Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector

Her eyes fluttered open. ‘Oh! Oh, God, what time is it?’

‘Late.’ Olivia pulled her up.

‘I’m sorry. I guess I feel asleep.’ She stretched out like a cat. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind and Rory’s not sleeping at the moment. It’s doing my nut in.’

They walked back through the gallery together.

‘How old is Rory?’ Olivia asked. ‘I’d like to meet him. It must be a challenge being a single parent.’

‘He’s three. Yeah,’ Red yawned again. ‘Challenge is a nice way to put it. Though to be honest, sometimes I think I have it easier. I’ve got friends who are always bitching about how their partner won’t help out, blah, blah, blah, or when they do do something, it’s wrong. They spend the whole time arguing. For me, the buck stops here,’ she pointed to her chest. ‘If you don’t expect anything from anyone else, it’s simpler. Na, looking after Rory’s not bad. But I do get lonely.’ She thought about Hughie Armstrong Venables-Smythe, the guy who never showed up again at the café. ‘You know, it would be nice to have a little attention. Someone who noticed you.’

‘That would be nice,’ Olivia agreed wistfully.

‘I feel invisible. It’s like, ever since Rory was born, I was just the person pushing the pram.’

Olivia wanted to say the right thing; encourage her. ‘But you’re a beautiful young woman, with a wonderful new career!’

Red looked doubtful. ‘Yeah, well …’

‘I think you’re brave. I don’t think I could do it,’ she admitted.

‘You could if you had to. You can do anything you have to, especially for your kid.’

Olivia made no answer. Unlocking the front door, she asked, ‘Are you all right to get home? Do you want me to call you a cab?’

‘A cab?’

She made it sound as if Olivia were suggesting she be airlifted home.

‘Na, I’ll take the train. Actually,’ Red lingered, pulling at a stray strand of hair, ‘I wanted to talk to you about something.’

Olivia turned, interested. ‘Of course.’ She closed the door. Pulling up a couple of chairs, she patted a seat invitingly. ‘Come on. Tell me how I can help.’

‘Well, it’s just that … you see,’ Red stared at her hands, ‘the thing is, look, I’m just going to say it: I don’t know anything about art.’

‘Oh!’ Olivia laughed with relief. ‘You had me worried there for a minute! Red, you know everything there is to know about art! You’ve created two of the most accomplished pieces I’ve ever had the privilege to represent!’

‘Yes, but …’ Gathering her courage, she looked Olivia in the eye. ‘I need to come clean. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.’

‘Oh, yes!’ Olivia nodded. ‘I’ve heard that thousands of times. Real art has a life of its own. It’s like the universe is co-creating the piece with you and you’re just a witness.’

‘Well … sort of. See, it’s not like I went to art school or anything.’

‘Vincent van Gogh didn’t go to art school.’

‘You don’t understand …’

Olivia smiled. ‘I think I do. Look, it’s your first show and you’re worried about what to say to the press and critics.’

‘But I’m a fraud!’

‘Red, I won’t hear you talk that way! That’s just nerves! You’re under a great deal of pressure. But look,’ she took hold of her hands, ‘I’m here to help you. We’re going to do this together. You know what? This is my first show too!’

‘Really?’

‘I’ve never hung a show before or helped select the artists or overseen the guest list. You and I are in the same boat!’

‘Do you think?’

‘Absolutely! But that’s no reason for us to give up, is it?’

‘I guess not.’

Olivia stood, paced the floor. ‘So you’ve never been to art school. Well, why should we hide it? It’s actually a selling point. “Red Moriarty: an utterly raw, natural British talent!” The media hate anyone who’s accomplished. But they love the Athena myth – the idea that people simply emerge, fully formed, without any effort. You’ll fit in perfectly! As a matter of fact, I’m going to send out a press release!’ She was becoming really excited. ‘What’s art got to do with it? For the past century we’ve been asking the question, “What is art?” And the answer has always been, “Whatever the artist says is art.” Now we’ve pushed it even further. We’re asking, “What is an artist?” Can’t you see, Red? It’s revolutionary!’

Red seemed unconvinced. ‘Well, if you think it will work.’

‘It will. I promise.’ Olivia gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘Now, it’s time for you to go home and get a good night’s sleep. Big things are about to happen to you and I want you at your best.’

Rose walked along the underground platform, staring at her shoes.

It was like being the only one at the party who didn’t get the joke. That wouldn’t be so bad, except that it was on her.

Rose looked up. The train pulled into the station.

But she didn’t get on.

The doors opened, closed. Off it sped, into the dusty warm darkness of the tunnel.

In front of her, across from the platform, ten feet high, was a giant poster of Mrs Henderson’s chair.

‘Don’t Miss the Next Generation Show at the Mount Street Gallery!’

Rose stared at it for a long time.

‘Fuck it,’ she concluded, turning round.

Out of the tube station she headed, onto Regent Street, sticking her hand out.

The cab pulled up, rolled down his window. ‘Where to, darling?’

‘Kilburn, please.’

She climbed in, settled back into the seat, looking at the shop windows full of the latest fashions. Maybe this year she could afford some of them.

‘You’re working late,’ the cabby said, catching her reflection in the rear-view mirror.

‘Yeah,’ she smiled to herself. ‘We artist types keep strange hours.’