Sunshine After the Rain: a feel good, laugh-out-loud romance

‘Explain what though? Do you even know what has just happened?’

‘No, but …’

‘Then what are you going to say in there? Trust me. You’ll be walking into a war zone. Did you see Jaxx Benson’s face? He was furious! Give James a chance to calm him down and find out what’s going on first. It’s just an unfortunate mix-up that could have happened in any busy gallery. That canvas must have been for the Garth Maddox exhibition next month. We both thought it was painted in a completely different style to the others in the Twisted Infinity collection, didn’t we?’

‘But it’s my fault, Pip, not James’s. I’ve got to go and apologize.’

Before Pippa could stop her, she sidestepped the milling crowd – most of whom were contemplating the canvas that had attracted such a reaction in a fresh light – took a deep breath, and pushed open the door into the office.

All eyes swung towards her. Her knees weakened and when she attempted to calm the raging cauldron of emotions whipping through her body, she felt light-headed. Her heart hammered against her ribcage in objection to her suppression of the fight-or-flight instinct and a large pebble-like object had become lodged in her throat. After a few seconds of silence, she managed to find her voice, but it sounded alien to her ears.

‘Mr Benson, please accept my …’

‘I have never been so humiliated in my life. Have you any idea how important this exhibition is to me?’

‘Of course. I …’

‘I thought this was a professionally run art gallery. I thought you understood what I was trying to say with my artwork. Instead, I arrive to find you have had the audacity to replace my best work with one of your own selection. Clearly my work is not good enough for you. If I hadn’t changed my mind and decided to attend my debut at the last minute, would the VIP guests have been ignorant of this switch? I demand an immediate explanation.’

Evie opened her mouth to speak but found she had no words. She had no idea how the substitution of the centrepiece had happened. Meanwhile, Jaxx was scrutinizing her reaction, his face a mask of fury, his eyes bulging from his now less-than-handsome face. A fleck of spittle had lodged at the corner of his mouth. He certainly bore little similarity to the famous rock star image that adorned the cover of the show’s glossy programme.

‘Please rest assured that the circumstances surrounding this unfortunate event will be investigated immediately …’ began James in his best conciliatory advocate’s voice.

‘Tell me this. Who is responsible for this whole fiasco?’ demanded Jaxx his eyes boring into Evie. The scorch of anger was so intense that she was forced to look away. But she knew Jaxx had every right to be outraged at what had happened.

‘As the owner of James Bradbury Art, the ultimate responsibility is mine,’ replied James, refusing to glance in Evie’s direction. ‘Now, if you would let me organize the removal of the …’

‘Hey! That’s my painting! Over there! “Muswell Musings”! Discarded like a used dishcloth.’

Jaxx pointed to the canvas that had been temporarily relegated to the office after the last-minute arrival of the new one. Evie met his eyes, ready to extend her profuse apologies once again, but shrunk from the venom she saw written in their depths.

‘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.

Chapter Four (#ulink_313b8d6d-5b0f-5541-95c2-41c908e69189)

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 world she had chosen to be a part of, if you weren’t busy you weren’t indispensable. If you weren’t indispensable, you were a failure. And failure was a dirty word that didn’t apply to ambitious people and therefore couldn’t be allowed to rear its ugly head. So you just kept on going until you were beyond exhausted, your skin was the same texture and colour as a washed-out dishcloth, your hair was dull and lifeless, and the very thought of taking part in an exercise class at the local gym you’d been a member of for two years was like a horror movie and to be avoided at all costs.

Career ambition was a self-perpetuating circle, with every stage avidly anticipated until life became a blinkered, arrow-straight journey on which the traveller had no inkling of what was happening in the real world beyond their radar of professional hopes and dreams. And she was realizing this for the first time tonight after the worst thing that could happen to such a committed race participant had happened to her. If she hadn’t resigned, James would have had to fire her.

It was her stop.

She heaved herself out of her seat and the anvil-heavy weight on her shoulders pressed down even harder. When she emerged into the dark street above, the shower had morphed into a full-blown storm, with raindrops hammering down onto the pavement like stair rods. She prepared herself for another soaking and this time couldn’t even summon up the energy to jog. Her hair stuck to her cheeks and she shoved it behind her ears as she made her way to her flat in the eaves of a Victorian terrace house in West Hampstead.

She was relieved that Dylan would still be out at his gig. She had been so focused on the preparations for the Jaxx Benson opening night that she hadn’t registered much of the garbled conversation they’d had when she left him in bed at six o’clock that morning. They rarely communicated before she left for work. Dylan’s world as a musician spun on an alternate time zone and he lived an almost nocturnal lifestyle, which meant he never got up before midday and often stayed out until two or three o’clock in the morning.

They had hardly seen each other recently, and she craved a dose of the cheerful, guitar-obsessed man she had fallen in love with but who seemed to have gone into hiding lately. Since college they had pursued their dreams together and when she had found a flat in London he had joined her, hoping that being in the capital would kick-start his music career.

After six months of fruitless auditioning, she had asked him to think about getting a part-time job to help with their rent. But he had told her not to worry, that he was on the cusp of stardom and that the next gig he performed at would be the one in which his undeniable talent would be discovered. Whenever she asked to hear one of the songs he had written, he refused, telling her it still needed tweaking.

If she were honest with herself, she knew that Dylan had stopped chasing his dreams months ago, and she hoped that night’s gig, the first in three months, would help to pull him out of his recent lethargy. She wasn’t ready to accept that their relationship had faded, that it was limping along well after its sell-by date because neither of them had the time or the courage to have ‘the conversation’.