Thirteen
Amelia
With the promise of the coming weekend, I usually like Fridays. But the exhibition is next Wednesday, and there’s still so much to do.
I’m nervous about the empty walls. Amiento’s work is our big feature, the centerpiece of the exhibition, and we only have three of his pieces. The other six are due today, and they can’t come soon enough.
I wander the gallery, picturing which pieces I’ll put where. Jeanne Quek’s metal sculptures arrive Monday and will take the central space. Then Amiento’s pictures giving depth and contrast.
It will work. In fact, it’ll be fantastic. This is exactly the event I need to get the gallery’s name out there, and a reporter coming from Time Out is the icing on the cake.
I’m so lost in my thoughts I’m barely aware of Sierra walking up, until she steps close, voice pitched low, mindful of the handful of walk-ins who are perusing our usual stock.
“Ammy?” she says tentatively. “There’s a guy from Crozier here.”
“Ah, great. The deliveries from Amiento.”
“Uh…” Her expression is kicked puppy. “It is Amiento, but the guy says he’s collecting, not delivering.”
“What?” My voice rises, and one of the viewers turns to glance our way. I take Sierra’s arm, steering her back toward my office. “That can’t be right.”
“Maybe I misunderstood?”
“I’ll talk to him. Any problems are resolvable.”
“Oh, good.” She gives me a tremulous smile in return. “I’ll go get some coffees while you sort it out.”
“Great idea.”
Leaving her, I head for the back door, irritated that this isn’t the delivery I was expecting, but some administrative screwup instead. I force myself to take a breath, then paste on a smile as I round the corner.
The delivery guy from Crozier has a clipboard. The door’s open, a van waiting outside.
“Miss… uh…” He glances at his sheet. “…Anderson?”
Yes, that’s the name on the gallery.
“What can I do for you?”
“Collecting three pieces by a Michael Amiento.”
“That’s not correct. You’re supposed to be dropping off, not picking up.”
“That’s not what this says,” he replies, tapping his clipboard.
I square my shoulders. “Show me the docket, please.”
“Sure.” He hands it over.
The instructions are clear and concise, printed in neat type, the page embossed with the company logo. Crozier specializes in art shipping. They rarely make mistakes.
What the hell is going on?
“I’m sorry, I know nothing about this,” I tell the delivery guy as I hand back his clipboard. “I can’t authorize this without speaking to the artist. You’ll have to return next week.”
He’s not happy, but I apologize again as I usher him out of the door, close it after him, frowning at it in confusion.
A fast walk back to my office. Sierra is still getting coffees, thankfully. I close the door, sit down behind my desk, take a breath or two.
Then I pick up the phone.
It rings for so long I’m not sure he’s going to answer, but then he does. “Hello?”
“Michael. Amelia Anderson. I’ve just had a puzzling request for a collection.”
“Yes, you have.”
I wait for him to say more—an explanation, for example—but all I get is a long, awkward silence.
“Is it accurate?” I prompt.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Fuck.
“Could you tell me why you’ve changed your mind? We’ve supported you since you first started working.”
“You have,” he says carefully, his tone softening for a brief moment before it hardens again. “But I’m not linking my art to a failing gallery that’s too small to get any clients.”
“What?”
Dread settles in my stomach. Now I know this isn’t a mistake. And I know who’s behind it.
Serranto.
Lucy didn’t meet him on Wednesday night. He’s had one day to enact his revenge, and he’s gone after me.
I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and try for calm. “Interesting feedback, Michael. Where did that come from?”
“Uh… places,” he says evasively. “Look, decision made. It’s not personal, okay?”
“It sure the hell feels like it.”
“Yeah… well… I have to look out for myself.”
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my phone.
Sierra knocks on my office door, walking in with two lattes. “All good?”
“Not quite, no.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.” She sets my coffee down on the edge of my desk, gives me an encouraging smile, and leaves again.
I stare at the door as it closes behind her. If this exhibition doesn’t happen, how the hell am I going to explain it to two hundred people? I’ve got enough for next month’s rent, but after that?
Get a grip, Amelia. You’re stronger than this.
I dash a sleeve across my eyes.
All right. What can I do?
I pull up Jeanne Quek’s number and reach for the phone again. It’s a long shot, but if she has a few extra pieces, we could cover the gaps. My fingers tap impatiently on the desk as the line rings and rings. Then she answers.
“Hello?”
“Jeanne? Amelia Anderson.”
“Oh. Uh…” An uncomfortable pause. “Someone told you.”
I know before I even ask, my world suddenly shown to be a house of cards. “Told me what?”
“I’m sorry, Amelia. It’s been made clear that presenting my work at your gallery will hurt my career.”
I close my eyes in pain.
My exhibition has been publicized for weeks, my artists listed. Serranto knew who to target.
“Jeanne… you’re an amazing, budding artist. Your work deserves an audience.” I pour all I have into those words, straddling the line between passion and desperation. “We can offer you the exposure to get your pieces seen. Why would you cancel?”
“I really wanted to show my pieces with you,” she says miserably. “I was so looking forward to it.”
“You still can! I have two hundred people coming… a journalist from Time Out…”
“Jordan Fletcher?”
“Yes.” I pause, ice lying solid in my stomach. “How did you know?”
“I was told you’d say that.” Her voice hardens. “It’s a lie, isn’t it? He’s not really coming, is he?”
“He is,” I say slowly. “I have his acceptance.”
“That’s not what I heard. I can’t risk putting my work with a gallery that would—” She stops. “I feel betrayed, Amelia. I’m sorry, but I won’t be showing my work with you.”
I straighten my back. Lift my chin. “One question please, before you hang up. Who told you? Was it Steven Serranto?”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “Yes.”
“And you believed him.” The words slip out, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement of anguish.
“Of course I did,” she replies. “When someone like that gives advice, who wouldn’t listen? I’m sorry it ended like this, Amelia. I had… hopes. Goodbye.”
I set the phone back in its cradle, rest my elbows on my desk, and my head falls into my hands.
Just like that, everything has gone. Michael Amiento. Jeanne Quek. Jordan Fletcher—who might even still be coming. That would be just Serranto’s style, lying about it to Jeanne and then Fletcher turns up, to report on a canceled exhibition.
The bastard has been thorough, I’ll give him that.
I never dreamed he had such pull. I thought he was a smarmy bastard, more bluster than bite. But to do this? In barely forty-eight hours?
And I only have a weekend and two days to find replacements.
It’s impossible.
My mind spins in spirals, unable to come up with any options.
I lean back in my chair, eyes burning. In front of me is a quiet landscape that sat in my parents’ house, until I moved it here.
It was my mother’s favorite, my inspiration.
The tears come, and I can’t help them. I’ve let my parents down.
I’ve squandered my inheritance. God, if I have to sell, I’ll get back a fraction of what I put in.
Everything I’ve done will be for nothing.
And Sierra… I won’t be able to keep her on. How will our friendship survive that?
I don’t know how long I sit there, reeling from it all. Then my phone rings, stirring me from my thoughts. I pick it up on reflex.
“Amelia Anderson.”
“What an interesting call I’ve just had from Michael Amiento,” Serranto drawls over the line. “He says you begged him to reconsider.”
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth hurt. At least I didn’t beg Amiento; I might have begged Quek.
“I wouldn’t mind hearing you beg myself,” Serranto continues. “On your knees, maybe.”
“Fuck you.”
“Now that I think about it, begging on her knees and fucking me is more your sister’s thing, isn’t it?” He chuckles. “I’m going to have you both.”
“Goodbye, Serran—”
“If you hang up, your gallery is lost. We both know it.”
I pause, gripping the receiver so hard the plastic creaks. “What the hell do you want?”
“I just told you,” he says lightly. “But I know how… proud and stuck up you are. You’re probably shit in bed. Maybe your sister is the better fuck, after all.”
It takes all my effort not to scream at him, but I refuse to let this hateful man have that satisfaction. “If you have something to say that isn’t gloating, you have ten seconds.”
“I’ll let you run your exhibition again, next month. I’ll even encourage Quek and Amiento to return to you. And you, Amelia dear, will bring me Lucy. She’ll do everything to save your gallery, and you’ll do everything to save her.” He chuckles. “Sisterly love. Such a wonderful thing.”
I scowl at the picture on the wall, taking strength from it. “Serranto, you’re going to reverse this. You’re going to do it today, or I will fucking leak everything I have on you. Your gambling debts, your ex-wife, your abandoned child.”
“Toothless,” he responds, indifferent. “The spurious claims of a failed gallery owner. And you don’t have any of my hair, do you?”
No, I don’t. Because that fucker Van Wyk took it off me.
“Try me, you bastard.”
“You’ve already lost, Amelia dear. Your only option is to persuade your darling sister to come and be a sweet little thing, with you right there beside her.”
I swallow bile. “I want you to know that whatever the cost, I’ll never send Lucy to you. I’ll fucking kill you if you ever touch her again.”
“You’re far too nice for such a threat. It’s not very convincing.”
“You’d be surprised,” I grind out. “Every day that passes, I’m getting more comfortable with the idea.”
“Such brave words. Let’s see how they hold up when your business is on its knees… just like you’ll be. I’ll call you in a week. Mark my words: by then, you’ll be eager to reconsider.”
“Fuck y—”
But he’s already gone.
I sit there for a long time before I can move.