Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Despite my strong aversion to talking on the phone, my gut says to answer it because Florian said his assistant would call.
And it’s got to be him because nobody has ever called me from an investment holdings group, even as a prank.
Like they’ve already seen my bank account balances and said no, thanks.
Though I still don’t know Florian’s surname despite my best internet sleuthing yesterday.
Hot, broody, shouty investors in London comes up with some interesting search results, though.
I set down a pair of freshly paired polka dot socks and answer on the third ring with my best pseudo-business voice.
As in, how I’d imagine a businessperson to sound.
Breezy. Confident. Like, why, yes, so glad you called, here’s a few million for your bespoke-glamping-amid-llamas experience for the discerning Londoner.
Because back home in Glynde, we’d just climb the fence of a neighbor’s field to pitch a tent and have a snooze in a neighbor’s paddock, like we do this all the time. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon, may I speak with Mathias John Gowen-Smith?” an unfamiliar male voice asks.
I’m unable to resist a sputter—maybe this has to be either my student loans calling or Florian’s twisted idea of a joke. I guess the good news is that Florian paid attention and remembered my name in full detail?
“Er, speaking. Who’s calling, please?” I sit up straight at the dining table, as if the disembodied male voice can see me despite not being a video call.
I glance over at the boiling pasta water.
Steam curls into the extractor hood, but it can wait a few minutes before I put the pasta in to cook.
Meanwhile, the extra steam could be excellent for my skin.
Maybe another niche pasta-spa crossover experience needing an investor, even.
“It’s Richard Walker speaking, of De Light Investment Holdings. I’m Mr. De Ligt’s assistant. I’ve been directed to follow up with you regarding the Sotheby’s private view.”
“The…” I trail off, blinking as I take a moment to digest this new information that Florian neglected to mention. Rather significant information. Posh auctions were definitely not on the menu. “Sotheby’s, as in the auction house?”
“Yes, that’s correct. The private view is scheduled for Thursday after 7:00 p.m., and you will be attending as Mr. De Ligt’s guest.”
“Right,” I manage, looking around for something to write on.
I find a receipt and a pen on the kitchen counter.
I scrawl: Sotheby’s, Thurs, 7pm. And for good measure, I jot down Richard Walker and Florian De Ligt.
As if I might get confused with anyone else who might want to attend a Sotheby’s auction together with me.
If it is an elaborate kidnapping ploy, someone will find my notes and know where to start looking in lieu of gingerbread crumbs.
“Mr. De Ligt looks forward to seeing you then—”
“Wait!” My plea of desperation cuts through Richard’s efficient effort to wrap up the call in less than thirty seconds, clearly a man after Florian’s heart in not wasting time. I can see why he was hired as his PA. “What do I wear?”
“Wear?”
“You know, to the private view?” I encourage hopefully.
The private views I’ve been to generally are of the paper cup and box wine variety at a pop-up exhibition in some borderline derelict building and definitely not Sotheby’s.
What I do know is that old jeans and flannel shirts won’t cut it. Or my shabby trainers.
“Ah. I would suggest clothing, Mr. Gowen-Smith.”
God, that confirms it’s Florian’s assistant, with the same literal streak. It must be something core to his brand. Or maybe Richard Walker’s trying to be funny. But this is very much a serious question.
“What’s the dress code?” I try desperately.
“There isn’t one as such, but I would recommend smart casual at a minimum. I would stop short at a ball gown or a morning jacket.”
“Okay. Cool. Um, thanks.” Perfectly opaque.
Great. I know enough to not fish out my wrinkled laundry from the bottom of the laundry basket.
Or at least find an iron or steamer or something.
Worst case, I wear a shirt and trousers that I’d wear to Ivan’s.
No one will know. “And—wait. What’s the address? ”
“On New Bond Street in Mayfair,” says Richard smoothly without missing a beat, like it’s so obvious where Sotheby’s is, or maybe it is in his circles.
Which are not, obviously, the same circle as broke art graduates.
“I do not have the precise address in front of me. However, I could look it up for you if you would like.”
“No, no, I can figure that out from there, I think.”
“If that is all—”
“No, it isn’t.”
I swear I can hear the sound of him arching an eyebrow.
“This is going to sound weird. I have Florian’s suit.
I mean, he must have several. Anyway.” And I brace myself for Richard’s judgment, but he’s probably enough of a professional not to show it.
“I need to return Florian’s suit to him.
The one that I have. I told him that I would have it dry-cleaned and it would be ready to pick up from the bar where I unfortunately attacked him with cocktails.
Is that something you can help with?” I force myself to stop talking and suck back a breath.
Silence.
To his credit, Richard only pauses for a second. “Of course. I can arrange to have his suit picked up.”
“Great. It’ll be ready after 5:00 p.m. today. At Ivan’s in Soho. Just let them know it’s the suit Matty dropped off for Florian. Or ask for Katerina.”
“Fine. It will be collected today after 5:00 p.m.,” he confirms. “And, for Thursday, please be prompt. Mr. De Ligt does not like to be kept waiting.”
“Yeah, I get that sense. Um, thanks?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gowen-Smith.”
The line goes dead. And I sit there for a long moment, contemplating the blank screen of my phone before I immediately start searching about Sotheby’s and Thursday’s event.
A couple of hours later, I meet my friend Noah, who’s up from Brighton also on his day off, so we find ourselves on Monday afternoon in a pub not far from my loaner flat in Soho.
We’re at the back, holed up in a corner, pints at the ready, and none of them are airborne.
Happily, we have to go to the bar to get our drinks, and there’s no table service here unless you put in a food order.
Instead of proper food, we down crisps, a couple of packets opened up before us for a carb buffet.
I just filled Noah in on my Saturday night debacle, including to the point where Florian and I were trapped together in my building’s lift for hours. At the minute, he’s grinning.
“Well, that’s some way to meet a guy,” Noah marvels. “Was he hot? That’s the important part.”
“Hot,” I acknowledge. “Not much older than me, either. I’d guess thirty, tops.
Though he’s very prickly. It’s like being trapped with a cactus in an enclosed space.
As if he knew he was better than me. To be fair, he probably is, because he’s some business hotshot, and I’m a nobody right out of uni. ”
Noah frowns and shakes his head. “Did he actually say that?”
“Well, not quite. But he did accuse me of being an unsuccessful artist. And he’s not exactly wrong about that, because I’m doing zero art and only working in a bar right now.”
He waves me off. “You’re an artist even if you’re not making art from sunrise to sundown. It’s not a verb. It’s a state of mind. You know that.”
“Deep.” I flick a crisp at him. He catches it with his hand and pops it into his mouth with a crunch. Just like the old days at uni. We met on the same course in Fine Art, and Noah’s a year ahead and been out in the real world for a full year now.
Noah’s actually making art. And selling it.
I sigh and sip my pint. “Yeah, I guess. It just feels a long way off for me, you know? I can’t afford a studio, and I can’t mess up Arran’s flat with paint. And I’m probably going to be living on someone’s sofa in Sevenoaks next month.”
“Have faith. You’ll get there. Painting, I mean. Not to a Sevenoaks sofa.”
“Let’s hope. And I’m sure Sevenoaks is perfectly nice, just a commute I don’t want to make to Ivan’s.
” I feel resigned, trying to scrape together enough cash to save for a deposit on a London room of my own before Arran comes back.
If it wasn’t for his generosity, I’d be back home in the village with my parents, working at the family pub.
So, I suppose it could be worse. “I searched him online.”
“Who, the cactus guy?”
“Yeah. Because, after all that, we agreed I would attend an event with him. To make up for spilling drinks on him. And he thought it might be useful for me, too, as an artist, though clearly, what he was thinking about is what’s useful for him.”
“Like a date?” Noah’s voice rises. “Mate, you pulled.”
“Oh no. Not at all. It’s a very fake date because he needs to be seen with someone. And I’m way out of my element because I’m nothing like him, and I had no idea it was a private view at Sotheby’s. Had I known, I would have said no.”
Noah’s blatantly intrigued. He leans forward, arms against the edge of the table as he assesses me critically.
We briefly had a thing in uni but soon decided we were a lot better off as friends rather than anything else.
As a result, he knows enough about me to be dangerous, and my tells.
Which, apparently, I’m doing right now, because he nods to himself with satisfaction.
“I think you’re into him.”
“Fuck off. I’m so not. God. He’s a nightmare,” I protest instantly. “Rude, hot-tempered, and did I tell you he thinks feelings aren’t efficient? Never mind he’s worth millions of pounds, I’m sure, and I’m worth a fiver.”
“Matty. You should know that the worth of people is intrinsic. It’s not about your bank account,” he chides me. “And you don’t know his bank balance anyway.”
“The internet gave me a good idea, I’m afraid.”
“The internet is full of cat memes and flame wars,” Noah points out over his pint. “And besides, he’s lucky to get an evening with you. So there’s that.”
I scoff. “Listen, I’m fine for who I am. But who I am…” I gesture at myself, right down to the black nail polish and pink tie-dyed T-shirt, “is not who people like Florian spend time with. I mean, his name is Florian.”
He just laughs at me and pulls out his phone. “Give me his last name. I want to see Mr. Billionaire Boinks An Art Boi for myself—”
“No. Way.”
“Fine. Then you show me a picture.”
“I didn’t get selfies while I was busy attacking the man.”
“C’mon, Matty.” He gives me his best pouty face with his big brown eyes, and sucker that I am, I bring up a photo of Florian from his corporate De Ligt Holdings About Us page and flash the screen at him for approximately half a second before trying to pull it away.
Except he catches my wrist and plucks the phone out of my hand.
He gives a low, appreciative whistle. “Nice.”
“Quit letching. Maybe you should go on this fake date instead. He just wanted an artist to explain the art. You’re an artist. You probably paid more attention back in uni in lectures than I did.
This is the most elite, top-tier contemporary art.
Like, Anish Kapoor and Damian Hirst big.
Sotheby’s. Not my grad show at Brighton or a pop-up show in a random Shoreditch basement. ”
“Wow. Prime time.” Noah just laughs again and shakes his head.
“Now, listen. He doesn’t want any artist. He wants you.
Despite—or because of—the way you met. Clearly, he sees something because he doesn’t sound like the sort of person to spend time doing things or with people he doesn’t find interesting. ”
“And it’s beneficial to him, don’t forget.
I’m sure it’s for a business reason. Probably wowing some would-be client or who knows what.
He said it would be useful for him to be seen with a date, and in return, he said I’d enjoy the art.
Which, I mean, yeah, I’d love to see the art.
” The art is a dream. Florian is a nightmare.
Though how can it get worse than Saturday night?
Not that I’m tempting the universe. “Just… this is so weird, you know? Anyway, I took his suit to be dry-cleaned this morning and dropped it off at Ivan’s before coming to meet you. ”
“Well, that was very kind of you. I suppose you couldn’t bring the suit to the private view.”
“I don’t think people usually bring dry cleaning to Sotheby’s, no.” Raising my pint, I take a long drink of ale. If only Thursday night would be as relaxed as having drinks with Noah. Instead, I’m going to have to watch everything I say so that Florian doesn’t cross-examine me with my own words.
Finally, Noah releases my phone back to me after taking another appreciative look at Florian. “I can’t wait to hear more about your event. It’s gonna be an interesting time.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. We’ve already had more than our share of interesting times for strangers. I’d just like a boring night, and then we go our separate ways and never have to see each other again. And if I’m not fired from work, it’ll help me forget about it all the sooner.”
“Just don’t lift any art,” Noah jokes. “Though having a wealthy fake boyfriend could at least pay the bail money to get you out of the clink when you do.”
“Ha.” I toss another crisp at him for that.
He ducks and laughs. “Listen. To keep you grounded, next time come down to Brighton and see what everyone’s been working on at the Rose. A studio visit is great for the skin, too.”
I laugh.
Then, I spend the rest of the evening carefully not thinking about Thursday night or Florian as we catch up on the news with our friends back home in Brighton. Except later, when I’m in my bed trying and failing to sleep, Thursday night is all I can think about.