Page 110 of Muddy Messy Love

The email of mydreams chimes my phone at 10:05 a.m. the following Monday, and I squeal louder than the little ones as they dance to Tej’s cool-arse rendition of “Baby Shark.” Gloria Browne—theGloria Browne of Green Bird Gallery—wants to meet and view my work.Tonight.

I hit reply and accept her request, tee up a time when Mum will be at her support group, then pinch my wrist throughout my shift to check I am in fact awake, since the toddler chaos doesn’t convince me enough.

Every kilometre of the shivering tram ride home knots my throat tighter. Gloria Browne. Green Bird Gallery. Two names I stumbled across during my research but two names I dismissed. The studio was too swish—the website too professional. They deal in high-end art and established artists way beyond the likes of me. I didn’t dare bother them.

My keys tumble to the porch twice before I manage to unlock the front door. I would be no less nervous meeting Michelangelohimself. But on the plus side, by the time the studio is visitor ready, I’ve reached grandmaster level on the Beth breath. I could teach the shit.

A knock sounds at the front door, and I leap from my stool onto jelly legs, which barely survive the gallery dash. Before opening it, I take a final Beth breath and straighten my jumper, then plaster on a professional smile.

Calm and confident. You got this, Aves.

The cold night air hits me like a snowball to the face, and Gloria Browne appears, illuminated by the porch downlight, looking mildly futuristic and runway ready. She wears a sharp red blazer with a giant pointy collar rimmed in faux zebra fur. Her red pencil skirt and stripy stilettos match. By comparison, I’m a slob. But Gloria flashes a contagious smile, and a kind voice choirs from her mouth, both of which loosen my knots. “You must be Avery Lee,” she says. The scarlet fingertips of one hand touch her chin as she studies me. “I didn’t expect you’d be as stunning as your art.”

My cheeks burn, and I nervously chuckle. “Call me Avery, please. Only my mother calls me Avery Lee.” I try but fail to keep the bitter tinge from my voice at Mum’s mention and beckon Gloria inside.

She offers out her hand to shake, and I accept. Her warm handshake is firm and sincere, so I try to copy it. “Gloria Browne. It’s delightful to meet you, Avery.”

“Likewise. Come on in. I’ll show you to the studio.”

The snappy click of Gloria’s heels on the gallery tiles triggers a pang of longing for Beth, as does her expensive perfume. But I push down that feeling and stop at the studio door to usher Gloria inside. She drags her gaze away from Beth’s paintings and politely smiles. “Very nice.”

“My sister’s a lawyer,” I say before mentally cringing. I often feel the need to brag about Beth’s success and to clarify that I’mnot the wealthy one who can afford five-figure paintings. “This is her house.”

“Speaking of lawyers,” Gloria says as she glides into the studio. She cheapens everything around her, especially the dusty lino covering the floor. I should have at least mopped. “Mine put me onto you. He sang the praises of a talented young artist working at Benedict Kane. When I received the photos, I was surprised to see he was right.” She does a quick observatory spin of the studio, then her intelligent eyes land on mine before sweeping me from head to toe. Not in a judgy, Miss Blue Satin Sparkles way, but like one would if they were admiring a sculpture. Fitting, I guess, though my hands still join forces to wring, and my smile quivers.

I clear my throat. “Well, this is it.” I motion to the recent work lined up across the bench. “These are the pieces from the photos.” I pivot and gesture to the shelving unit. “Those are my recent thrown bowls and vases. Some of them are finished. I paint unique designs on each one. They’re all mini canvases, really.”

Gloria nods once, then approaches the workbench. “Hmmm,” she says with a tilted chin and finger tapping her top lip. Silence ensues before she speaks again. “The scale is impressive, larger than I thought. Quite the feature pieces.” She then meanders to the shelves and seeks silent permission to pick up a bowl, then a vase. Gently, she places it back down. “I understand you’re looking for a debut showing?”

I swallow. “Yes, I am.”

When she turns around, her eyes catch the top shelf where my early work from high school sits. Embarrassment flusters me. I forgot about them. I step forward, and it takes all my restraint not to jump in front of Gloria to block her view. “Those are old pieces from school. I… I was still learning. Just ignore them.”

She’s silent for a torturous beat before gesturing towards the centre piece—the blue-ribbon winner from the state junior art competition. The same piece that won me entry into a summer retreat working with an Aussie clay legend nearly two years ago. “May I?” Gloria asks.

I hide my sigh. “Sure.”

She picks up the piece to admire. “Are you willing to part with this collection too?”

I frown. “You’d actually want them?” The question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I grimace. So much for confidence.

Gloria turns to face me, her brows high. “The prices will be a little more conservative, but yes, they’ll do fine.”

God, is she saying what I think she’s saying?

Gloria leaves my side to take a final loop of the room, then leans her hip against the bench, facing me with folded arms. “I have a collective exhibition running in two and a half weeks. It’s short notice, but I have the space, and I want you in it. Are you interested?”

I resist the urge to pinch my wrist for the fiftieth time today. I already have a bruise developing. “Absolutely.”

Clapping her hands together, Gloria grins. “Excellent.”

We discuss logistics, commissions, insurance, and endless other details I never considered related to being an artist, but none quite spin my head as much as the price Gloria sets on each piece. Who the hell would pay thousands formywork?

I give Gloria a sceptical once over. While I might not be dreaming, this could be a joke. Maybe there are hidden cameras filming me for some prankster’s YouTube channel. Maybe Cole waived Gloria’s bill in exchange for blowing smoke up my arse. No. He promised. And Gloria seems genuine enough. She walks the walk and talks the talk, but doom smothers me regardless.Even if she is for real, I can see it now: a gallery full of unsolds, or even worse, buyer’s remorse and post-show refund requests.

Lawsuits lodged against me for being a fraud.

I rub my sternum.Breathe, Avery. You are mature and professional and able to discuss business in an assertive composed manner, remember?But, as usual, my loose lips betray me, and my flawed essence exposes itself like a trench-coat flasher. “Are you sure I’m worth that much?”

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