You're Not the One (9781101558959) by Potter Alexandra

Author:Potter, Alexandra
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin USA
Published: 2011-10-17T04:00:00+00:00

Five minutes later I arrive at the address of the gallery to discover a hive of activity. Swarms of people gather outside on the tree-lined street, and the balmy air is filled with the sounds of laughter, chatter, and the clinking of glasses. It’s a sleek, expensive crowd, but then this is a sleek, expensive gallery.

Located in Chelsea, along with all the major blue-ribbon galleries, what used to be a garage is now this huge, lofty space that is home to big names like Damien Hirst and is famous for exhibiting large-scale installations.

Basically it makes Number Thirty-Eight look like my sitting room, I muse, making my way through the perfumed crowd and stepping inside to see huge white spaces. Huge, impressive pieces of art. Huge price tags. Glancing in my catalogue at the price of one particular painting, I do a double take at the number of zeros at the end. Nope, that’s not a typo.

Tonight’s opening is a showcase for a new rising star that I read about in one of the press releases we received at work; I was curious to come along. The artist is just a few years older than I am. I know because I did that thing I always do when I read about an artist: I check the date of birth. It’s silly, but if the artist is older, it somehow gives me comfort that I still have time.

Time for what? To have my own exhibition?

I bring myself up sharply. Even now it’s as if there’s a tiny, secret part of me that’s still clinging to that dream. As if I can’t fully let go.

I start making my way around the gallery. That’s one of the great perks of my job: I get to hear about all the shows and can usually bag an invite. Well, it was Magda who bagged me the invite, along with one for herself, but she wasn’t able to come. She had to pay a visit to her elderly aunt, who recently moved into a nursing home.

At the thought of Magda, I feel a twinge of anxiety. The past few days she’s had this worried look about her. She won’t say why, and whenever I’ve asked if everything is OK, she’s replied with her usual “Wonderful, wonderful,” but I know everything is far from wonderful, and I know it’s because the gallery isn’t selling as many pieces as it should be. In fact, despite our opening last weekend to drum up business, the only paintings we’ve sold recently are the ones Nate bought, which was significant, but not enough for us to retire on.

Nate. As his name pops into my head, I quickly shoo it back out again. No, I don’t want to think about him. I’ve had quite enough of him. My ankle throbs painfully and I grimace. Go on, scoot.

A waitress walks by with a tray of champagne. I accept a glass and take a sip. Savoring the cold bubbles, I glance around. Now, what shall

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