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“You could come and work at the club?” Sandy says. He turns to look at Desmond. “Couldn’t she, babe?”
“Sure, we always need reliable coat-check and bar staff.” Desmond shrugs. “But a drag club is not really where Olivia wants to place herself, is it, hun?”
“Thanks for your kind thoughts. And, you know, I might just take you up on your offer, the way rejections are piling up.” I’m laughing but part of me is comforted by the idea of a way out if things get too much for me at the gallery. “I’m an adult grown-up person in charge of her emotions. I can be mature in the workplace. I’m not saying that I’m expecting anything other than an employee/ employer relationship, but I can say that I don’t hate him anymore.”
“Well, that’s a start, isn’t it?” Sandy says, throwing his arms wide with a theatrical sigh.
“No. The start was on that blinkin bridge in Florence ten years ago,” says Desmond. “This is the… what would we call this?”
“Nothing. This doesn’t have a name,” I say laughing. “There’s nothing going on here apart from he’s my not-so-grumpy billionaire boss. End of.”
“We’ll see,” says Sandy, then after a pause he adds, “And when are we getting our invites to the private view? We haven’t been to one of the gallery’s dos for ages.”
“Ah, yes. About that. This one’s strictly clients only; for people with an interest in, and money to buy, the art and not for drag queens who just want to swan around drinking free Champagne.”
“Oh. Boring! Now, I hate him,” says Desmond in his over-the-top bitchy voice.
I relax back into the comfort of my neighbors’ sofa and enjoy the fuzziness of the wine and friendship on my brain. I had calmed down from the shock of seeing Gianni again. But I still felt uncomfortable being in the same room with him. I would keep looking for another job, so I didn’t have to relive the past. Seeing Gianni reminded me of a golden time we had shared in Florence, but it also alerted me to a younger version of myself who I had completely forgotten about. A feisty fearless teenager who had high hopes and dreams of being an artist.
Chapter 14
Gianni
IleftittoMargot and Olivia to organize the exhibition and they have done a great job. Out of the one hundred and fifty invitations that were sent out, only fifteen responded with a ‘No thank you’. The gallery team is frantic, but in a good way. They have put together a sales kit with press releases in the lead-up to the event. There’s a printed glossy-page catalogue which is also accessible on the website. Each art piece occupies a page comprising of a photo and its provenance, as well as some information about the artist and social history.
I have purposely stepped back from the spotlight, allowing the staff to field questions about the collection. Although my absence from media has attracted more interest than if I had presented myself front and center. And it’s not only arts-related journalists who are getting in touch.
According to reports, I am an eligible bachelor of royal descent. A prince charming on the lookout for a bride. This sort of story is nonsense, of course. Yes, I understand that gossip sells magazines. I try to steer clear, but in my world, gossip media is an unwelcome reality. I am not looking for Miss Right. But I am sure that when the perfect woman enters my life, I will just know. Until then, I am a happy single dad with a thriving billion-dollar business.
I arrive at the gallery early. Nigel and Davis are already here. They each have a catalog open and are discussing which art pieces will interest which clients.
“Good evening, Mr Moretti,” says Nigel, a smile masking his nervousness. “It’s going to be a great night.”
“Yes, gentlemen. I think we have done a good job in presenting the work in its best light.” I allow my gaze to wander, taking in the artwork surrounding me. I’m pleased with the way it looks. “All we can do now is make things as easy and convenient as possible for the buyers.”
The sales team nods with confidence, but as soon as I turn away, I sense the return of tension.
Catering staff are placed on either side of the door with a tray of champagne flutes ready to welcome guests. I check the time and then go through to the office where more catering staff are arranging canapés on trays. Opera music by Verdi plays over the gallery sound system which suits the mood of the exhibits. It’s lush and romantic and instantly transports me to Italy. I’m lost in thought, listening to the music when I notice the glow of a laptop screen in the corner of the dimly lit office. It’s only Olivia.
“Good evening, Mr Moretti,” she says, looking up. The light from the screen is reflected in the lenses of her glasses.
“Ah, Olivia. It’s you.” Olivia closes her laptop as I approach and stands up.
“Are you ready to receive our guests?”
“Yes sir. I was just doing some last-minute research about the collection.”
“Good, good.” I hear voices in the gallery space. The first of the potential buyers, I assume. “You and Margot have done a great job putting this event together, so thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I hope it goes well.” I step aside as Olivia ducks past me to the gallery without making eye contact.
“I’m sure it will.” As Olivia sidles out something about her triggers a memory. I shake it away and follow her into the fast-filling exhibition space.
Client chat fills the room, overpowering the background music. I hear snippets of conversation as I walk to the front of the gallery to greet the guests coming in. ‘Exceptional’ and ‘noteworthy’ and ‘important’ and ‘influential’ and ‘unprecedented’ are some of the words that hang in the air.
“Mr Moretti! It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Mrs Peabody. I believe we spoke on the phone.”
Mrs Peabody of the Peabody Foundation is one of our A-listers I hadn’t had the opportunity to meet yet. I was hoping she would be here tonight. Not only is she an avid collector of art, but she is also hugely influential in art-buying circles. Rumors abound of her being a fashion model in New York in the eighties. Her roommates were Madonna and Grace Jones at one time, so I’m told.
