‘Did you pack anything posh?’
‘I’m not a complete idiot.’
Although I’ve opted for scruffs for the journey, I’ve packed a selection of Harrods dresses for New York. On more than one occasion, I’d been on the verge of carting the whole lot off to a charity shop, but now I’m glad I never got round to it. I need to look the part for the next couple of days, but as soon as this trip’s over, they’re all off to help out a good cause.
‘You’d better make an effort for the exhibition,’ she warns me. ‘I’ll do your make-up.’
‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘Did you bring jewellery?’
‘Yes.’
But not the sweet pea necklace. That was carefully packed and despatched back to Lambeth three days ago. Despite the fact he told me to keep it, I had some clearing out to do.
‘Right then.’ Lucy claps her hands. ‘Let’s get this show on the road. See you in a bit.’
We go our separate ways. I take a shower, pull a brush through my hair and dry it off before emptying out my suitcase, choosing a simple black dress for the night and opting for stockings underneath. The usual bare minimum of make-up completes the preparations, along with the Yorkshire jet earrings. I’m examining myself in the mirror, thinking of how I wore the very same earrings on my first date with Dan, when Lucy bursts into my room.
‘Are you ready? Gordon’s downstairs in the lobby, waiting for us.’
‘Yes. All ready.’
Grabbing a clutch bag and my coat, I follow Lucy to the lift, noting that underneath her coat, she’s squeezed into a purple cocktail dress.
‘This is going to be a brilliant night,’ she says. ‘I can feel it in my water.’
‘I bet you can.’
I wish I could feel it too, but I’m as frozen as the streets outside. Despite spending an entire week in a slough of self-pity, I haven’t moved on an inch. When all’s said and done, I’m still imprisoned by shock, simply going through the motions. The door slides open onto the lobby where Gordon’s waiting for us at the reception desk.
‘Good evening, ladies. Looking delicious.’
‘Thank you,’ Lucy giggles. ‘You too.’
He lifts an eyebrow.
‘Ready for your big moment, Maya?’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’
I follow Gordon out into the night. Another ride in the black limousine through snow-lined streets brings us to the gallery. Glowing with warmth and light in contrast to the dark avenue, a glass frontage stretches out before us. It’s busy inside. Very busy. My pulse trips while my brain enters meltdown mode. I’ve been through this before, at Slaters, but it’s different this time, on another level entirely. Taking a few deep breaths, I remind myself that I can do this. I can cope.
It only takes a couple of minutes to extract ourselves from the car and make it into the building, but by the time I’m inside, I’m already half frozen.
‘Fuck,’ I gasp, forgetting myself for a moment. I shake off my coat into an attendant’s hands, straighten out my dress and scan the room, only to discover I’m surrounded by very arty types … and they’re all staring at me. A great start. ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ Gordon touches me on the back. ‘This is Maya Scotton, everyone.’
Still shivering, I’m guided through the crowd, introduced to one important person after another, asked repeatedly if I’ve had a pleasant journey. At last, I’m set free and I move on, taking in the space around me. It’s ultra-swish: marble floors and plain white walls, adorned with a sea of canvases depicting naked bodies in one pose or another. I examine them all, one after the other, and at last I come to the triptych. It’s spread out in its own area, spaced and lit to perfection. Several groups are standing in front of it, deep in conversation, motioning to it every now and then. Uncomfortable with the world scrutinizing my innermost thoughts, I falter. But I’m quickly recognised, thrust into a mad whirlwind of conversation, and questioned about my work. It’s a thoroughly awkward experience, and I’m amazed I manage to keep control of my answers. Yes, it’s a personal exploration of preferences. The man in the middle? No one in particular. Indulging in a little deflection, I bring the conversations back to the mechanics of painting, explaining how I wanted to tie the three canvases together, giving only the briefest over-view of what I was trying to explore. It seems to keep them content.
I decline a glass of wine, opting for juice instead. Lucy appears by my side.
‘I’m knackered,’ I chunter. ‘This is relentless.’
‘Don’t worry. You’re doing brilliantly. They’re loving you. Just take a look around.’
She waves at the gallery, and I see her point. Most of the guests seem to have gravitated towards my canvases.
‘You deserve this, Maya.’
‘Thank you,’ I say quietly. ‘You know, if Dan’s done nothing else for me, he got me here. He was a catalyst. He got me painting again … and believing.’
‘In what?’
‘Myself.’
‘Now, don’t get big-headed.’
We smile at each other.
‘Well, here’s to Mr Mean and Hot and Moody.’ I raise my glass, and so does Lucy. ‘He may have screwed me over, but he also flicked the switch.’
‘Ah, here’s the artist,’ Gordon announces, approaching me with an extremely hip and trendy woman on his arm. Squeezed into a tight tartan dress, she’s all tiny fringe and bright red lipstick and supreme self-possession, the polar opposite of me.
‘May I introduce Mindy Summers? She’s going to interview you.’
Oh shit.
‘Okay.’
I sense a knot of unease in my stomach and it’s nothing to do with Mindy Summers or the impending interrogation. There’s
