‘I want her fired! If you don’t fire her right away, I’ll make sure this inconsequential little outfit never trades again. I’ll sue you for every penny you own for sabotaging my career before it has even begun!’
‘Mr Benson, there’s no need to …’ began James, holding up his palms to pacify the young artist’s mounting rage.
‘Do it! Do it now! Or I go out there and give an immediate press conference. The paparazzi will be just gagging for something like this.’
Jaxx Benson stood facing James, with his legs apart, his hands on his hips, and a challenge etched across his expression. A wave of nausea whipped through Evie’s abdomen and tears threatened to gather on her lashes. But she knew what she had to do. There was no other alternative.
‘It’s okay, James. Mr Benson, please believe me, I have no idea how this happened and I’m so, so sorry. You have every right to be angry.’
‘Evie, don’t …’ interrupted James, taking a step towards her.
‘No. What has happened is completely my fault and for that I have no alternative but to offer my resignation. There is no need for Mr Benson to give his threatened statement to the press. Perhaps you can begin to rectify the situation by exchanging the canvases and moving on with the rest of the evening. I hope if you explain that what has happened was totally my error, and that I have stepped down from my position with immediate effect, then if not the opening night, the rest of the exhibition can be salvaged.’
‘Evie, you don’t have to …’
‘Yes, she does,’ said Jaxx’s agent, a beanpole-thin man in a tightly fitted Savile Row suit, sporting a bouffant hairstyle, which he patted sporadically as he spoke. ‘It’s the only solution. Perhaps if Ms Johnson were to leave the premises this unfortunate situation can be defused and we can get on with the point of the evening, which is to sell as many of Jaxx’s canvases as possible?’
Evie stared at the man and could swear she saw pound signs rolling round his eyes like a rampant fruit machine. Clearly his fifteen per cent was at risk. She offered James a tight smile.
‘I’ll leave straight away.’
She turned on her stilettos and made for the door. As she wrenched it open she came face to face with a pale-faced Pippa who had been loitering just outside.
‘You can’t resign, Evie! You love it here. It’s your dream job. And there’s no way I can run the gallery without you – and, more to the point, I don’t want to. Please, go back in there and grovel, do whatever you have to do, just don’t go!’
‘I don’t have a choice, Pip. If you listened in on the whole conversation, you will have heard Jaxx threatened to sue, to close down the gallery, to damage Bradbury’s reputation. I can’t do that to James – but most of all, I can’t do that to Esme’s memory and all the struggling artists who rely on her generosity to display their work here. I can’t have that on my conscience. I have to get out of here before I bite someone’s head off, but I’ll call you tomorrow.’
Evie strode with as much dignity as she could muster to collect her handbag and make her way to the rear exit where she slipped out – unnoticed by the animated throng – from the gallery that had been her whole world for the last two years. Devastation, mortification, and anger gnawed at her abdomen in equal measures and she rued the fact that the compassionate director of her biopic was clearly missing in action that evening.
The meteorological gods had delivered on the earlier threat of rain and within minutes Evie was drenched as she dashed to the nearest Tube station. On the platform, the cool breeze from the oncoming train swept over her and the material of her dress stuck uncomfortably to her skin, causing a cascade of goose pimples to zip down her spine. She shivered as she stepped into the last carriage, spotted a vacant seat, and slumped into it, fighting the urge to scream at the unfairness of life.
She had lost her job! What had she done to deserve that?
She couldn’t get the events that had played out in James Bradbury’s office out of her mind. Who was responsible for the inopportune arrival of the rogue canvas? Who did it belong to? Why had it been delivered to the gallery just minutes before Jaxx Benson’s big opening splash? Why hadn’t she made more of the fact that this painting was so much more accomplished than the rest? And in those circumstances, why hadn’t it occurred to her at the time to query its provenance?
As the Tube whooshed its way through the underground tunnels, it was as though these questions were on permanent repeat, torturing her until she gave them airplay. But she had no answers. Her brain produced a kaleidoscope of theories, each one more incomprehensible than the last. Her emotions were out of control and she was exhausted, yet she made a promise to herself that she would not rest until the full facts had been uncovered and she gave the culprit a piece of her mind.
Her initial flare-up of barely controlled anger seeped from her veins and for the first time, Evie paused to consider her neighbouring passengers. Even at that late hour, the train was filled with grey, miserable city workers too caught up in their own existence to notice or care about a fellow commuter’s anguish, too insulated in their personal bubbles, lost in contemplation of what next week’s struggle at the coalface of their ambitions had in store. Each and every one of them had stress written across their faces. Why were they subjecting themselves to such continual torment in their banks, law firms, and accountancy offices?
Yet she knew the answer. She was one of them, after all – a fully paid-up member of the Workaholics Anonymous Club. Their careers were their lives and vice versa. Sure, she had heard people spout about the work/life balance mantra, but she thought of it only as something others aspired to, others lucky enough to live outside the workaholic bubble. For how could any of them even contemplate stepping off the eternal treadmill of goals, deadlines, targets, and achievements when there was always someone breathing down their necks willing to take their place?
And so it was for her. Two years ago, after one of the most mortifying episodes of her life, she had fled from her comfortable life in her parents’ home in Cornwall and moved to London. Well, she hadn’t had much choice if she wanted to hold her head up in public. Having to pay the rent meant she had to shelve her long-held dream of becoming a commercially successful artist and pursue a more financially secure career as a gallery manager.
She was aware how fortunate she was to have landed her job at James Bradbury Art. It was a prestigious position, one coveted by many. But she had to admit that the last few months organizing Jaxx Benson’s debut exhibition had taken its toll.
She was exhausted and the only way to get through her daily responsibilities was to overdose on caffeine. She would start each morning with optimism – and a frothy cappuccino from the irritatingly cheerful Tom at the Costa next door to the gallery – telling herself that today would be different, that she would sail through to the end of day without needing any other crutch. But by ten a.m. she had already sent out for a latte before moving on to the hard stuff when, looking at the prospect of a lunch break in the rear-view mirror, she had to order a double espresso as the only way to function beyond her natural effectiveness.
Unfortunately, her caffeine addiction meant that when she did eventually arrive home she had so much adrenalin coursing through her veins that she couldn’t sleep. She had to resort to surrounding herself with lavender, dosing up with herbal remedies, camomile tea, lettuce sandwiches, and trialling increasingly bizarre theories for getting the optimal seven hours of sleep before repeating the whole process again to ensure she achieved her daily dose of ‘job satisfaction/career progression’ at the expense of contentment, friendships, and relationships.
She knew her parents would be horrified if they realized what her life was like. But how could she tell them that it was imperative to be busy; that in the