Jessica Granger was sitting behind her desk at work, trying to figure out what on earth was going on. For nearly a month now she’d been working as a receptionist at one of the most prestigious art galleries in Los Angeles and, while manning the phones wasn’t the most stimulating of jobs, she liked it. It was something to get up for in the morning and lent a comforting sense of normality to her otherwise abnormal life.
The vast white space, located a few blocks from Rodeo Drive, was a magnet for wealthy residents and tourists alike and Jessica’s desk was situated right in the middle, at the back. The atmosphere inside the air-conditioned gallery was sombre, quiet and still, and – as in a library or a church – visitors spoke in hushed, reverential tones. Though in the case of the current exhibition, if they’d run from the building screaming Jessica wouldn’t have blamed them.
On the walls was the work of a hip new German artist. The show comprised eight huge canvases, which were smothered in fluorescent blotches, bright splatters of primary-coloured paint and speckles of gold and silver. Not content with the cacophony of colour he’d created, the artist, for some reason Jessica had yet to grasp, had also smeared the finished pieces with buffalo dung. So they smelled, as one would expect, very unpleasant. To be more precise, they smelled of shit.
Having lived with the paintings for the last few weeks, Jessica had grown to hate them. They made her feel anxious, gave her a headache and offended her senses. Passers-by recoiled in horror as they took the full impact and when one of her colleagues described them as offensive Jessica couldn’t have agreed more. But then what did she know? Christopher, their boss, obviously thought they were good enough to grace the gallery’s walls, and now, as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ said financial controller Nick, one of several members of staff who had gathered round Jessica’s desk to gaze in wonder at the red dots that were stuck next to every single piece.
‘Unbelievable,’ agreed Jessica wholeheartedly, as she looked around the room warily, half-expecting Ashton Kutcher to spring out from behind a pillar yelling ‘You’ve been Punk’d!’
Just then, Christopher himself arrived. ‘Morning everybody, and good morning Jessica, how are you today?’ he enquired, striding in triumphantly.
‘Er – great, thanks, Mr Starkey,’ Jessica replied, surprised to have been singled out.
‘Look,’ he said dramatically, ‘sold, sold, sold.’
‘Huge congratulations,’ said Kate, who as head of sales was immensely relieved she could finally stop risking her reputation by pretending to like them. ‘So who bought them then? Did they all go to the same client?’
‘Yup,’ said Christopher, grinning smugly, his eyes flitting to Jessica once more. She blushed, panicking in case someone had told him what she’d said about the paintings.
‘Was it Stevie Wonder by any chance?’ laughed Kate, confident that now the paintings were finally off their hands, a joke might be permitted.
Several people spluttered with laughter. Unfortunately Christopher wasn’t one of them. ‘Well, thank goodness not everybody shares your narrow view of what is, and what isn’t, great art, Kate,’ he snapped, before storming off to the back offices, leaving an embarrassed silence in his wake. One by one, everyone shuffled back to work, but Kate marched after Christopher, looking like she wanted to pick a fight.
Minutes later, however, she reappeared. ‘I may have been wrong about these paintings, you know?’ she said tentatively, hovering round Jessica’s desk. ‘They’re really pretty amazing when you think about the amount of work that’s gone into them.’
Jessica looked up from the mailing list she was updating and tucked her fair hair behind her ears. ‘Um … sure, I suppose.’ Privately, she was disappointed by Kate’s lack of backbone. Just because one insane individual had decided to buy the paintings didn’t mean anything had changed. They were still an eyesore.
Still, at least Christopher’s mood had reverted to one of friendliness and joy, and when he reappeared a little later he even offered to pop to Starbucks to get Jessica a coffee. On the one hand she was delighted her conscientiousness and eagerness to please was finally being recognized; on the other, it was unnerving. Then, when he laughed like a drain at something she said as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, a sixth sense suddenly made her feel horribly wary. As soon as he’d left again Jessica dialled best friend Dulcie’s number.
‘It’s me,’ she whispered into her headset. ‘I’m having a really strange day so I need you to tell me that I’m going crazy for having the thoughts I’m having.’
‘Tell me in a second because I’m so glad you’ve called,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve just booked my next dress fitting, so put July twentieth in your diary and, oh my God, you will not believe who Kevin wants to invite …’
Five minutes later and Jessica was beginning to regret calling. Her friend was in full bridal flow, she hadn’t got a word in edgeways and there was a call coming through that she needed to answer.
‘Dulcie …’
‘… anyway, it’s such a relief about the chairs, I knew you’d be pleased, and next time I go to check out the venue you should come because –’
‘Dulcie …’
‘That way we can decide together –’
‘DULCIE!’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got to go.’
A few minutes later, Rob, the gallery technician, turned up complete with ladder.
‘Morning, Jess,’ he said. ‘Just to let you know, the new paintings for the next exhibition have arrived and Christopher said to feel free to look at them in the viewing room.’
‘Right,’ said Jessica, who didn’t know quite what to make of that. ‘That’s cool of him.’
‘I guess,’ said Rob.
Jessica watched thoughtfully as he climbed the ladder, which he’d positioned underneath one of the lighting rigs. ‘So, only a couple of weeks to go and we don’t have to see these any more, eh?’ she said conspiratorially.
From his lofty position, Rob looked at her with a bemused expression. ‘You mean because we’ll see them somewhere else?’ he said and then he winked.
Jessica’s hackles immediately went up. ‘Who bought the paintings?’ she asked impulsively.
‘Don’t know,’ said Rob quickly. Too quickly. He was lying.
Thinking swiftly, Jessica changed tactics. She had a hunch, a hideous one that she simply had to eradicate. ‘It’s all right,’ she stage-whispered, going for a bluff. ‘I know.’
‘Really?’ he replied, concentrating just a little too hard on his light bulb.
‘Yeah,’ said Jessica in a blasé voice, which belied the fact that her pulse was accelerating by the second.
‘Who told you?’ asked Rob as he climbed back down.
‘Oh, you know,’ said Jessica, as if he ought to.
‘It’s just that Christopher said we shouldn’t say anything,’ he replied, looking flustered, ‘because I think he thought you didn’t want us to know about who … you know … though I have to admit,’ he said, looking pained, ‘I’ve been feeling really bad ever since I found out. I want you to know that when I called them monstrosities the other day I was only joking.’
Jessica’s heart fell into her stomach. ‘Oh, sure,’ she said weakly. ‘Anyway, don’t worry about it. Obviously I know that he … my –’ She stopped, still hoping she might have got it wrong. Maybe she was being paranoid, fishing in the wrong pond?
‘Your … dad?’ offered Rob hesitantly.
‘My dad …’ Right pond then.
‘O-K,’ said Rob, suddenly looking anxious in case he’d said the wrong thing. ‘So, anyway, I need to go out now, Jess, but …’
‘What?’
‘Don’t take any notice of what anyone else thinks, yeah? At the end of the day, art is entirely subjective,’ he added kindly.
Jessica nodded faintly and forced a smile. She didn’t know where to begin so she just didn’t bother and as she waved goodbye to Rob she suspected she was waving goodbye for good, because how could she possibly stay at the gallery now? She sat there despairing for a while, feeling utterly humiliated and more than a little stupid. Yet another job had just hit the dust, been taken away from her, and now she needed some lunch, to resign and to work out what on earth to do about her interfering dad, only not necessarily in that order.