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“Of course, Sir,” I whispered back. I accepted the decision as long as he didn’t veto everything I created. I wanted the accolade of selling my stuff, not just exhibiting it.
My small team had gathered for a coffee break, and I led Jason to meet them.
“Hello, Mina.” Jason nodded and smiled warmly.
“Jason, nice to see you.” Mina always called him by his first name. A rarity for Jason, since he preferred formality with casual acquaintances. Mina had the attitude of many working class people: we are all equal. Jason didn’t appear to mind, because she maintained respect through her words and mannerisms.
“Tea?” she asked.
“No, thank you.”
I introduced the other two men. “Nicholas and Malcolm.”
On paper, Jason already knew them well. He’d seen their life stories based on the details the private investigators had dug up.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Lucas.” Nicholas shook my husband’s hand for perhaps too long. The young man did everything with unabated relish. I envied him his youthful exuberance.
Dressed in grubby overalls, Malcolm had been battling with yet another leak in the toilet. Having functioning toilet facilities was somewhat critical to the opening. I’d been amazed how much extra stress plumbing could create when other worries weighed me down.
“Done well, your missus, with all this.” Malcolm spoke with a strong East London accent.
“Yes, she has,” said Jason in a neutral tone, his accent pure, untainted by any known dialect.
“I’ve got a good team,” I added.
I suppressed a smirk, imagining how Jason saw my motley crew. The colourful gallery manager with her stunningly braided hair, the dapper graduate with a freckled face that still showed signs of acne and a handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket, and, finally, the balding handyman in his stained boiler suit.
With the exception of Mina, they probably didn’t know my husband was incredibly wealthy. Yes, I had money, the kind of stash enabling me to open a gallery without the aid of banks or investors, but my few millions paled in comparison to Jason’s billion.
Malcolm chomped on his biscuit, watching the two bodyguards—one Jason’s driver, the other assigned to protect me—stroll about, peering at the artwork and pointing at the price tags.
“First customers?” Malcolm gestured towards the two protection officers.
“I’m paying them too much if they are.” Jason broke into a brief grin.
“Your friends then,” concluded Malcolm, before swigging a mouthful of tea.
“They go where I go, so to speak.” Jason caught my eye and transmitted a barely perceivable glare of annoyance. “You haven’t introduced them to Gibson? How remiss of you, Gemma. Allow me.”
I gritted my teeth. He was making a point—I should take my protection seriously and ensure those about me knew why I was watched. Jason’s proxy eyes following me about at all times.
Jason called Gibson over. “Gibson, you should meet Mrs Lucas’s staff.”
“Hello,” said Gibson, standing on the fringe of the gathering with slightly pink cheeks.
She knew my colleagues by appearance, and Mina she’d driven a few times, but she’d observed them from outside the gallery. Sometimes, when the weather was nice, she sat upon a bench, other times the driver’s seat of the car. I glanced away from her smiling face and felt ashamed at my treatment of her. I’d always considered bodyguard duties tedious and uneventful, but I hadn’t exactly made it easier for her.
Nicholas and Malcolm waited for an explanation—friend or what?
I cleared my throat, unclenching my tense jaw. “Gibson is my protection officer,” I announced, attempting to temper the spreading blush on my cheeks.
“Bodyguard.” Malcolm’s eyes seemed to pop out of his face, and he turned to Gibson. “Wow. Do you run alongside cars like for the president?”
Gibson took his naïve question in stride. “In London? Walking pace would do for the most part, don’t you think?” said Gibson, referring to the notorious traffic jams we frequently got stuck in. “No. I just drive.”
“You’ll be seeing plenty of Gibson,” I explained, “or her alternatives. She likes strong black coffee and jaffa cakes. So, Mina, please keep them in stock.”
Gibson’s face brightened into a beaming smile. My beleaguered bodyguard wouldn’t be sitting on a bench any longer. Instead, she would have a comfortable chair by the doorway, where she could watch people come and go while I was in residence. She stepped away.
