Page 82 of The Retreat
People clustered in small groups, admiring the work. The exhibition was bold, political, and unapologetically working class. Three pieces had sold in the first hour. A local arts journalist had requested an interview for next week. Her inbox was full of words likevisionaryandpotential.
But all Imogen could see was the woman moving through the crowd towards her: Talia, magnetic as ever in a navy-blue suit that looked like it had been made with her in mind. Her smile was wicked and warm, and her grey eyes were fixed on Imogen like there was no one else in the room.
They still didn’t make sense on paper: the corporate lawyer and the chaotic curator. But in real life, it worked. Imogen loved Talia Knox to a breathtaking degree.
‘You pulled it off,’ Talia said, handing her a glass of fizz.
‘Wepulled it off,’ Imogen replied, brushing her knuckles against Talia’s. ‘Without your contact book, none of this would’ve happened.’
Talia shrugged like it was nothing. ‘I just introduced you to a few people.’
‘You introduced me to three major donors. They gave more in two weeks than I managed to raise in six months. Weird to be a nepotism girlfriend.’
Talia tutted. ‘You got yourself here. I gave you some phone numbers. You turned them into something real. You could sell a snowstorm to the sun when you put your mind to it.’
Imogen smiled and took a sip of her drink, shifting slightly to watch the room. She was trying to be here, fully present. It had taken a long time to get to this moment. She wanted to enjoy every second of it.
Talia had been right. Getting the community engagement coordinator role had been the start of a slow and steady rise from an underemployed dreamer to here, now. Her own place.
She wasn’t sure she’d have gotten that job without Talia’s relentless cheerleading and razor-sharp tips. Talia had argued her into self-belief. She was annoyingly good at that.
From there, it had been long hours planning events, building partnerships, pouring herself into making the programme work. It tested her limits over and over. But with every meeting she led, every event that drew a crowd, she felt herself growing into the person she wanted to become.
And eventually, the dream she’d been afraid to name out loud stopped feeling impossible. Her own gallery. A place for the overlooked. The working class. The connectionless. The oneswith no safety net and no name-drop CV. People like her. Grit, fire, and talent over polish and privilege.
She spent evenings writing proposals, chasing funding, and scouring listings for spaces she might afford. The job had given her confidence. The gallery gave her purpose. It began as a sketch, then a folder, then a name on a lease.
It was small, and she was scared. The fear hadn’t left. But it wasn’t paralysing anymore. It pushed her forward.
And through it all, there was Talia. Steady, unshakable, and somehow always ready with exactly the right thing to say. Her love wasn’t flashy or grand, but it was the kind that anchored you. The kind that made you brave.
‘How do you feel?’ Talia asked.
Imogen turned to her and smiled. ‘I’m trying not to pee myself,’ she said quietly.
Talia smiled back at her. ‘Go ahead. We’ll just rope it off and call it an installation.’
Imogen laughed. ‘That’s quite a rude assessment of modern art, but I’m going to let it slide.’
Talia grinned at her. ‘I’m really bloody proud of you.’
Imogen smiled, the tight knot in her chest easing for the first time all evening. ‘I’m proud of me too. But I remember how close I came to going nowhere.’
‘But instead, you built this,’ Talia said, tucking a lock of hair behind Imogen’s ear, her touch light.
Imogen took a breath. ‘I couldn’t have done it alone.’
Talia’s grin tilted. ‘No, but you didn’t need to. That’s the whole point.’
Imogen noted Daniel looking at a painting nearby, his signature gilet doing little to soften his swagger as he chattedloudly with the surprisingly large Monroe contingent who had turned up to support Imogen.
‘Yeah, this piece really captures the raw, unfiltered essence of, you know, the human condition,’ he waffled.
Talia rolled her eyes. ‘Christ, he’s not even saying anything.’
‘Does he ever?’ Imogen asked.
‘I’m so glad he didn’t end up becoming my boss,’ Talia breathed. ‘I’d have murdered him in the first quarter.’
