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“I’m not suggesting anything of the sort. All I’m saying is when Gianni has a… how do you say it, a bee in his hat?”
“Bonnet.”
“Exactly. A bee in his bonnet. He can be determined to swat the bee.” Piero raises his eyebrows. The whole image of Gianni in a bonnet, running around with a fly swatter, brings a stray smile to my lips.
“If you’re trying to warn me that Gianni won’t let the stock matter drop, there’s no need. He’s made it perfectly clear exactly what he thinks of me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know he can be hostile. You pointed this out yourself, but I’m finding him very intimidating.” Piero pauses. His eyes leave me for a second as his hand slips from the chair, his fingers running through his hair as if pushing an imaginary strand from his face.
“It isn’t just you. He is like this with everybody.”
“I’m not saying it’s just me. But I can speak for myself when I say it makes me feel undervalued.” I must be careful. I can’t come straight out and admit to overhearing them talk and that I know Gianni wants to be rid of me for some secret reason. But the opportunity to voice my opinion about him is too good to miss.
“Please, don’t feel this way. You are all valued more than you think.”Yeah right!This, of course, wasn’t his opinion two weeks ago.
“It’s not good for staff morale. That’s all I’m saying.” I fold my arms. The quiver in my stomach hasn’t abated and is only worsening the longer Gianni is the topic of conversation.
“Between me and you,” Piero begins, his body dropping, his head lolling as an uncharacteristic sadness drapes over him. “Gianni is a troubled man.”
I study Piero, not doubting this for one second. It is blindingly obvious that the guy has the classic tragic-past syndrome, but cold creeps in as Piero’s happy, smiley face turns gray and pallid, a look that doesn’t suit him at all. I heave a sigh, knowing that to probe further would be rude even though my head is crying out to know more. Troubled in what way? Was he abused as a child? Had he been bullied in his childhood? Or was it something much simpler? An illness, a disease he is plagued with that’s slowly eating him alive? I shake my head, the thoughts all getting jumbled. But Piero isn’t about to elaborate any further.
“I gathered as much.”
“I’m not making excuses, but it isn’t easy for him.” What isn’t easy for him? Smiling, being polite? “He’s had a rough time.” Piero’s voice is so slight I barely catch his last comment.
“Haven’t we all?” I wonder how rough things have to get before you stop functioning like a normal human being. My own troubles are not plastered all over my face. If anything, they have made me more determined to enjoy the smaller things in life.
The silence is broken as Louise clatters through the office door pushing a bucket with her feet as she holds a mop handle in both hands, blowing her hair from in front of her face. She seems oblivious to us as she continues to shuffle into the shop, humming a dance song as Piero turns and gives me one last smile before he retreats into his office.
I admire my paintings one more time. When will Mathew Skinner call me to let me know that four of my paintings have sold? Does he still have the remaining two paintings in his shop? The four are of a series of six, and I’m disheartened they have been split up, but there are only four spaces in the shop. Gianni wouldn’t have needed the other two, and the price was too much to spend on two paintings he would have nowhere to hang.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t picture Gianni in the little framing shop seeking my artwork. He must have been listening when I talked to him outside, and he’d taken my sketchbook from me. Has his initial opinion of me changed? Is he still out to sack me, even with my art hanging on the walls? I am so confused my head hurts, wondering why, above anything else, I’m so bothered by his opinion of me and am striving for the admiration of someone who clearly hates me.
ChapterSeven
The air is sweet when I step out the back door of the coffee shop. The morning is crisp, and dew coats everything from the large industrial bins to the weeds growing through the cracked paving slabs. The back of the shop is no oil painting, but it will suffice. I need fresh air to invigorate me. My skin feels tight, and my pores feel blocked after a busy morning behind the counter. I’ve left Casey in the shop with a new table clearer who was employed last week. His name is Chris, and he is also a student. I thought Casey would have made a little more effort to get to know him, seeing as they have something in common, but as it stands, she has yet to acknowledge his presence.
I’d told her I needed five minutes, to which she’d rolled her eyes. At that point, I had seriously considered taking up smoking since taking a cigarette break is never met with such disdain.
There is one unopened voicemail on my phone. I’d spotted this on my day off but hadn’t listened to it. I now know Mathew Skinner from the framing shop had called to tell me the good news. I don’t bother listening to the entire message. Instead, I erase it and call him.
He answers on the third ring, his deep mellow voice sounding as old as his shop.
“Hey, Mr. Skinner, it’s Chloe Daniels here. I’m calling about the message you left on my phone,” I announce.
“Hi there, Chloe. How are you doing?”
“I’m great, thank you. All the better for hearing the good news.”
“I know, isn’t it wonderful? I told you they would sell. They simply needed the right buyer.”
“I still can’t quite believe it.” I take in a deep breath. “And the weirdest thing of all is my boss has bought them to hang in the shop where I work.”
“Well, fancy that,” Mr. Skinner exclaims. “Your boss was quiet, but I know an art lover when I see one. He took all six away with him, didn’t want to hear about delivery options,” Mathew explains.
“All six?”
