clients.
‘Tate,’ Alistair said, laying down his briefcase, ‘will do more cutting-edge tours, show people the up-and-comingartists – even the ones no one has heard of yet. It’ll be contemporary, in your face, challenging.’
He rocked back on his heels and executed a weird kind of swing at an invisible baseball with an invisible bat which Grace assumed was a movement designed to make him seem go-getting and modern. It was as embarrassing as watching your dad grooving his way on to the dance floor at a wedding.
There was the slightest of double-takes from Tate at Alistair’s puzzling body language, and then he turned his attention back to Grace. Suddenly his hand was out towards her for shaking. It was the hand with the silver ring.
She took it graciously and refused to listen to any of the nerves in her body and what they were shouting at her. One shake and she would drop this unsettling hand, but its owner seemed quite happy to let it linger round hers.
‘What’s Tate short for?’ she asked, trying to pull her hand free. ‘Mutate?’
‘Grace!’ Alistair said, but her words had the desired effect on Tate: she felt him let go of her hand as he laughed.
‘Gracie’s pissed with me,’ he said, turning to Alistair. ‘We had a run-in earlier. You know you suggested I tag along on a tour, see how they’re done? Well, I tagged along with Gracie.’
‘Grace.’
‘And, well, cut to the chase, we didn’t see eye to eye.’
‘Ah,’ Gilbert said getting up. ‘So you’re the obnoxious, opinionated American Grace was telling me about.’
Tate looked down at his boots and then back up at Gilbert.
‘Yeah, guilty of that.’ He did not look guilty at all. His hand was out again and Gilbert came over and shook it with every appearance of being amused.
‘I suspect Tate is short for Tate Modern, hmm?’ Gilbert said. ‘Or have you heard that a million times?’
‘A million and one times now.’
They both laughed, before Tate added, ‘Suppose you get people asking if you’re half of Gilbert and George?’
‘Only once.’
There was more laughter and Grace wondered what Gilbert was doing. That ready handshake felt like disloyalty towards her somehow, the jokey chat almost as if he were flirting. And Alistair: was he mad? What had possessed him to hire this brash idiot? This was all wrong … wrong! Didn’t they see how disruptive a guy like this would be? How threatening to the smooth running of … everything?
And how was she going to consign ‘the blond guy’ to the dumping-ground section of her brain if, at this very moment, he had a name and was standing in the office, by her desk, chatting and looking like he felt at home?
She needed some time to get her composure back.
‘I’ll make us all tea,’ she said, and before either Gilbert or Alistair could stop her, she had plugged the kettle in again and switched it on.
There was a ‘phutt’ noise and everyone disappeared into calm cloaking black.
Grace could hear Alistair huffing away, asking how she could forget so soon that the kettle was faulty? Gilbert joked about Tate needing to get used to being kept in the dark in this company, which Alistair responded to with something blustery before Tate cut in with, ‘Hey, Gracie, think you got your night-time routine turned around. You put me to sleep this afternoon, now you’re switching the lights off. What next? You gonna do some tucking into bed?’
However soothing the dark was, it couldn’t stop Grace feeling aggrieved by that smug familiarity, and she turned in Tate’s direction and pulled a face before doing the ‘penis on the forehead’ mime for a dickhead. It felt pretty good, until there was the sound of a match being struck and Tate’s head and shoulders were illuminated in a glow of light. She wasn’t sure she’d put her hand down quickly enough to avoid her rude gesture being spotted.
The match burned down and they were back in the dark.
‘I’ll get the
‘Tate,’ Alistair said, laying down his briefcase, ‘will do more cutting-edge tours, show people the up-and-comingartists – even the ones no one has heard of yet. It’ll be contemporary, in your face, challenging.’
He rocked back on his heels and executed a weird kind of swing at an invisible baseball with an invisible bat which Grace assumed was a movement designed to make him seem go-getting and modern. It was as embarrassing as watching your dad grooving his way on to the dance floor at a wedding.
There was the slightest of double-takes from Tate at Alistair’s puzzling body language, and then he turned his attention back to Grace. Suddenly his hand was out towards her for shaking. It was the hand with the silver ring.
She took it graciously and refused to listen to any of the nerves in her body and what they were shouting at her. One shake and she would drop this unsettling hand, but its owner seemed quite happy to let it linger round hers.
‘What’s Tate short for?’ she asked, trying to pull her hand free. ‘Mutate?’
‘Grace!’ Alistair said, but her words had the desired effect on Tate: she felt him let go of her hand as he laughed.
‘Gracie’s pissed with me,’ he said, turning to Alistair. ‘We had a run-in earlier. You know you suggested I tag along on a tour, see how they’re done? Well, I tagged along with Gracie.’
‘Grace.’
‘And, well, cut to the chase, we didn’t see eye to eye.’
‘Ah,’ Gilbert said getting up. ‘So you’re the obnoxious, opinionated American Grace was telling me about.’
Tate looked down at his boots and then back up at Gilbert.
‘Yeah, guilty of that.’ He did not look guilty at all. His hand was out again and Gilbert came over and shook it with every appearance of being amused.
‘I suspect Tate is short for Tate Modern, hmm?’ Gilbert said. ‘Or have you heard that a million times?’
‘A million and one times now.’
They both laughed, before Tate added, ‘Suppose you get people asking if you’re half of Gilbert and George?’
‘Only once.’
There was more laughter and Grace wondered what Gilbert was doing. That ready handshake felt like disloyalty towards her somehow, the jokey chat almost as if he were flirting. And Alistair: was he mad? What had possessed him to hire this brash idiot? This was all wrong … wrong! Didn’t they see how disruptive a guy like this would be? How threatening to the smooth running of … everything?
And how was she going to consign ‘the blond guy’ to the dumping-ground section of her brain if, at this very moment, he had a name and was standing in the office, by her desk, chatting and looking like he felt at home?
She needed some time to get her composure back.
‘I’ll make us all tea,’ she said, and before either Gilbert or Alistair could stop her, she had plugged the kettle in again and switched it on.
There was a ‘phutt’ noise and everyone disappeared into calm cloaking black.
Grace could hear Alistair huffing away, asking how she could forget so soon that the kettle was faulty? Gilbert joked about Tate needing to get used to being kept in the dark in this company, which Alistair responded to with something blustery before Tate cut in with, ‘Hey, Gracie, think you got your night-time routine turned around. You put me to sleep this afternoon, now you’re switching the lights off. What next? You gonna do some tucking into bed?’
However soothing the dark was, it couldn’t stop Grace feeling aggrieved by that smug familiarity, and she turned in Tate’s direction and pulled a face before doing the ‘penis on the forehead’ mime for a dickhead. It felt pretty good, until there was the sound of a match being struck and Tate’s head and shoulders were illuminated in a glow of light. She wasn’t sure she’d put her hand down quickly enough to avoid her rude gesture being spotted.
The match burned down and they were back in the dark.
‘I’ll get the
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