Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The next day, I take a wander through the galleries before going into the office.
It’s the best way to start the workday, with a tour through different exhibits to see all the beautiful and interesting things that inspired me to go into museums work in the first place.
There are spectacular costumes, elegant furnishings, sleek chairs that look like they’ve landed from the future throughout the gallery.
It’s a perfect moment. Everything’s quiet. The polished hardwood floors shine.
By the time I reach the back gallery doors for the corridor that leads to the museum offices, I feel my shoulders relax, my hectic commute to work forgotten. The black corridor gives way with a swipe of my key card at the doors to the hum of the office, and I arrive in a new reality.
Everything’s bustling as people arrive for the day.
I don’t see Will seated at my desk yet, and a small sigh of relief escapes me.
I carry on to the small meeting room that we’ve now taken over with our exhibition files and plans.
I can see through the open door before I go in that Lily’s been through or someone else from our team, having pinned a large map with a bird’s-eye view of the layout of the new exhibition on the wall opposite the windows.
And there he is.
Mr. McLaren—Will—is already sitting at his computer, a slight frown on his face, lit by the laptop’s soft glow, with the overhead lights off. He glances up at me as I walk in.
“Good morning, Dylan,” he says smoothly and, I have to say, quite formally.
So, I do what any reasonable person would do under the circumstances and answer in kind.
“Good morning, Will. Or do you prefer William?” I widen my eyes ever so slightly, giving my most innocent look.
He narrows his eyes. “Just Will.”
It’s too easy to wind him up. If I were a better person, I wouldn’t provoke him. But the reward is far too sweet.
“Okay, Just Will, I’ve brought something for you.” I set my messenger bag down on a chair opposite him and open the flap.
“For me?” He’s startled out of his cool reserve, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see surprise written all over him, and his expression softens ever so slightly.
“Don’t get too excited. It’s a temporary loan, like everything else we’re working on.
” I pull out a dog-eared copy of Museums in the Twenty-First Century: A Complete Handbook, a hefty volume that could probably hurt you if you dropped it on your foot, and I pass it over.
“Here’s the book that I promised to show you about museums. To help you get up to speed. ”
He takes the book in both hands, studies the plain front cover, then the back, filled with small text introducing the author and testimonials from museum professionals. “Thanks. I didn’t expect you to—”
“It’s for both our sakes, believe me,” I cut him off before he does something silly, like thank me. Like he needs to make this even more awkward between us. “The faster you learn, the better off we both are. And increases the odds of this not being a total disaster.”
Will frowns at me. And he actually has frown dimples, which are totally unreasonable and unnecessary. What a waste of dimples. What the actual hell.
Focus, Dylan.
“Are you calling me a liability?” Will asks in dismay, lowering the hefty tome.
I can’t help the grin that comes, and I give him my best innocent expression as I shrug.
Will makes another huffing sound like he did yesterday, and he opens the book to look at the table of contents.
“Sorry. That was a bit more harsh than I meant…”
“I think I know what you mean.” And his tone is cool again, distant.
There’s not even a frown dimple to be seen, and some part of me is terribly disappointed about that.
Some other part of me actually feels bad for the guy, and I wonder why I’m sparing no opportunity to give him a hard time or show any mercy.
Obviously, we’re different—very different—but I’m going to have to try to keep the peace.
Fighting every day would be exhausting and probably not productive.
I start up my laptop and glance over at Will.
He’s head down, studying the book in earnest. And he’s started with the preface.
Who even does that? And we sit like this for a little while, the only sound the occasional turning page and me tapping out email responses to the messages that came in last night.
I open the spreadsheet of the three hundred and twenty-seven exhibits and scroll to my section.
Maybe Russell’s right—maybe I was wrong about the approach that I set out yesterday, but I’d rather eat my Chelsea boots than admit my strategic error to my new nemesis, even if we have an uneasy peace between us.
On the tube ride in, I figured out that one hundred and twenty-six exhibits each means we need to sort out an average of twenty-five exhibits a week for the next five weeks, before the gallery closes to install the new show.
I’m breaking the work down like I did the number of queer men in London available in the dating pool.
As for the exhibits, not only do we need twenty-five exhibits a week, but we also need to coordinate their arrival.
They need to be scheduled to arrive as close to the show changeover as possible, seeing as we don’t have a ton of swing space to store things.
The morning passes like this. Few words between us, a heavy silence, an uneasy truce.
Till it’s time for lunch, and I didn’t even notice Will had left.
I have no idea where Will’s gone for lunch.
It’s like he vanished into the ether. Well, it’s not for me to worry about, and I take off for lunch too.
As for me, I go for a walk outside for an hour, exploring the side streets around the museum to get some fresh air to feel alert again. I’m back in time for a quick salad at the museum café with my staff discount, joining the new friends I’ve made in the museum.
By the time I’m upstairs again, Will’s back to reading the textbook.
He doesn’t look up when I come in. He’s studious, I’ll have to give him that.
A glance over tells me he’s still reading in order, somewhere in the early chapters.
It looks like he’s actually going to read it cover to cover at this rate, which will probably take an eternity.
Since I don’t want to break the silence, I quietly get back to work.
There are exhibits to collect all over the place.
Not only in London, but well beyond the M25.
I smother a sigh and get to work familiarizing myself with each object on the list and the tiny thumbnail photo for each piece.
There’s a lot of scrolling through the spreadsheet.
I confirm the status of each item and how far along in the tracking process it is, with loans agreed for the museums, but loans for some of the contemporary items haven’t even been started.
Nightmare. It’s a jumble of lists for the rest of the afternoon.
When I look up, bleary-eyed, Will’s still poring over the doorstopper of the museums book that’s laid out before him. He rests his elbows against the table, his dark head in his hands as he reads, his thumbs massaging his temples.
“Have you cracked it all, then?” I can’t help but ask. “Got everything down?”
His head snaps up. Will frowns at me, a furrow between his brows. And the frown dimples are back. Sweet victory. It’s such a temptation to push further to see what happens next with the dimples, but I hold back.
“I’m familiarizing myself with the topic,” he says archly.
Back to formal and distant. I suppose I deserved that.
I relent a little, offer a half smile. “I mean, I’ve had four years studying this. You’ve done a lot for a single day. Besides, I can’t imagine you want to end up in Curatorial one day—”
Something flashes in his eyes then. “Why wouldn’t I want that? I’m here on this internship too, aren’t I?”
“You are, but—”
“But what? You think I don’t deserve to be here,” he says flatly, more of a statement than a question.
I make a sound that’s a lot more like a squawk than anything coherent. “Now, wait. Those are your words, not mine.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I can see it on your face, Dylan. You simply didn’t have the balls to say it to me straight.” Will stares me down. He straightens and lifts his head, palms flat on the table on either side of the book. He’s flushed and pale at the same time, his hair rumpled.
Caught out and flustered, I squirm. “Well, I kind of do wonder why you’re here,” I confess in a sheepish voice. “I mean, like you said, you have an economics degree.”
His frown deepens. “You think you’re the only one who wants museum experience? And that having an economics degree precludes me from that?”
“Well, no, I guess not, though I’m no expert on—uh—precluding stuff, but—”
“But…”
“But—well—I actually have a degree in museums, and you, er, don’t.” I give an apologetic shrug, my hands wide. Why the hell am I feeling embarrassed for being qualified for the job?
“If you looked at the posting more carefully, you would have read that previous museum experience wasn’t required for the internship.
” There’s pure ice now in his eyes, a hard silver that cuts, and his mouth is tight.
He leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest. His white shirt pulls slightly over his biceps.
Athletic build, I guess. He probably goes to some fancy gym to go along with the fancy car. I bet it’s a premium home gym too.
I work my jaw. “So, you think actually having studied the subject and volunteered back at my university museum for years doesn’t count for something?”
“God, you’re difficult. I’m not saying that at all.
You’re putting words in my mouth. Which, frankly, I do not appreciate.
I’m telling you that according to the posting, the internship was open to all interested candidates, and I applied.
Because I was interested. Clearly, they thought I was suitable.
I’m not responsible for the hiring decisions.
Take that up with the administration if you dare.
” And I get the coldest, iciest look yet from Will.
I actually shiver, even though my face burns.
“And here I thought it was good old-fashioned nepotism. Or at least cronyism. One of the isms for sure,” I insist, staring at him. I grip the edge of the table. “That’s not my area.”
He blushes a brilliant pink, looks away, then back at me. “It’s not nepotism.”
“Which is it, then? You’re not the director’s son?”
“No! Hardly.” Will looks offended, then embarrassed, before he looks away, slump-shouldered. “The director’s a longtime family friend.”
I groan in despair, throwing my hands up. “Of course he fucking is. Have you even heard of privilege, Will? For crying out loud.”
“I legitimately applied!” He’s back to anger now, and his arms are folded tighter than before.
The shirt is tight across his biceps, and it’s distracting.
As are the frown dimples, which are now displayed in full force.
“There’s a hiring committee that reviews applications.
It’s not up to the director, the hiring of interns.
He’s got more important things to worry about. ”
“You’re kind of missing the point.” It was my turn to flick up my eyebrows at him.
“And why on earth would you want a museum internship, anyway? I mean, what did you say that was so convincing that they had to choose you over, I’m sure, a pile of qualified candidates with the right degree and some experience?
Shouldn’t you be off… economizing somewhere? ”
Will’s jaw clenches hard. He closes his eyes for a moment. I swear I can see him counting to ten but making it to about five. “I’m here because I want museum experience to find a job in museums. Like you. And, for the record, I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“This is so ridiculous.” I stop short, but then my mouth takes off. “I mean, do you even need a job? Can’t some family friends pull some more strings?” I hear myself ask and wince a little.
Shocked, it takes Will a moment to reply. “Who doesn’t need a job in today’s world? I certainly do. And there’s a job on the line at the end of this internship. As I’m sure you’re well aware.”
“Well… you know… McLaren and all that.” I gesture vaguely at him, as if there’s a movement that succinctly sums up owning a luxury sports car at the age of twenty-one or however old he is coming out of university.
“I don’t have a family trust fund or whatever.
I have a pile of student loans that I need to pay off because that’s the only way I could afford university and working through my degree. You don’t need a job as badly as I do.”
“We’ll see who gets the job at the end of this.
” Will slams the book shut. He grits his teeth and stands abruptly, grabbing the book.
For a moment, he looks like he’s the slightest bit off-balance, but his uncharacteristic scowl takes my attention.
He tucks it forcefully under his arm. With his other hand, he clicks his laptop shut and grabs his bag.
“Right. That’s about enough for one day, I think.
It’s 6:00 p.m. I will see you tomorrow. Good night, Dylan. ”
And it’s the frostiest way I’ve ever heard anyone say my name. Desperate to get in the last word—not my finest quality—I blurt, “Remember—that book’s only a loan! Don’t spill any tea or crumpets or anything on it.”
Will rolls his eyes, turns on his heel, and stalks out.