Page 33 of Good Girl
‘I’m going to find the ladies’ bathroom. Back in a mo,’ she says, handing me her glass to hold and striding stiffly away.
I watch her go, frustration swirling in my gut, then turn to scope out the room to distract myself from the gnawing feeling of guilt that joins it, smiling at the women who turn to look at me.
For the first time in my life, their interest leaves me cold.
Juno
I walk up to the gallery owner with my heart in my throat. I so desperately want this to go well, but I’m afraid of making a mess of it and consequently making Sandro angry. But I have to do it. It would be an absolute travesty for his talent to go to waste. For him to let his father’s prejudice get in the way of what could be a really successful future as a professional sculptor. He just needs a break—for someone to give him an opportunity to prove himself—and, after that, I know he’ll fly.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the guy, who is surrounded by a throng of arty types, all crowded round listening to him talk.
He turns to look at me and my stomach gives a horrible swoop of nerves. If this doesn’t work, Sandro’s going to be furious with me. But it will work, I tell myself. It has to.
‘It’s a beautiful gallery you have here,’ I say with a smile. ‘Juno Darlington-Hume,’ I add when he gives me a perplexed look. ‘I’m here with Sandro Ricci. I’m his manager.’
He nods, clearly recognising the name. ‘Have you seen Sandro’s sculptures?’ I ask, bringing my phone out of my pocket and opening the video app where I’ve stored some short videos that I took of the sculptures when Sandro was taking a shower.
‘I didn’t know he sculpts,’ the owner says, bending to take a look at my screen.
‘He’s really good,’ I say, ‘And he’s looking for somewhere to exhibit them.’
The guy nods and takes my phone from me, peering down at the video of my favourite sculpture, then clicking through to look at more of them.
I hold my breath as I wait for his reaction, crossing my fingers and praying for good news.
‘These are very interesting. I’d like to see them. Give me a ring next week and we’ll set up a meeting,’ he says, handing me a business card.
My hand shakes as I take the card. ‘Thank you. We’ll do that.’
I walk back to where Sandro is standing, my legs wobbly with relief. He watches me approach with a dark expression on his face.
My throat tightens with tension. I’m worried he’ll be offended that I took such liberties with his work and I give a small cough before speaking. ‘I showed him your sculptures, pretending that I was your manager. He wants to see them.’ I hold up the card I’ve been given. ‘He said to call him next week to make an appointment.’
My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for his response. He’s frowning at me as if he can’t believe I’d had the nerve to do that.
‘You showed them to him without my permission?’ The fury in his voice makes me quake.
I give a tense shrug and tilt my head to one side, feeling tears of disappointment pool in my eyes. ‘I was just trying to help. Please don’t be angry with me. They’re so beautiful, Sandro. They deserve to be seen.’
He stares at me for a moment longer, then lets out a rough groan deep in his throat. ‘You make it really fucking hard for me to be angry with you when you look at me like that.’
‘So you’ll call him?’ I ask in a shaky voice.
‘I told you—I’m not ready to show them yet,’ he says tersely, taking the card from my outstretched hand and crumpling it into a ball before pocketing it.
I open my mouth to protest, but then close it again. He has to want to do this himself. As frustrated as this makes me feel, I know it’ll probably be counterproductive to push him any harder on it. The will to make it work has to come from him.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Sandro mutters. ‘We can’t stay now.’
I allow him to lead me out, feeling tension in the bunched muscles of his arm that he’s slung around me, which he drops as soon as we’re out of sight of the gallery. We walk back to the apartment in uneasy silence, my blood pulsing hard through my body. Perhaps I shouldn’t have interfered. But I had to. It was a great opportunity and I would have regretted not trying to help him later. I know I would.
He lets us in through the door and shucks off his jacket, still not saying a word to me.
‘Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have done that without asking you.’ I can hear the anxiety and a hint of resentment in my voice as I shut the door behind us. ‘But you’re so talented, Sandro, and sometimes we all need a bit of a push from the outside.’
He stares back at me, his dark brows drawn into a frown. Angry tension buzzes between us.
I want to cry.
