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“Her father would have liked her to do something a bit more practical for a degree,” she said, “but he was gone by then, and I was glad Beth decided to do something she loved.”
But her eyes had darkened at the mention of my father, and immediately the mood in the room became sombre despite all the bright sunlight streaming in the large window.
“I never told you about my degree,” I said lightly to Marco, trying to distract Mom.
“Maybe I looked you up,” he joked.
We made chitchat until Mom’s mood brightened, and she joined in the conversation. Marco kept her busy by asking her all about her favourite hobbies and interests.
Shortly before lunchtime, Bernie bustled in, ready to take charge of Mom’s feeding time. We helped her set up a table that could swing over the bed so that Mom could help Bernie with the jigsaw puzzle Bernie had brought. This was something they enjoyed doing at home.
I gave Bernie a grateful kiss, and we left them to it, my stomach already growling, ready for lunch.
We had gourmet duck and waffles by the river, and then Marco drove me to his mystery gallery. I had expected him to take me to the Tate maybe, or one of the many other well-known galleries in Central London, but to my surprise he drove out east towards Shoreditch.
We entered a large warehouse that he told me had been converted into a commune, and were greeted by a couple of the artists who lived and worked there. By the time we entered their workshop spaces, I was bouncing in excitement.
There were sections with woodwork and metalwork sculptures, paintings made entirely of pigments sourced from their gardens, experiments with epoxy resin moulds and enormous poured paintings, and artwork made entirely of words. Quilting and knitting and lacemaking and glass blowing too, each artist lovingly tending to their current pieces.
Both my heart and mind were racing within minutes, questions pouring out of my mouth, nowhere near as fast as they were popping into my head.
I wanted to know about their techniques, how they had come to live in this place, who funded them, how they all collaborated together. Where they had sourced their materials. Did they take commissions? Who were their buyers?
This was what I had thought I would be doing when I left my fine art degree. I had never desired to paint oil masterpieces. Making things with my hands had always been my passion. One that I had exercised so little these past few years.
I left Marco behind, enraptured by the conversation of my fellow artists. He happily trailed behind us, selecting pieces to gift to his mother or hang in his businesses.
By the time we left hours later, my mind was abuzz with all I had learned.
“I wish I could clone me, so that we could experiment with all the things we want to try,” I said to him wistfully as he drove us home.
“Maybe I can help you with that.” He winked. “But not the cloning part. One of you is all I can handle.”
I poked him. “You don’t deserve two of me. You’ll have to make do with one.”
He threw back his head and laughed, a sound full of ease and pleasure, as if he’d had as wonderful a day as I had.
And he was as good as his word. In the days that came, I had worried about being bored now that I no longer had my work and Marco was returning to full-time meetings during the day.
He’d told me I could leave the house whenever I wanted so long as one of his security team went with me. I had determined to spend all of my time updating my CV and trying to get job interviews.
But it turned out that Marco had already booked appointments for me with various arts influencers that his staff had looked up online.
At first I was a little put off by his high-handed manner. But as soon as I expressed this, he offered to cancel the appointments immediately.
By this point, I’d taken a look at the list of people he’d selected, and realised several of them were artists I loved following on Instagram.
“No need to cancel,” I said hurriedly. “Thank you, Marco. I’d love to talk to all of them, actually.”
I would never have had the nerve to approach them directly myself.
And so my days were spent happily speaking to artists on Skype or meeting them in the city, chatting about the work they did and how they had built their various businesses, learning not only craft techniques, but all sorts of practical things like how to set up online stores, how to build audiences, things I’d never had time to even consider in my hectic life before.
And I visited Mom every day, telling her of all I had learned, of all the skills that I was practising, watching her eyes light up at my enthusiasm. Especially after I confessed to her that I would never be going back to my job at Bordello.
“Darling, this is so wonderful. I could see that Marco made you happy, but to see you becoming everything you wanted to be—my heart is so full!”
Excited chatter about all my plans made the time pass so much more easily in her often-painful physiotherapy sessions. Mom may have lost the function of her limbs, but she still experienced phantom pain in them.
