Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
EMMA
W hat was I about to see?
What the hell was he talking about?
Where was he taking me?
I sat in the back of the limo with Mr Gold, trying to ignore the awkward tension in the air as I gazed out of the window at the neon streetlights racing past. Every time we hit a pothole or a speed bump, the jolt from the car made the skirt of my dress ride up my thighs, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed that Mr Gold kept staring at my legs, making me feel even more on edge. I pulled at the hem in an effort to lengthen it, but it was satin; it wasn’t going to stretch.
So, to distract myself, I fired a text off to Gracie, explaining that I wouldn’t be able to make it to the bar tonight. A work opportunity had come up, and I couldn’t say no. I added that I thought this could be my big break, hoping it might soften the blow. I hated letting her down, especially at the last minute. But at least she had her other colleagues around to keep the night going. It wouldn’t be a total washout for her.
‘Please tell me that asshole hasn’t got you working overtime again,’ she messaged back. She knew I wouldn’t admit it.
Instead, I replied, ‘I’ll text you in the morning. Wish me luck.’ And ended the message with a smiley face.
She sent me a ‘good luck,’ but I knew I’d have to face the music tomorrow. It was hard to gauge someone’s mood over a message, and I didn’t want Gracie to be pissed off with me.
“Where exactly are we going?” I asked as I slipped my phone back into my purse.
“Berkeley Art Gallery. They have an exclusive exhibition of eclectic street art showing tonight. One night only.” He turned to stare at me and waggled his eyebrows, then dipped his gaze, focusing on my legs again, making my stomach turn. “We need to take some photos, get a few quotes from the organisers, maybe from a few artists too. And when the boring stuff is out of the way we can enjoy the free champagne.”
I wasn’t going to enjoy any free champagne with Mr Gold. No alcohol would pass my lips tonight. I was here to work. I’d make that damn clear from the get-go.
“Why did you say an art exhibition would make my hair curl?” I asked, placing my hands on my knees and glaring back at him.
“Let’s just say some of the artists have a unique way of expressing themselves.”
They couldn’t be any worse than you and your wandering eyes, I wanted to say, but I just gave him a tight-lipped smile and turned to stare out of the window again.
Traffic in the city was heavy for a Friday night, and after sitting in it for longer than felt comfortable, we pulled up outside Berkeley Art Gallery.
Mr Gold waited for the driver to get out and open his door, and once he did, Gold got out, not bothering to turn and help me out of the car. The driver reached forward to offer me his hand, but I refused.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “But thank you.”
He smiled and nodded, closing the car door behind me and tipping his hat in response. The driver got a genuine smile from me in return. He deserved it. But when I glanced ahead, I noticed Mr gold hadn’t even bothered to wait for me. He was striding towards the security waiting at the doors to the gallery.
There were velvet ropes along the front of the building, and people dressed in suits and smart dresses were queueing up outside, waiting to get in. Most of them watched Mr Gold with disgust; their noses turned up as he ignored the line and went right to the front.
I did a little speed walk to catch up with him, and when I heard the security guard, I wished I could back away like the Homer Simpson meme and disappear into a hedge.
The security guard put his hand on Mr Gold’s chest as he said, “No. Not gonna happen. I have clear instructions not to let you in tonight.”
Mr Gold pushed the security guy’s hand away and sneered back at him.
“From who? Who the fuck would dare to do that? You know I’m here to work. Don’t you want the gallery on the front page of my newspaper?”
“Rules are rules,” the security guy replied, standing right in the doorway, with his arms folded, blocking Mr Gold from entering. “You’re not getting in. Not tonight.”
“We’ll see about that,” Mr Gold snapped and went to walk forward, but another guard appeared beside the first and asked, “Do we have a problem here?”
The first guard thumbed at Mr Gold, while I willed the ground to open up and swallow me whole. “He thinks he’s getting in. I told him to do one.”
The second guard nodded, like he knew what this was all about and turned to face Mr Gold. “You heard him. Fuck off.”
I knew Mr Gold wasn’t liked in the office, but he was still the editor of the newspaper. He held a position of power in our community, something which meant fuck all, apparently, to the people at Berkeley Art Gallery. Hearing how they were talking to him made me feel total and utter embarrassment. I hung my head, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone as I inwardly cringed.
“This is his doing, isn’t it? He’s being an asshole, showing me up in front of everyone out here,” Mr Gold seethed.
I had no idea who the ‘he’ was that Mr Gold was referring to, but I was guessing my night wasn’t going to be as fruitful as I’d hoped. I felt shame standing here, listening to this exchange, wishing I wasn’t a part of it.
Security just barked back, “I’m not at liberty to disclose who blacklisted you, but the facts remain, you are blacklisted, and you’re not welcome here.”
Mr Gold threw his head back and let out a defeatist sigh. I was surprised he seemed to be giving up so easily.
Then he pulled his phone out of his jacket and stated, “I’m ringing the mayor. This is complete insanity.”
He wasn’t giving up.
It wasn’t a defeatist sigh at all.
Mr Gold shook his phone in the guard’s face and added, “Once I get off this call, you’ll be out of a job.”
“I highly doubt that.” The guard sighed. “But knock yourself out, mate.”
Mr Gold began pacing the street, muttering on the phone, but I couldn’t really hear what he was saying. The guard gestured for me to move aside so he could unhook the velvet rope and let the next couple into the gallery. They both looked down their noses at me as they sauntered past and headed inside. I felt like a bloody fool standing here, shivering in the cold.
Then, a chubby hand thrust a card in front of me, and I turned to find a ruddy-faced Mr Gold gritting his teeth and holding out what looked like an invitation to the exhibition.
“I won’t be able to attend this event tonight,” he stuttered, then righting himself, he added. “I have another more pressing engagement. You’ll need to go in on your own, Emma. Get the interviews, take some photos, and do the work you’re employed to do.”
I was speechless.
“But I don’t have a camera,” I stated. “I thought I was here to assist you.”
Mr Gold leaned closer to me, his hot breath blowing in my face, making me recoil as he spoke. “You’ll do what you’re fucking told to do. Use your phone to take photos and make notes. Unless you want to join the unemployment queue on Monday.”
I took a moment to gather my thoughts.
I could look at this in one of two ways.
I could get pissed off. Feel angry that my Friday night plans had been ruined and lament the fact that my boss was an absolute twat and treated me like garbage.
Or I could see this as an opportunity. Go into the art gallery on my own, without my sweaty boss breathing down my neck. Take the photos, get the quotes, and do the job I’d always dreamed of doing. Tonight, I could be Emma Belmont, Reporter. Instead of Emma Belmont, lackey and general dogsbody to Mr Gold. I knew which one I preferred.
I took the card from Mr Gold and turned to face the guards. I fully expected them to tell me to get to the back of the line, but they didn’t.
Instead, they stood back to let me enter.
“I’ll do my best,” I said, walking forward, then I turned to face Mr Gold, but he wasn’t there anymore. He was already heading towards the limo, waiting at the kerb.
“Don’t worry, Miss,” the first guard said. “We’ll take good care of you tonight.”
And my stomach rolled.
Why did it feel like I’d just entered the lion’s den?