, the spillover from indoors. Meanwhile, I head in to where Russell’s landed us seats.
Except on the way in, I see the person I’m dying to avoid: Mr. McLaren—Will—with an equally stunning woman, who is all glossy brunette waves and doubtlessly expensive perfume, like they’ve stepped out of the same fashion photo shoot.
I’ll give him credit, he looks the part, at least, appropriate for the fashion part of the exhibition.
Except I don’t know what to make of the weird feeling in my gut when I see her.
Whatever it is, I brush it off and make my way to the far end bar to get my pint in a Mr. McLaren-free zone.
Russell’s found us seats at the back. Meanwhile, I’ve lost track of Will, and hopefully, he’s disappeared like a bad dream.
Russell’s got a mess of curls that defy any attempt at order, and he wears a checked shirt with jeans, which is an appropriate enough sort of look for an illustrator.
His studio isn’t too far away, and he was up for a drink after work.
“Dylan! Over here.”
“Hey.”
Russell gets up to give me a hug, already prepared with his own pint. I set mine down, and we sit. He’s snagged a choice spot where we can see what’s going on around us, a bit out of the thick of the post-work drinks crowd where we have a chance of hearing each other.
“God, I’m glad to see you.” I lean back in my chair after a long drink from my pint.
Russell laughs, bright-eyed. “I didn’t realize you cared so much,” he teases me.
It’s harmless banter because he’s totally in love with his boyfriend, another flatmate of ours. Except Jason’s at work tonight since he’s in the theatre.
“I’m all care,” I say.
“That’ll get you far. Care and charm, my friend.”
I laugh, then groan, burying my face in my hands. “Help.”
“What’s wrong?” Russell’s voice is full of concern, which is fair because I’m being dramatic, and I’m not an actor by trade. Drama is more of a hobby.
“Everything. My dream internship is turning into a nightmare.” At last, I lift my head.
“Shit. That’s soured quick. What happened?” Russell frowns at me, twisting his pint between his hands. “Is your boss a terror?”
I shake my head glumly. “No, she’s cool.
It’s not my supervisor or anything like that.
” With a sigh, I peek over my shoulder in case Mr. McLaren lurks somewhere nearby, but the coast is clear.
“It’s the other intern who started at the same time as me.
He’s a total nightmare. Talk about privilege on legs.
And he’s now joined my team. Which is a disaster because he doesn’t know a thing about museums, and I’m supposed to teach him everything I know.
And we have hundreds of objects to source and only a few weeks to gather everything before the show opens. ”
Russell chews his lip. “Disaster,” he confirms.
We drink.
“What am I supposed to do? I can’t carry him and do all of this too. The man can’t even function in an office, for crying out loud. Letting him near exhibits is asking for problems.”
“You need to contain the damage, I’m afraid. Like any group work project gone bad. That’s bad luck.” He gives me a sympathetic look. Except sympathy doesn’t solve the problem, though I definitely am into the support. “Like PR spin.”
I groan. “I didn’t study media or whatever. I mean, I’m worried about knowing what to do myself. Like we’ve been tossed into the deep end. I haven’t exactly done this before.”
“Maybe… figure out what he’s good at. He’s got to be good at something.” Russell gives me a hopeful look. “Give him the easier, lower-risk things. Things that even if he messes up, they’ll be easy enough to sort out and fix.”
“I don’t know if I can do that now. We split the exhibits list in two, down the middle.
And now I can’t change things without making things seem weirder than what they are already.
I said I’d loan him an old museums course book I brought along, just in case.
But he doesn’t even know to do his own washing up in the office kitchen. So, my expectations are low.”
“Containment. Definitely.” Russell nods decisively.
I wish I had his optimism. “Somehow, I have the feeling that Mr. McLaren is hardly a wallflower or used to taking direction. Least of all from me.”
“You actually call him Mr. McLaren?”
“Because of the car he drives. Or drove.” I fidget with my pint, still embarrassed after the fight, but I don’t want to rehash it with Russell. It feels too personal somehow. “I guess that probably doesn’t make it any better, does it?”
Russell gives out a low whistle. “Right, then. Can’t say it does, I’m afraid.” Then he looks at me seriously. “What’s his real name? You have to get him on your level. Otherwise, you’re building this up into a bigger mess in your head, mate.”
“I feel seen.” I sigh. “His real name is Will.” It feels weird saying his name out loud. Strange on the tongue. Probably good practice, here on neutral ground. “William Martin-Greene.”
“There you go. He’s only a person. Like you. My suggestion is to figure out what his weaknesses are and then exploit them shamelessly. Do the same with his strengths.”
“I wish he’d go back to the Development team. I mean, what if they kicked him out because he’s unbearable? Or incompetent? He’s actually both, I think.” I spread my hands, wide-eyed over my pint, which has done nothing so far to steady my nerves.
“You’re spiraling.”
“Speaking of talents…”
“Now, now, drink up. You’ll be brilliant, you’ll see. One day, you’ll have a laugh about this all.” Russell seems so sure. “You’ll both manage.”
Meanwhile, I’m bracing myself for an international incident with a ruined exhibition and who knows what else. But Russell’s probably right. I need to give him a chance, maybe. Put him on my level.
Maybe Mr. McLaren—Will—might surprise me.