Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Ed
"Did you anonymously comment that Bess sells feminist art?" is the first thing I say to Mistral once she has logged on to her work computer and opened the library management system.
According to Bess, the gallery’s online shop has suddenly experienced unprecedented traffic and accompanying sales.
Due to Mistral being like one of the interfering, shit-stirring, fairy folk, coupled with the fangirl status she acquired after Bess' first foray into library vigilante-ism and her self-professed TikTok addiction, all empirical evidence...arguably...points her way.
Mistral flicks her hair over her shoulder as she rotates on her chair to face me, wearing a smirk that confirms my suspicion. "In a roundabout way." She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I doxxed her."
My reaction to her words is complex – self-satisfaction at having picked it, anger at her having gambled on Bess' privacy, gratitude that she did, and utter bafflement at terminology only people younger than twenty-five are privy to hearing and understanding. "You what-ed her?"
"You know," she says completely redundantly, because clearly I don't know. "Doxxing is when you publish someone's personal info, like their address, online. Most people do it from a place of wanting to cause harm."
My organs are weighted with a sudden cold, like they have been snap frozen. "You didn't publish her personal info. Did you?"
"No. Just stuff about the gallery. It was a soft dox."
"A soft dox. That sounds no less alarming than a regular dox."
"Look. Basically, I figured someone should monopolise on her new-found fame if she doesn't. Everyone who has stuff in the gallery stands to benefit. I mean, Lutek could do with some help."
"Lutek, huh?" I feel like I should have seen that coming, but apparently, unlike me, Mistral is much better at hiding her feelings for someone else.
I swivel around to face my computer. Then swivel back again.
"I don't know whether to be worried about you introducing the risk of toxic fandom for Bess, angry at you for acting on her behalf without seeking permission, or glad you did, because it seems to be working.
Online sales are up and she's already sold one of her own paintings. "
Mistral's face lights up. "Has she? Ooh, well done me.
Bess deserves recognition for the artistic statements she makes.
" She turns back to her computer and types some stuff into it.
"Honestly, I can't believe it's taken several viral videos and the leaking of what she actually does for a living for it to happen. "
I watch her for a full and very long minute, undecided about whether to share more with her. Sharing would be a calculated move to invite more meddling. Hopefully of the constructive sort she's already done.
I pivot back to my computer. Read an email. Then reread it, because I haven't absorbed any of the information.
"Can you stop that?" asks Mistral.
"Stop what?"
"Your foot drum solo."
I look down. My knee is bouncing rapidly and my heel is tapping on the chair support.
I do stop it.
Then emit a sigh.
The thing is, I have no idea how I can help Bess with her current situation, which makes me feel utterly powerless when I desperately want to be magnificent with usefulness.
I glance at Mistral over my shoulder, then away again.
Perhaps this is all I have.
Fuck it.
"You know, ah, she needs more of it to happen? Selling her art."
Mistral pulls her head back into her neck in an "obviously" gesture. "Well of course she does. It validates her artistic message."
"No. I mean she needs it, as in if it doesn't sell more, she risks losing her business."
She stops typing and turns to face me. "What do you mean? She's never sold any of her art before and it hasn't been a problem."
"Right. Well, it's about to be." I scratch my ear. "The co-owner of the building is threatening to raise the rent to market rates in a month, which will affect everyone who sells art there, works there, or lives there, as the rate will be too high for anyone to afford."
Mistral's mouth drops open. "You're kidding."
"As humble as I am, I reckon my quality of joke-making tends to be a little higher on the laugh scale than the hilarities of economic ruin."
Sensibly ignoring my sarcasm, she says, "But. That gallery is her life. She's using it to help this community, not just for her own benefit."
"I know."
"So, why is he being a bully about it?"
I shrug my shoulders even though I can give her an answer. "Desperate measures. He now needs to make money off an investment he'd set up charitably. When you come from big, and risk big, you lose big."
Mistral purses her lips and peers through the front doors at the gallery and café across the road. When she finally speaks, her voice is distant, thoughtful. "I guess we'll just have to play big, too."
I mean.
It's what needs to happen. But Theodore Pinkerton is not the only one gambling here.
I've thrown my dice onto the table when I actually have no idea what Mistral is capable of. All I can hope is that I've put my money on the right horse.
I attempt to take control of the reins. “What would a hard dox look like?”