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But she was already gone.
“You should go with your gut, Laura,” Jack says now.
I nod. “Exactly. That’s what I’m going to do. Go with my gut.”
SIX
I don’t really have a gut, not in that way. And if I had one, I left it at the door in the end. I’m too much of a coward.
It’s Monday. I feel the way I used to when I was not much older than Charlie: the gentle loveliness of the weekend turning heavy and gray on Sunday afternoon, then the Monday morning rise, the prospect of five whole days to get through before the delicious Friday afternoon release.
Up to the moment when I reached the door of the gallery, I’d successfully fought off my anxiety. We’d had a lovely weekend, then last night Charlie went to bed early, giddy with joy at the prospect of her mother’s visit, which made me marvel again at the easy forgiveness of children. Children don’t bear grudges. They get upset, and then they forget. Which sure is lucky for Bronwyn, although as I keep telling her in the privacy of my own head,Just wait till she’s a teenager, Bronwyn.
After Charlie went to bed, Jack cooked us dinner—a rarity these days—of spaghetti carbonara that we washed with a bottle of Chianti as he told me about his plans, which were essentially the same plans as last time. Apply for more jobs, obviously, but how about starting his own consultancy again? “Consultants get paid a mint to write reports. That’s where the money is, Laura. With my background I could charge five hundred bucks an hour. Easy.”
I held in my sigh as he talked of scouting some office space and I agreed that it was a great idea, while wondering silently where we would find the money to get us through that particular brainwave. At one point there was a lull in the conversation while he opened another bottle of wine, and I plunged into it, grasped the opportunity with both hands and brought up our wedding, I don’t know why I did that. Actually, that’s not true. We were having a nice time, I was wearing the necklace he bought me when we first got together, fingering the chain, the dangling emerald. “I’ve trimmed the fat every place I found!” I said. “Our wedding is a lean, mean machine, baby! At this rate we’ll get married in the public toilets at Matthews Beach, they’re nice enough, right? And our guests will drink straight from the tap at the basins and my train will be made out of those big long rolls of toilet paper. And all courtesy of the City!” I laughed. I sounded like I was braying, I put it down to the wine. He kind of laughed too, although not really, more of a distracted chuckle.
“Joking aside,” I said, in case he’d hoped I’d been sincere, “We have a meeting coming up at Sodo Park, remember? So many things to finalize, like the menu, the wines, the band. Of course, we don’t need a band. We could get someone to DJ for us, like Mike, would Mike be up for a bit of DJing, do you think? We should ask him! Will you ask him, darling? It’s getting so close!” It might be a low-key, small-scale, turn-key wedding where everything comes in the one package and you don’t have to hire outside vendors, but there are still decisions to be made. Plated or buffet? Custom cake or off-the-shelf?
I waited, my chin resting on the heel of my hand while he smiled, poured us another glass, but he didn’t say anything, just twirled a few strands of spaghetti onto his fork, and I knew I’d nudged us onto shaky ground, so I retreated, changed the subject, looped back to the consulting company idea. It’s hard talking about our wedding when we have money problems. Of course, it wasn’t supposed to be this way. When we planned our small, intimate, very reasonably priced wedding, we didn’t have money problems. Or if we did, we didn’t think it would last.
* * *
Monday afternoon. I interview other two candidates for the position. The first one is not right so he doesn’t rate a mention, but the next candidate is perfect. Her name is Janet, and she’s a lovely woman in her early thirties who went back to college to become an arts administrator now that her kids were at school. She’s tall, thin, with short blond hair. I like her maturity, her approach to getting things done. She loves the arts and wants to work in that world by bringing her best strengths to it: her outstanding organizational skills. We get on instantly and when she leaves, I immediately tell Bruno I’ve found someone.
“Really? So…not Summer?”
I noticed on Friday the way he looked at Summer, with a serious appreciation, the way he might hold up a fine wine or examine a work of art. And more interestingly, even as I did all I couldnotto look at Summer that day, I caught the way she smiled coyly at him before looking down at her hands.
“I like Janet,” I say to Bruno, and I explain why.
“Of course, it’s up to you, Laura.”
“Yes, thank you. I’m going to go with Janet, then.”
And then, Summer calls.
“I wondered whether you’d made a decision,” she asks in her sweet voice, and my stomach does a little twist. Only a small one, barely a quarter pretzel. I picture her in my mind’s eye coming to the door of the gallery that morning and seeing it open, noticing the bolt sticking out, although she never said whether she did or not. Then I see myself hacking at that lock, a metal nail file in one hand and a hammer in other, and looking up to see Summer standing there, watching me. Was she smiling? I think she was smiling. And every time I think of that moment, the realization that she was there, I want to curl up on my side and die of shame. But she never said a thing about that either, and I think to myself,Is it possible she didn’t see what I was doing?How could she not see? Of course she saw. She just hasn’t said anything. Yet.
And just like that, I tell myself that I’m doing it for Bruno because of what I’ve put him through, even if he doesn’t know it, and because he transferred the money I asked for into my account, and because he’ll be pleased when I tell him I chose Summer, after all.I’ll do it to make Bruno happy, I tell myself.
“I’m so glad you called, Summer. I’m delighted to offer you the position.” And she squeals with joy, and says she can’t wait to get started and that I won’t regret it.
Bruno is surprised, but visibly pleased, when I tell him I’ve changed my mind.
“Good. She is very decorative,” he says in his French accent and I’m not sure if I’ve heard him right, but I catch Gavin rolling his eyes so I figure I must have.
“She really is the best candidate,” I say. “She has all the right qualities.”
And already as I return to the main gallery, I feel the weight of regret, like a stone in my stomach, knowing that every time I see her I will be reminded of that moment when I saw her watching me, and I wish I hadn’t offered her the job.
SEVEN
This morning, Bruno has decided to have a work meeting before we open. This is the first time we’ve done this, but it’s fair enough, he wants Gavin to do a handover.
I used to call him Mr. Mallet when I first started, “Call me Bruno,” he’d said as he showed me around the gallery—a pretty quick tour, obviously—and he put his hand on the small of my back when he said it and I felt a frisson down my spine even though he was sixty with gray hair and skin that was beginning to sag around the jowls. Now as he leads Summer to the storeroom, he’s doing the same to her and Summer smiles, delighted, girlish.
“Summer, welcome to the team,” Bruno begins. She flashes him a sunny smile.
