I bristle, but don’t react, though I’m aware of a familiar shame sliding through me.
* * *
We get to the gallery an hour after it opens its doors. I’ve deliberately made us fashionably late in the hope we’ll miss the photographers – not that I think Juno would recognise it as such. As she’s come to discover, I’m a terrible timekeeper.
Juno smiles at me as we step inside, giving my hand a squeeze, and we make our way through the throng of people standing around chatting and clutching flutes of champagne.
I smile back at her, marvelling at how well she fits in with this crowd. She’s wearing a simple but elegant forest-green slip dress, which she bought on one of our excursions a couple of days ago, and she’s pulled her hair into a loose knot on the top of her head with her fringe clipped up away from her eyes for once.
She’s not hiding here tonight and is actually making eye contact with the other guests. I know how hard she finds it to socialise with people she doesn’t know, so this behaviour both surprises and gratifies me. She’s doing it for me. I know she is.
We tour the gallery, looking at the art and making small talk with one or two of the other people there who are doing the same thing.
‘There’s the gallery owner,’ Juno whispers into my ear a few minutes later, nodding first at the information programme she picked up at the door, then towards a lean, balding man who is holding court in one corner of the room.
I feel a tightening sensation in my chest.
‘Yeah, I see him,’ I mutter, but don’t make a move that way, and I can’t look at her in case I see disappointment in her eyes. I really can’t handle that right now. But this isn’t the right time to try and push for an exhibition of my work. I need more time to prepare.
‘I’m going to find the ladies’ bathroom. Back in a mo,’ she says, handing me her glass to hold and striding stiffly away.
I watch her go, frustration swirling in my gut, then turn to scope out the room to distract myself from the gnawing feeling of guilt that joins it, smiling at the women who turn to look at me.
For the first time in my life, their interest leaves me cold.
* * *
Juno
I walk up to the gallery owner with my heart in my throat. I so desperately want this to go well, but I’m afraid of making a mess of it and consequently making Sandro angry. But I have to do it. It would be an absolute travesty for his talent to go to waste. For him to let his father’s prejudice get in the way of what could be a really successful future as a professional sculptor. He just needs a break – for someone to give him an opportunity to prove himself – and, after that, I know he’ll fly.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the guy, who is surrounded by a throng of arty types, all crowded round listening to him talk.
He turns to look at me and my stomach gives a horrible swoop of nerves. If this doesn’t work, Sandro’s going to be furious with me. But it will work, I tell myself. It has to.
‘It’s a beautiful gallery you have here,’ I say with a smile. ‘Juno Darlington-Hume,’ I add when he gives me a perplexed look. ‘I’m here with Sandro Ricci. I’m his manager.’
He nods, clearly recognising the name. ‘Have you seen Sandro’s sculptures?’ I ask, bringing my phone out of my pocket and opening the video app where I’ve stored some short videos that I took of the sculptures when Sandro was taking a shower.
‘I didn’t know he sculpts,’ the owner says, bending to take a look at my screen.
‘He’s really good,’ I say, ‘And he’s looking for somewhere to exhibit them.’
The guy nods and takes my phone from me, peering down at the video of my favourite sculpture, then clicking through to look at more of them.
I hold my breath as I wait for his reaction, crossing my fingers and praying for good news.
‘These are very interesting. I’d like to see them. Give me a ring next week and we’ll set up a meeting,’ he says, handing me a business card.
My hand shakes as I take the card. ‘Thank you. We’ll do that.’
I walk back to where Sandro is standing, my legs wobbly with relief. He watches me approach with a dark expression on his face.
My throat tightens with tension. I’m worried he’ll be offended that I took such liberties with his work and I give a small cough before speaking. ‘I showed him your sculptures, pretending that I was your manager. He wants to see them.’ I hold up the card I’ve been given. ‘He said to call him next week to make an appointment.’
My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for his response. He’s frowning at me as if he can’t believe I’d had the nerve to do that.
‘You showed them to him without my permission?’ The fury in his voice makes me quake.
