Chapter 10
ALEX by the time she’d asked and waited, she could’ve done it herself.
That was her logic, at least. Having managed to only make the coffee machine spurt hot milk mixed with vanilla syrup, Kaitlyn decided to go out instead of making further attempts.
If she couldn’t get a decent coffee in New York, where could she get one?
Glancing at her phone, she wondered why Alex hadn’t been in touch.
He’ll just be busy. It’s his first day back. We don’t have to be together all the time.
Having managed to work the elevator, she stepped out of the sliding doors and was greeted by the security team.
“Did Alex go out early?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. He left at his usual time. Would you like me to call the car for you?” one of them asked.
Kaitlyn shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll walk. Where’s the nearest subway?”
The security guard looked surprised, but he pointed her in the direction of the subway.
Kaitlyn had it in mind to go down to the studio collective and meet some of the other artists.
She’d get a coffee on the way, and perhaps a bagel.
Outside, the street was busy with the hustle and bustle of the city.
It was a far cry from Cedarhurst, and Kaitlyn felt quite overwhelmed.
San Francisco wasn’t the same. Downtown could be busy, but there was always a quiet street or patch of green in which to find some peace. New York was relentless.
“Sitting in or taking out?” the barista at the trendy café asked her after she’d placed her order for a black coffee.
“I’ll take out,” she replied, glancing at the rows of cakes on the counter.
It was weird to think she didn’t have to worry about what things cost. Kaitlyn had never been poor, but, as an artist, she’d always been used to watching every penny.
It was only a cake, but at ten dollars apiece — the coffee had been seven — it was a treat she’d have forgone in the past. “And a piece of the carrot cake with vanilla frosting.”
It felt decadent, but given the exorbitant cost of the meal they’d had last night, seventeen dollars hardly seemed excessive.
Kaitlyn had looked up Gill’s on her phone.
“Woodland” had cost four hundred and fifty dollars a head.
And that was before the bottle of champagne.
Leaving the café, Kaitlyn walked in the direction of the subway, glancing up at the tall buildings around her.
She could just see the top of the Macarson building, and she pictured Alex in his office, sitting at his desk, surrounded by important documents.
But what did he do all day? Make money.
The subway was an experience, busy and hot, and Kaitlyn was relieved when she got off at Christopher Street-Stonewall, stepping out of the station and crossing over to the small park opposite, where she sat on the bench in the welcome shade of the trees to eat her cake.
It still felt disorienting to be in New York, plucked from everything familiar. Her phone buzzed.
Hey, sorry I left so early this morning. I hope you have a wonderful day xx.
Kaitlyn smiled, replying to Alex that she was on her way to the studio and would see him later. She was glad he’d messaged. She knew he had to work — and work hard. There was a lot for them to get used to as they navigated these first days and weeks together.
We’ll find a routine. It’ll be all right.
Having finished her coffee and cake, Kaitlyn checked her phone for directions to the studio.
It was just a few blocks away, and she found it easily enough, feeling excited at the prospect of getting started.
She had lots of ideas for new projects but was mindful of finishing her commissions first. That was something else she’d have to get used to: the fact that she no longer had to rely on art to make money.
She was free to be creative rather than commissioned.
It was liberating, but it would be difficult to get used to.
Often, a commission was an inspiration for something more, but without the necessity of work, Kaitlyn wondered if the motivation would remain.
“I can’t believe she did that! Look at it. It’s ruined!” a high-pitched voice was exclaiming loudly as Kaitlyn entered the studio. A tall man with long blond hair, wearing a paint-splattered apron, flounced past her, almost knocking her over as he swept out of the door.
A nervous-looking woman was standing next to a large canvas, on which was splattered green and yellow paint, as though it had been daubed there by a mischievous kid.
“Did someone have an accident?” Kaitlyn asked.
The woman shook her head.
“No. It’s meant to be like that. But someone has smudged it. He thinks it was Julia Wainwright,” she said, as though Kaitlyn was bound to know who Julia Wainwright was.
It was hard to tell where the smudge was. The whole thing looked smudged, but it had obviously caused some considerable consternation.
“Who’s Julia Wainwright?” Kaitlyn asked.
The woman looked at her in surprise. “You must know Julia, the impressionist? She’s trying a new style for the exhibition. She’s got a piece similar to Maurice’s. He’s not happy. That’s why he thinks she smudged it,” she said.
Kaitlyn didn’t know quite what to say. She’d thought the studio to be a friendly place. It had seemed as much the day before.
“I’m Kaitlyn,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m renting the corner space. I work in ceramics.”
The woman smiled. “I’m Anna-Marie. I work in textiles, but I’ve been helping Maurice with his concepts. It hasn’t been easy,” she said.
Kaitlyn could well imagine. She could hear Maurice on the phone to someone outside, shouting loudly.
“I want to speak to her. I don’t care if she’s unavailable. You put her on now,” he was saying.
Kaitlyn liked to work in peace and quiet. Her studio in San Francisco, with its view of the bay, had been a haven compared to this.
“Well… I suppose I’d better get started,” Kaitlyn said, rolling up her sleeves.
Alex had had her materials delivered to the collective. They were in boxes waiting to be unpacked, but if the likes of Maurice and Julia Wainwright were going to cause chaos, Kaitlyn wondered if she’d ever find the peace and quiet she needed to work on her art.