Chapter 2 Bess #2
“Gerard’s asked for studio space in my workshop.” Lutek’s workshop is a shed out the back of the gallery that he rents off me for half of what he might pay elsewhere.
“Do you have space in your workshop for him?” I know very well what’s about to come. Gerard is one of the artists who contributes work to the gallery. He makes stained-glass suncatchers and takes commissions for windows.
“No.”
“But you said ‘yes’ anyway?” One of the things about Lutek is that because he’s exceptionally nice to everyone, all the time, he can’t say “no”.
I mean, he’s physically capable of saying “no”, he just can’t bring himself to.
“Lutek, the only person you always say ‘yes’ to is me, because I’m your boss and everything I request you to do in relation to your job is therefore reasonable. Even if it isn’t.”
“Right. It’s just that Gerard’s rent is going up and he can’t afford it anymore. He’s found a cheaper place to live, but there’s no space suitable for him to set up a workshop.”
“Agh. This place.” Port Derrum, being in Devon, is a poster child for the cost-of-living crisis. One of the reasons I set up the gallery and café was to protect the local artistic movement after many of them were forced out of town due to no longer being able to afford to live here.
The gallery allows an income for their creative passion, the café provides a living-waged day-or-weekend job for some of them, and the three flats above offer affordable housing for those really in need, like young, solo-mum Elly.
“So you want to split the rent?”
Lutek rubs the back of his neck and smiles apologetically. “Yes. If we can.”
My “Alright” comes out on a sigh. Needs-must scenarios like this one seem to be occurring with more frequency lately. “I’ll draw up some new paperwork.” I give him a clap on his upper arm. “You’re a good man, Lutek.”
Out on the street, two middle-aged white women look through the gallery’s external door, then push it open and step inside. They are tourists, or day trippers. One wears bright white zip-up sneakers and has the distinct look of a pottery buyer.
The other, glancing around and not approaching anything to have a closer look, wears a mauve shirt and has the distinct appearance of a Devonshire tea imbiber who would quite like to bugger off next door at the nearest opportunity.
I glide over to greet them, then head behind the gallery counter so as not to hover, turning the woman in the string bikini on the way.
They peruse the smaller, cheaper creative pieces near the gallery door that have been strategically placed for impulse buying on purchase or pre-exit, like sweets at the supermarket counter.
There is, apparently, a whole psychology behind the placement of goods in such stores to optimise buying potential. It would be irresponsible of me not to try and replicate it, given that the gallery represents a large proportion of Port Derrum's creative community.
The two women wander about, pausing intermittently to look and touch, towards the larger art pieces in the back. They stop at an oil painting that causes most people to halt their slow shuffling and voice an opinion.
The painting – one of mine – is filled, frame to frame, with a garishly-coloured group of women laughing, one of whom wears a white T-shirt with "Mass hysteria" printed across the front.
The title of the painting is Smashing the Patriarchy One Punchline at a Time, which is, admittedly a mouthful for a painting title, but I like it and so it has stayed.
It's been hanging for five months. It will hang for another five months if I don't change it out for something else. People don't want to buy protest art. They want quaint depictions of the Devon coastline, or the art created by clients from Jeanette’s art therapy classes.
And that is precisely what they get at The Port Derrum Gallery and what mostly keeps it afloat.
My paintings are the sideshow at the back of the exhibition space.
An amusing diversion, a conversation point, a brash push in the direction of the art that is pleasant and inoffensive to the eye and which browsers didn't know, until that point, they wanted to buy.
So my art serves its purpose. Not the purpose I intended when I began my artistic journey, but it's a purpose.
The mauve-shirted woman leans forward and reads the artist's, my name, aloud. Then she says, "Someone get this poor woman a cigarette and a massage."
I stifle a laugh. As far as amateur art criticism goes, this is one of the gentler ones, but is no less entertaining than the disparaging ones. I mentally store it to share with Ed later.
By the time five minutes has elapsed, the woman with the zippered shoes places a ceramic mug on the counter that she would like gift wrapped and I feel a disproportionate amount of smug.
After two years of running the gallery, I can usually spot their partialities a mile off. Unfortunately for me, because I'm the only one working there at any one time, I have no one to say things like, "Told you the man in the cravat would buy the crocheted nipple warmers."
Gloating isn't as rewarding when you have an audience of zero.
The woman fingers a metal bookmark, the top of which has been laser cut into the shape of a robin, extracts it from the front counter display, and places it next to the mug like a chocolate-bar afterthought.
Shopper Psych 101.
I put the transaction through and once they've made their way through to the café and ordered their teas, I walk to stand beside Lutek. "Sold one of your bookmarks."
He beams. Lutek has always worked with metal, but it's the first time he's made anything quite so delicate.
They are ridiculously pretty, to be fair, and have all the makings of a gallery bestseller.
In the street, a classic silver Jag pulls up. I recognise it. The owner's not the only toff in the county to brandish a hood ornament like it's a trophy awarded for winning the being born extremely privileged lottery, but he is the only one to adorn it with the number plate WEPN.
"Brilliant. The Odour comes to honour us with his beneficent presence."
I should offer him more deference, seeing as I wouldn't be able to house my business without him, but he makes it so hard to like him. I have tried. I just gave up easily, because – and there's no gentle way to put this – he's an A-grade dick.
Theodore Pinkerton is the son of a minor peer. And maybe because he's twenty-six and has more money than he knows what to do with, but more likely because of his dickheadery, doesn't so much as swagger as parade.
He climbs out of his car and, I kid you not, props a leg on the bottom of the car door frame while he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt.
His gold watch catches the sun and flashes like the beacon of wealth it is.
Then he grabs the jacket he doesn't need, due to it being the middle of a summer that's actually behaving like a real summer, and slings it over his shoulder, where it dangles from a single hooked finger.
In real life.
Shutting the car door, he briefly peers at his reflection in the window, before turning his face to the sky, closing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair!!!
To be fair, his mid-brown hair is thick and just long enough on top to require the odd bit of finger combing, but –
– come on!
The saunter he contrives for the walk to the gallery is, objectively, an exceptionally good one.
I walk in a perfectly normal fashion over to the gallery to meet him.
Jason Travers, one of the local lads with an inclination to drive faster than necessary, steps into his path and The Odour holds a finger up at me, as if I am to put myself on hold while he talks to him.
Theo winds his arm back to do that hand slap-cum-grip thing white men do to look street, and claps Jason on the back.
Then they turn to look at The Odour’s car.
I do not put myself on hold. I continue in my gallery duties as if two dudes waxing lyrical about a classic car has absolutely no importance to me. Which it doesn’t.
Several minutes later, shoes scuff against the bottom of the open gallery door.
"Chica!" The Odour throws his jacket over one of Jeanette's figurines, which gives him leave to open his arms. Before I can dive roll out of the way, he pulls me into a hug that is too tight and too long to be anything but presumptive and over-familiar.
"You are looking as luminous as ever, my sister. "
I should have seen it coming. It's been his way of greeting me for two years now, despite my singular discomfort.
"Theodore."
I give him a single tap on the ribs, which is the most I can manage from my arms-pinned-to-my-sides position and the most reciprocating I'm willing to do, and wonder how long before I asphyxiate in several-hundred-pounds-worth of eau d'ouche.
He rubs my back in ever-increasing circles, which prompts me to say, "I smell you brought your friend with you. How is Giorgio?"
The rubbing, mercifully, stops. "Christian Dior. Actually."
When Theo issues a descending hum on an exhale like he's settling in for the night, I say, "He's a bit bubble gum-y."
He drops his arms and I take a large step backwards, knowing his cologne will cling to the little hairs in my nostrils for hours afterwards and there's actually no safe distance out of its fall-out range.
"He's not bub– it's not bubble gum-y. It's a rugged, crisp blend of caramalised sugar and cardamom with notes of grapefruit and bergamot. Actually."
I don't say anything. I don't even humour a lip twitch.
He adds, "Unapologetically bold," and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets.
There's certainly no disputing the boldness, but I want to contend its lack of apology. Instead, I say, "That it is, Theo. So. What can we do for you today?"
He places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "Oh, you know. Just the silent co-owner popping by to check in on his favourite unbankable."