Page 83 of Handle with Care
Or all of the above.
Shit.
The only way to get to the bottom of this, whether to let him go or figure out what happens from this point, is to find him. Even if it’s only to say goodbye. I can’t leave London at the end of next week without seeing him again. But that might be out of my control. If I were reasonable, I’d listen to Stephen and move on with my original, ambitious dating plan while I was in London.
Which obviously means I need to find Will, and fast. But how?
I stir more sugar into my tea, staring glumly into it like it will conjure answers.
Think, Dylan. You’re supposed to be a reasonably bright guy, good at solving problems.
Usually.
After my tea, I head out to walk along the Thames toward London Bridge, not entirely sure if I’m going for a walk to clear my head while gulls bob and reel over the water, or going home, or what. Then, I walk past where Will and Gray and I met up not that long ago for drinks.
My God, I miss Will. I want him so much.
And then it dawns on me the way to find Will may be by finding his brother.
I try searching on my phone for Gray Martin-Greene without much luck. Then I try Grahame Martin-Greene gallery. I can’t remember if he’s in London or where he lives. If I can find Gray, I can find Will.
Soon, I stand in the plaza next to the Old City Hall like I did when I first arrived in London, overlooking the Thames. Except with much better weather. It’s a stunning August morning under broad blue skies. The glare of the sun on my phone’s screen makes it hard to read. I shift to stand with my back to the sun and shade the screen with my shadow. Finally, results start popping up on my phone.
I do an image search, and then there’s a picture of Gray, beaming in a headshot, looking carefree in a way that reminds me of how Will often is with me. There’s his LinkedIn and then a museum bio. He’s based in Cambridge.
Which is very much not where I am.
Checking the time, it’s half past ten in the morning. Hopefully, he’s working and not on holidays.Cambridge Contemporary Gallery, Curator and Founder, reads his bio. Art History at Cambridge for his undergrad, his MA from the Royal College of Art, and a list of exhibitions he’s curated.
Well. Clearing my throat, I go for the only reasonable option: I call the gallery.
A woman answers. “Good morning, Cambridge Contemporary. How may I help?”
“Good morning. I’m, err, looking to speak with Gray. Grahame Martin-Greene, please. It’s important.”
“Unfortunately, he’s in a meeting this morning. May I take your name and number, and I’ll give him the message when he’s available.”
I brighten up. Holy shit. Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk to Gray after all. “It’s Dylan Alexander.”
“What is it regarding?”
“Um.” Shit, I should have thought about a good answer. My plan’s not exactly foolproof.“Art?”
“Art?” she echoes. “Any specific kind of art?”
Well, this is getting awkward. I can’t screw up at this point. And it wouldn’t be professional to say I’m looking for Gray’s brother because he’s not answering my calls, and I won’t get the hint.
“Contemporary art. Actually, it’s a contemporary art emergency, I’d say. Definitely.”
“I see.” There’s a tone of skepticism now.
I need to rally, and quickly. “He knows me from the London Art & Design Museum,” I add in a rush. “It’s—it’s about our opening on Saturday night.”
“I’ll let him know.” There’s definitely a tone of dismissal now. But I’m not ready to hang up.
One last effort.
“Is he in the gallery this afternoon? I’ll try calling again after lunch.”
