Chapter 5 #2
Nobody spoke, and it took him a moment to look up. He seemed deep in thought, scrutinizing something on a piece of paper, one hand planted on the desk, the other lifted to his mouth where one finger tapped his lower lip thoughtfully.
I mean, who wouldn’t be into this guy, age be damned.
Norman inhaled, snapping out of whatever thought he’d been living in, and straightened. He clicked his tongue. “Ah. You’re here.” He had the faintest French accent, and that only added to the mystique.
“Hello.” I gave a small wave, managing not to call him Sir or Your Majesty, which took real effort. He rounded the desk, and I shook his hand—I, Crystal MacMillan shook Norman Marcus’s hand.
“Coffee?” Alice asked, striding toward a side table with a coffee maker plugged into an orange extension cord.
“Please,” I said, right as Logan said, “I can get it.”
Alice waved him off. “Do your introduction, it’s fine.”
Logan nodded. “Right. So, this is—”
“Crystal,” Norman finished, his eyes travelling to the portfolio bag. “You’re in your final year at Douglas, yes?” I nodded.
Norman gestured to the area outside the tent. “We’re building a hybrid space. A working artist studio plus exhibition hall. I want it to be a living, breathing thing. Where art can inspire retroactively, one continuous round.”
My mouth was hanging open. I quickly closed it.
Alice handed me a steaming cup of coffee, but didn’t pass Logan his. “May I have a moment?” She smiled sweetly, tipping her head toward the door. Well, tent slit.
Logan looked between the two of us, but I cut his discomfort out at the knees. “It’s fine. I’m good.”
His lips parted like he was going to say something, but his mom was already walking. He turned and followed, and I had so many questions.
Logan’s life was picture-perfect. His parents paid for him to attend premier hockey camps.
He never had to work a job in high school, his university was completely covered, and his dad paid for the townhouse he lived in.
Now, not only was his dad a real-estate mogul, but his mom seemed to be a total ball-buster.
I loved my family, but what would it have been like to grow up like that?
“May I see?” Norman asked, pointing to my bag, and I thought my heart might explode out of my chest.
All of the art pieces I’d brought flashed in my head, and none of them were good enough. Not to show him. The idea of spinning and running back to the parking lot seemed far more attractive than walking toward the desk, but Logan wasn’t fully out of the tent yet. He was blocking my exit.
I stepped forward and slipped the strap off my shoulder, laying the bag flat while trying not to mess up the papers and file folders he had sitting there. “These are just a few samples. I’ve been exploring different mediums this year.”
I was going to die. Norman Marcus asked to look at my art pieces. What if he hated them? Worse, what if he was indifferent? Would I have to quit everything and switch my major to communications?
“As you should.” Norman watched me unzip and unfold the bag. Before I could say anything else, he reached in and began examining.
My palms were damp enough, I had to wipe them on my coat. Norman studied in silence. The murmur of Alice’s voice sounded from outside the tent.
“Wire and plaster,” Norman commented, finally. “I like that you make them fight.”
“They started fighting without me,” I said, and he let out an amused “hm.”
He leaned back and turned a photo sideways, then straight. “And colour?”
“Less.” It was my immediate answer. I wasn’t even sure what he was asking, but it felt right. I’d found that I was using little to none at all in everything outside of painting. Even then, I was muting the pigments.
He thumbed through my next pieces and paused on a charcoal sketch. “This is unresolved.”
“That’s the point.”
He looked up. “What do you hate in contemporary shows?”
I blinked. “Hate?”
“Yes.” His face was all patience.
This was by far the weirdest job interview I’d ever had. “I would have to say . . . I hate when galleries treat the audience like they have to feel something. Or the same thing, I guess. Like there’s one right answer.”
His expression remained impassive. “And what do you love?”
That one was easier. “When the space makes a conversation happen. When a piece yanks a line out of another piece across the room and you don’t know why until your stomach tells your head to catch up.”
He was silent a moment, then he lifted the piece in his hand. “This goes in the opening.”
My heart stalled. “I—what?”
“Opening,” he repeated, like he understood my short-circuiting brain. “We’ll show one of yours alongside three established artists. I’ll want process photos and a short statement.” His eyes scanned my portfolio again, then lifted to mine. “But tell me, do you want to be shown or involved?”
My mouth answered before my anxiety could think. “Involved,” I said. “I love making, but curation is—” I groped for an explanation, “My end game. I want to help people discover.”
His eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t talking about curation.”
“Oh, I know, I was just saying that eventually—”
“Good taste and the ability to express oneself to collectors must be honed over time.”
I nodded, practically swallowing my tongue. “Of course.” My eyes dropped, my cheeks flaming. Why had I said that? Of course he wasn’t going to offer me a job when we’d barely just met.
“But I do need help with outreach. Organization and exhibit prep.”
My head shot up, and I blurted, “Yes,” before I could think. “I’ll do all of it—or any of it, I should say. I’d be honoured.”
The corner of Norman’s mouth twitched. “Perfect.” He strode back to stand behind the desk and pulled something from the top drawer. “Pay is nine dollars an hour.”
My eyes widened. That was two dollars per hour more than what I ever made working on campus.
“Hours will be flexible. You can prioritize school as needed, but I will expect a certain level of commitment.”
“Of course.”
He smiled, writing something on the papers in front of him. “It will be a win-win, really.”
I forced my lungs to fill. “I would hope so.”
Norman paused his writing. “I can’t have a historic display without paying homage to Canada’s love affair with hockey, and having you here will only mean good press.”
My giddiness morphed into confusion. Hockey? And me? How were those two things going to garner publicity?
I tried not to panic, searching for any explanation that made sense. I did go to hockey games. The Outlaws had gone to nationals, but what did that have to do with Norman’s gallery?
“I’m not quite sure what you mean.” After giving Logan crap about honesty, I decided to take my own advice and ask.
Norman looked up, his pen still pressed to paper. “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t have Logan wrapped around your little finger.”
Before shock could register on my face, Norman spun the paper to face me. “I’ve written in a few mandatory events and press opportunities. If you can make sure your boyfriend attends, and preferably a few of his teammates as well, the job is yours.”
My stomach crashed to the floor. My boyfriend? Shit. Norman Marcus thought Logan and I were dating. Was that the only reason he met with me today? He was doing some kind of sports exhibit and needed outreach and press?
Of course. Why wouldn’t he want to secure support from the Blizzard, but Logan was already here, wasn’t he? His mom was a family friend. She was being featured in the show, so why wouldn’t that be enough to nail him down?
I stared at the signature line on the contract. Mandatory events. Press opportunities. Make sure your boyfriend attends. I couldn’t speak for him, could I? Or did Logan know this was the deal? Had he forgotten to tell me that Norman thought we were an item?
Norman blew out a breath and glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run. If you need time to think about it—”
“No.” I stepped forward, picking up the pen. My chest felt like a balloon about to pop. We would just figure this out. I’d tell Logan about this craziness and we’d laugh and then he’d explain to Marcus that we weren’t actually together—
But then why would Norman need me?
Blood rushed in my ears as I signed on the dotted line. This was wrong. I shouldn’t be pretending I was with Logan. I shouldn’t be pretending I could commit to the dates Norman had written in.
But this might be my only chance. My only in.
As soon as I lifted the pen, Norman pulled the contract from the table top, then handed me a blank one. “For your reference. Hours start Monday if you’re available.”