Page 14 of Damaged

But I’m not looking at any of my coworkers. My eyes are on James. He wears a green tie that matches his eyes, and his golden-brown hair rests in a perfect wave. I could study him as thoroughly as one of our sculptures, but he must sense my gaze,and I tear my eyes away at lightspeed just before he catches me looking.

What is he doing here? He bought an expensive piece, sure, but we don’t bring buyers into the conference room, period.

“Alright. Let’s get down to it.” Daniel McMurphy takes over. He’s a pudgy man in his late sixties. He wears horn-rimmed glasses and a cardigan. An artist’s style, but his family comes from old finance money.

“Not all of you have been aware of the work we’ve been doing behind the scenes. We’d hate to distract, especially when the results have very little effect on your careers.”

A few of us stir and look at each other, confused. Richard looks at his nails with boredom. Apparently, he knows what’s going on.

McMurphy continues. “The gallery has been sold.”

Several of the staff stand straight and stiff, and McMurphy holds out his hand in a calming gesture. “And before there is any worry, I’d like you all to know that there will be no restructuring. First and foremost, everyone is keeping their jobs.”

My coworkers relax, but I never went stiff. I wouldn’t mind a severance package. I can’t afford to just up and quit.

“The gallery will continue to bear the name McMurphy, since it’s built a reputation, and your jobs and responsibilities will continue the same as before…” He keeps talking, but I’ve glanced back to James.

I know where this is going. My mouth is open slightly in confusion.

“I’d like to introduce the new owner,” McMurphy says. “James Callaway.”

James nods. All heads turn to him. “Thank you, Daniel.” He commands the room in a way McMurphy doesn’t. He sits notso seriously, with one of his arms resting on the table and a pen twirling through his fingers.

He oozes confidence as he rubs his stubble with a thumb and outlines what his ownership means for us, the employees. I hope it’ll also be in an email, because I’m not listening. I’m quietly fuming.

At least Daniel McMurphy was a wannabe artist. He had great respect for the sculptures and artifacts that came through our doors. I shared with him my dream of one day doing real archaeology. Egypt. Greece. Looking for lost Spanish gold in the Amazon.

James isn’t a patron of the arts. All this is to him is an addition to his portfolio. He’s an artinvestor. An oxymoron if you ask me. It’s a smart move. Running a high-end gallery is a good way to get a first look at the best pieces hitting the market.

But all he’ll do with what comes through here is keep them in storage in New Jersey while they appreciate.

I don’t know if it’s because the heat is cranked up or I was in my parka for too long, but I’m burning with anger. James makes eye contact with everyone while he speaks. His eyes travel from one person to the next, making everyone feel like this speech is a personal conversation about his commitment to art, history, and the preservation of both. But he doesn’t mention what we sell at all. I notice that much.

It’s all numbers and expansion plans and an assurance that our jobs won’t be altered by this change.

Those emeralds land on me, and I realize I’m not shying away this time. I glare back at him. James stops speaking. He purses his lips a little and narrows his eyes at medangerously.

I believe the statistic that claims eighty percent of human communication is done via body language, because I know what the slight question on his face is asking me—are you going to be a problem?

I’m the first to look away. I act like there’s something on my sweater sleeve and pluck the invisible fluff off. My heart has begun to drum.

I don’t want to work for this asshole.Yes, there’s a problem. You’re the antithesis of what art and history should stand for. It’s not supposed to be hoarded and speculated on for wealth.

I can’t listen to James speak for many reasons, but the one climbing to the top is that this sweater is too damn hot. I rub a sheen of sweat from my forehead as James talks business—KPIs and current CLV. I’m hit by the brutal fact that there is no such thing as a dream job.

I should’ve known that sooner. It’s in the name, for God’s sake.

James wraps up his speech. I haven’t been following and feel caught off guard. I immediately start clapping. Everyone just looks at me before giving a halfhearted clap or two themselves.

I’m not embarrassed for looking weird. I’m feeling a little dangerous myself. I don’t care about this job anymore. I might as well have fun with it. Plus, this meeting needs to end ASAP because I’m roasting alive.

But it doesn’t end. There’s a half hour of questions, where everyone asks a couple questions except for me, and then the meeting is adjourned.

I turn to the door but notice that everyone has queued up to shake James’s hand. Shit. My hand is about as warm and clammy as a toddler’s. I try to wipe it on my pants, but it’s little use.

When it’s my turn to shake hands, we lock eyes. I don’t have anything to say to him. I just hate how my heart and breath both flutter nervously.

James speaks first. “I look forward to working with you, Sophia,” he says, very businesslike.

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