Page 13 of Damaged

I arrive at the gallery at ten a.m., sharp. I’m about to open the glass door, when I suddenly stop. My hand grips the handle, but I don’t open it.

I’m staring at a man in a brown suit. He’s pointing at a few sculptures with one hand while his other is tucked into his pocket. He turns, and I catch the sharp contour of this man’s jaw.

It’s James.

So, this is what he meant bysee you tomorrow.

He’s picking up his painting in person.

I open the door and keep my eyes on the floor as I go towards the back office to deposit my parka. I don’t want him seeing me like this. My earmuffs and mittens are comically large, and I can feel my nose running.

I glance up. James holds a thin overcoat over his arm. I watch him turn to look at me, and I avoid his eyes at all costs. I look dead ahead as I disappear into the back offices.

“You’re late,” I hear immediately upon entering.

Richard is standing in a gray three-piece suit. He’s dressed up today and looks like the Monopoly man. All he’s missing is the monocle.

I look at the clock on the wall. The second hand is just gliding past twelve at the top. It’s exactly ten. “It’s not a minute past ten,” I argue.

“You’ve been getting here five to ten minutes early for years. Therefore, you’re late. When you build expectations, Sophia, people can make of it what they will when you break them.”

“Okay,” I relent, not wanting to piss him off and make my life harder. “Won’t happen again.”

“We’re not opening at ten today. Change of plans.”

“What?” I ask.

Richard is already walking past me out of the room. He leans his head back in for a moment. “Daniel McMurphy is here. There’s a meeting until eleven. We open then.”

“Okay.”

He widens his eyes and looks over my coat, mittens, and earmuffs as if it’s not ten degrees out and I’m dressed ridiculously. “Don’t be late.”

Richard doesn’t pay much attention to the weather because he can afford an Uber every day. I can’t.

I’m thinking of ditching and leaving out the delivery door again. Not seriously. I’m too much of a coward for that. I go to the bathroom to tame my hair and warm up my nose so I don’t walk into the meeting looking like Rudolph.

It’s hot in the gallery, and I can’t take my sweater off. I only have a T-shirt underneath. Some days you’re just supposed to suffer.

I hear the door to the back offices open, and I listen to the group head to the conference room. I squint at my reflection in the mirror. Did I hear James’s voice, too?

I’m sure I did. It’s far more recognizable than the others. Dark velvet. Deep and confident.

I wash my hands and follow. Everyone is taking their seats at the conference table as I enter, and James, to my surprise, is sitting at one head while Daniel McMurphy sits at the other. The Beaumont in the company’s namesake died years ago.

What the hell is going on?Suddenly my guts tighten. I feel my breath stop and linger in my lungs. I could implode with anxiety.

This must be about last night. Making fun of the modern painting. I’m about to get fired.

The thoughts last for several seconds before I decide McMurphy wouldn’t be here if I was getting fired. He’s too important.

But I’m still stricken with a feeling I haven’t had for years. It’s like I’ve been called to the principal’s office, and I don’t know why.

“And this is Sophia, our first-year assistant gallerist,” Richard says.

Second, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. I give a little wave, and others nod in acknowledgement as I sit in an open chair.

Everyone the gallery employs is here. There’s Tim, our curator. Megan, our chief of marketing. And Jessica, a fourth-year assistant gallerist who views me as competition and does a much better job kissing Richard’s ass than I do.

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