Page 5 of Handle with Care
Since the first day, I’ve given him a wide berth. And it’s becoming personal now.
At least avoiding Mr. McLaren has been easy enough, because he was job shadowing the museum director at first for a day, I guess to learn what happens at the top, and then he was off helping the Development team with sponsorships. Which makes sense, because look at him. Donors would love him, giving up their wallets and a spare kidney without hesitation. They’d fall over each other in a fight to be the first. Meanwhile, I’ve been with Lily Hayward, my supervisor and one of the museum curators. She’s great. Which is where I want to be, in Curatorial.
None of this explains why Mr. McLaren’s sat down in the boardroom—right beside me, despite all of the empty chairs—to join the Curatorial department for our weekly team meeting held on Wednesday afternoons. His cologne is unfortunately swoonworthy.
Mr. McLaren reaches over for the coaster in front of me and slides it over in front of him before he sets his tea down.
I scowl and glance over at him for about a half second, already annoyed. He could have at least asked for the coaster, the entitled bastard.
Rude.
Mr. McLaren’s all pressed and premium-looking. Hell, even his shirt has French cuffs. At first, I wondered if that’s what all the guys wear in London, but I haven’t seen anyone else at the museum wearing them, except maybe the director. Mr. McLaren has glossy dark hair styled in an artfully careless way, a crisp white shirt that wouldn’t dare wrinkle, and he wears an understated, though clearly very expensive, watch. It gleams. If watches had a new watch smell like cars did, I bet this room would be full of its premium scent and aspirational lifestyle. Something like the French Riviera or maybe peacock feathers. At least he makes good bait, since he smells of money, a perfect fit for getting new sponsors for the museum’s exhibition.
By comparison, my denim shirt has faux pearl snaps, and I’ve added a whimsical enamel rainbow cat pin on my shirt pocket flap. My look isn’t the sort that prospective donors go wild over.
And of course, he’s handsome. In that irritatingly classic, magazine way. The guys I go for are anything but traditionally handsome. Give me quirky, give me strong features, give me someone from the fringe.
But right now, this isn’t about me and the guys I’m into. I’m here to work.
“Do you have a spare pen?” Mr. McLaren asks me absently, patting down his chest pocket and then his trousers.
“No. Sorry.”
Forget him.
I avoid his gaze and look down at my notebook, pretending to study the blank lined page like I’m decoding ancient runes. Instead of that, I neatly write down the date at the top of the page and add “Curatorial Meeting” and underline everything in my glitter pen. I decide to add my name with a flourish, Dylan Alexander, since I swear Mr. McLaren is still looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I don’t want to give him the satisfactionof acknowledging his existence or give the slightest hint that I’m intimidated by him.
Not. One. Bit.
I add a second underline under my name for good measure, pursing my lips. My gaze is riveted to the page as people start to file in.
When the door opens again, at last I look up.
Lily comes in with her laptop under her arm, her long hair reaching to her mid-back. She’s tanned after her latest trip last week, to the south of Spain or maybe Croatia, planning another exhibition. Optimistically, she wears a floral dress well suited to a Mediterranean summer, where it’s properly hot, but probably not meant for another drizzly June day in London.
Behind Lily, Dee carries in a file box. She sets it down on the table with athump, and her curls bounce with the effort. Dee always looks a bit frazzled, and this afternoon is no exception. She sits down with an audible sigh.
After a few more stragglers join us, Lily calls the meeting to order. Someone else has loaned Mr. McLaren a pen.
“First,” Lily begins, “I have some exciting news. Let’s give Will a warm welcome as the newest addition to our team, coming to us from Development. Will’s here with us on an internship like Dylan for the summer. I’m very glad you’re joining us, Will.”
It’s everything I can do to keep my face smooth as I consider Lily. If she has any feelings about it, she gives no sign.
Will’s on our team now? What happened with the Development team? Did they kick him out? Did he screw something up?
Did he lose all their pens?
If he screwed something up, why on earth would we take him?
“Thanks for the welcome. I’m sure I’ll learn a great deal from everyone.” Will smiles, all styled charm. Of course, everyone smiles back. We dutifully murmur a welcome in unison.
Lily continues smoothly, scanning the room. “Will’s going to be working with us for our upcomingLondon Designexhibition?—”
That’s about where I stopped taking information in, the proverbial scratch across a vinyl LP.
What did Lily say? That can’t be right. That’s the main exhibition I’m working on.
I don’t think I can quite keep the hint of a frown from the corners of my mouth, despite my best efforts and generally not having a frowny sort of face. Or typically being a frowny sort of person.
