Chapter 51 Andrea
Andrea
The sun was still warm as I walked over Wandsworth Bridge even though it was already after six. The Thames was a murky blue brown and the odd pedestrian passed me heading south toward Clapham, occasionally a bike.
I didn’t know where I was going, I just wanted to walk.
Bonnie hadn’t given me a copy of the document, but I’d found it stored in my personal Gmail. It didn’t look good.
Why hadn’t we shredded it? I was sure I’d asked James to do it.
After the meeting, I’d logged into my HR record on the company SharePoint. There was a new folder under my name. Employee Relations. I’d clicked on it, and a message popped up:
You do not have permission to view this file.
I’d flushed and snapped the laptop shut, like I was being watched.
“Certain protocol has to be followed.”
Did that include her telling Liam? Of course it did. My stomach churned like I’d eaten something raw and unripe.
I’d phoned James twice, but he hadn’t picked up.
On the other side of the bridge, it was cooler, the tall apartment buildings throwing shade into the streets.
I walked past the Sainsbury’s and the little terraced houses and followed the street back down to the river.
The Thames Path was quiet, a handful of boats floating alongside it.
Ahead, Battersea Railway Bridge was green against the sky, a train rumbling slowly over.
The thought of Liam reading the letter made me want to throw up.
What would he think of me? I pictured his face scanning the words, struggling to comprehend how casually I’d damaged him.
And after everything we’d had together …
This would hurt him, and not just professionally.
I took out my phone and scrolled to his name. I could just call him. Maybe it wasn’t too late? I could tell him what I’d done and why, explain it, make it go away.
But … I couldn’t make it go away. Even Bonnie couldn’t do that.
“Steps have to occur.”
I kicked an empty can across the stone pavers, and it bounced off a bench. A couple looked at me like I was a football hooligan, and I smiled apologetically and scuttled after it to put it in the bin.
What he’d done with the cuts, the detached way he’d slashed a third of our workforce—I couldn’t accept that, no matter how much I wanted to, no matter how much I understood why. It was just too real now that it had happened, and the human fallout was clear.
But he didn’t deserve this.
After the bridge, I cut inland without thinking about it. It took a minute for me to notice where I was.
Chelsea Harbour.
Cranley House sat back from the road, the pale brick already beginning to glow against the early evening. The banners were still up. Final Week.
Was it still open? Inside, the entryway was dark, no one at the front desk, even though the doors were ajar.
“We’re closing in fifteen minutes,” a voice called from the back.
A cleaner shuffled past me pushing a metal bucket on wheels. I hadn’t been here since the launch party for the auction.
Beyond the reception, a few lights were still on. All the exhibits remained on display like they had at the launch, except some of them now had SOLD stickers under them.
Was my piece still here? Maybe Liam had already taken it home.
I walked through the cool halls. Landscapes, abstracts. The occasional portrait. How shit would it feel to see your art there without the red SOLD sticker?
Confirmation nobody wanted it. You weren’t good enough.
Without the guests, the ceilings seemed higher. Had Eliza and I really broken in? It felt like decades ago. There was the side door we’d sneaked in through—the one I’d smashed into the wall.
Eliza hadn’t hesitated when Mum had suggested it. She knew it was crazy, but she’d done it with me anyway.
She’d always had my back.
I walked toward the back of the gallery, my footsteps echoing on the polished floor.
There it was. Lot thirty-eight.
The SOLD sticker sat there under it, next to my name.
Alexandrea L. Jones
Untitled (Held Breath)
Oil and mixed media on canvas
150 × 120 cm
Montclair Prize Winner
Faces of Now Touring Exhibition
This work captures a figure held in motion, alive with contained force.
Jones renders presence through tension rather than expression, allowing the subject’s energy to emerge in what is withheld as much as what is shown.
The result is a portrait that feels watchful, defiant, and charged—poised on the edge of action, its stillness suggesting not absence, but a pause held deliberately, by both subject and hand.
Courtesy of the artist
Private collection
● SOLD
Eliza was eighteen when I’d painted it. She looked so young.
I couldn’t stand it when we fought. But she’d always been there for me, no matter what I did, or what happened. We’d been there for each other.
Held Breath.
Was I talking about her, or me?
I reached out to touch the canvas.
If she left—went to India—how could I look out for her then? She was my little sister. She’d be miles away, and anything could happen at any time. Disasters didn’t consult you first.
Fish fingers, chips, and peas.
That was what I’d made her the day Dad died.
She’d been a child. But so had I. Fifteen.
I hadn’t cried.
“You insist on doing everything, even when people don’t want you to. You always smooth it all over, like nothing can ever be messy.”
Was that what she meant? That I looked for people’s pain and soothed it, so I could avoid looking at my own?
But she’d needed me to. I hadn’t had a choice.
“Provocative, isn’t it?”
I turned.
“Dex!”
What was he doing here?
“Just got back from my trip,” he said, before I asked. “Pieces look different hanging in the gallery, don’t they?”
“Yes,” I said. “Like … they mean more in here, somehow.”
I’d never looked at this piece this way before. Was that because of the gallery, or something else?
“Exactly. And you? What brought you in?”
“I was walking past, and the doors were open,” I said.
“Of course, you’re an artist. I wanted to check this one out one last time, before they take it down. What do you think of it?” He thumbed at the painting.
He didn’t know.
“Did you see it at the exhibition?” I asked.
“Opening night.” He put a hand behind his mouth and stage whispered. “The one where you broke in.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I actually asked Liam to get it for me.”
“You asked Liam … to get you this one?”
“Yes …” He paused. “Well … Bonnie handled it through Roth Holdings—they have an account with a dealer. They buy pieces all the time, and he owed me a favor.”
“Do they?”
Oh. Shit.
“Yes. Apparently, there was quite the bidding war.” Dex glanced at me proudly, then back at the canvas.
So Liam didn’t know.
He hadn’t decided for me, tried to take away the risk. I’d made that assumption, and I’d punished him for it.
Of course Dex didn’t recognize Eliza from the painting … they’d never actually met, not even on the night we’d broken in. It had just been Liam and Ben there.
Dex looked at me again.
“Funny how you were drawn to it, too. I guess I have taste.” He laughed lightly. “It’s one of those pieces that stays with you. Feels like it’s holding something back.”
I nodded.
“Sorry for the wanky art-speak,” he added. “That sounded ridiculous. What do you like about it?”
I painted it.
“The girl,” I said. “She looks fragile, but she’s not. You can see it in her eyes, her posture. But the image is all blurred around her, closing in. Like she’s sitting in a sort of cage that expects her to be a certain way, but you know she’s waiting until she—”
“What?” said Dex. “Don’t keep a guy hanging.”
Until she can live the life she was meant to.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Make her own decisions. Make mistakes. So life feels real, not like someone’s smoothing the edges off without her permission.”
Did I really try to make everything safe all the time?
That was what I’d accused Liam of.
But he hadn’t.
I had.
“I guess you really do know a thing or two about art.”
“Sorry, Dex,” I said. “I’ve got to go.”
*
To: Employee Relations, Novexia
Attention: Bonnie Marchand
I am writing to clarify and correct the statement I submitted regarding my interaction with Mr. Liam Roth on Monday, July 7.
On rereading the document, I recognize that while the factual sequence described is accurate, the emphasis and framing overstated my discomfort and the extent to which I felt my consent or professional autonomy had been compromised.
I want to be clear that my interaction with Mr. Roth was consensual, and that no pressure, inducement, or threat was made, either implicitly or explicitly. My concern at the time arose from uncertainty and anxiety following his formal introduction to the company, not from any conduct on his part.
I regret that my earlier statement may have created an implication of misconduct. That was not my intention, and it does not reflect my considered view.
I am submitting this clarification to ensure the record accurately represents my experience and intent.
Andrea Jones
That was about as clear as I could make it. I hit print.
Then I just had one more thing to do.
*
I pushed open the door to Bonnie’s office, expecting just her, but Gerald was in there, too. They sprang apart, looking at me uncomfortably.
Had they been talking about my letter?
Of course they had. Everyone who needed to know almost certainly did by now.
But the only person whose opinion I cared about was Liam’s, and I knew he’d never forgive me. Not after everything I’d done.
“I’ll just—” Gerald nodded toward the door and adjusted his collar.
“Thank you, Gerald, we’ll … catch up later,” Bonnie said.
He left, and I pushed the paper toward her. She stayed standing, one hand braced on the edge of her desk, reading, her cheeks turning slowly pink. She turned the page over, then laid it on the desk between us.
“This materially changes how the earlier statement reads,” she said, a crease forming between her brows.
“I want the record to be accurate,” I said.
“You’re aware it removes a degree of protection for you?”
“Yes.”