It Felt Like A Kiss

Chapter Thirteen




And then it was showtime …

By six thirty, though the invitations had said seven for seven thirty, the gallery was heaving with favoured clients, art lovers, critics and the one hundred or so other people who’d wangled their way on to the guest list at the eleventh hour.

Ellie was relegated to the back office-cum-packing room behind the reception desk after one of the girls manning the bar, set up at the end of the gallery, had been caught aiming her camera phone up Ellie’s short, flouncy, blush-coloured dress as Ellie had been standing on a kickstep to adjust a mudguard on the floating bicycle.

‘You’d better stay in here for the time being,’ Vaughn had decided, and took hold of Ellie’s arm to escort her personally to her little prison. At least he left the door ajar so she could talk to Piers and Inge, who were in charge of the guest list, while Muffin and Madeleine were on ushering duties.

It was hard to feel a warm glow of pride when you were banished, but Ellie gave it her best shot. There was no doubt the show was a hit. The guests had spilled out into the mews, where the press were still behind the police cordon, apart from one accredited photographer taking pictures for the party pages. Inge said she’d seen three members of a Norwegian rock group. Muffin had started a rumour on Twitter that all of ABBA were coming and it was trending.

‘Has anyone bought any art yet?’ Ellie whispered at Inge.

‘Two people from Tate Modern have been staring at the triptych for ten minutes.’ Inge sighed. ‘Everyone loves the floating bicycle. I love it too. I wonder how hard it would be to suspend a bicycle from my living-room ceiling.’

‘You could probably get one of your boyfriends to do it,’ Piers said. ‘Although they look far too effete to be handy with hammers and hooky things.’

‘You’re far more effete than any other boy I know, Piers,’ Inge said.

‘Tristram is way, way more effete than I am. He wears a pocket square!’

‘You’ve been seen in Hoxton with a monocle. Don’t even think about denying it.’

While it was entertaining to listen to Piers and Inge have the most ridiculous argument it was possible for two people to have, there was a queue of people at the reception desk waiting to sign in and receive a catalogue lovingly put together by Ellie. She had to make do with hissing at the pair of them like an enraged swan.

‘Less bickering, more queue-wrangling, please. You’re probably keeping the Finnish Ambassador waiting,’ she told them sternly, then could do nothing but seethe when Piers kicked the back office door shut and locked it.

It was ten minutes before Vaughn rescued her. ‘Who locked the door?’ he asked, but before Ellie could grass up Piers and maybe Inge, who’d been an accessory to the fact, Vaughn tugged her past her unrepentant colleagues (Piers even stuck his tongue out). ‘We might as well let the dog see the rabbit, as it were.’

Ellie did feel a lot like a defenceless little bunny about to be thrown to the slavering hounds as Vaughn led her across the foyer and through the crowd of people. She stared down at her feet in her Terry de Havilland wedge sandals, which she saved only for best, as Vaughn led her to the middle of the room, right beneath the floating bicycle, which Ellie hoped was securely attached. She stared out at a sea of faces. The women in pretty, sherbet-hued summer dresses, the men in Savile Row shirtsleeves because the gallery was rammed and it was stiflingly hot, even with the front door and all the skylights open. There were a few defiantly underdressed artists and bloggers, and a girl wearing only a basque and tap pants, but generally the crowd were rich and understated.

Ellie tried to look both engrossed and entirely noncontroversial as Vaughn welcomed the Finnish, Swedish and Danish Ambassadors (the Norwegian Ambassador was delayed in Aberdeen), the head of the Arts Council, the Minister for Culture and the lead actress from a hit Danish detective series, though her publicist hadn’t returned any of Ellie’s calls.

Then Vaughn talked about some of the pieces on display and what an exciting time it was in the Scandinavian art world. He mentioned the word ‘zeitgeist’ as he always did, then turned to Ellie.

‘I’m sure Ms Cohen would like to say a few words almost as much as you’d like to hear from her,’ he said smoothly, and Ellie wished she could glare at him and possibly kick his shins too. It was all very well never complaining or explaining, but it was quite another to parade her about to guarantee that the exhibition made more than just the art pages of tomorrow’s newspapers.

She looked up, made eye contact with Madeleine, who smiled encouragingly, and took a deep breath. ‘Wow! Well, I never knew there were so many people who shared my love for emerging Scandinavian art.’ It was meant to be sassy and knowing, and the assembled guests chuckled, but Ellie’s voice was so squeaky that she had great trouble getting to the end of the sentence. She turned a jerky ninety degrees and gestured at a spot in the middle distance. ‘Enjoy the show. Please come and find one of the gallery staff if you need more information about any of the pieces on display. We’re all happy to talk about the art.’ It seemed important to qualify that. ‘Only the art. Not about anything else.’

‘Stop talking now,’ Vaughn said quietly, through a pained smile. ‘Otherwise I’m sending you to the back office again.’

For a long while, which probably lasted only a minute, though it felt like an hour, everyone stared at Ellie as she clung onto a glass of champagne and gazed unseeingly at a large canvas of the aurora borealis. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and every muscle in her body seized up until she heard Tess say, ‘Hey. Nice frock. Please introduce me to some fit Finns.’


Ellie turned her head and found that she could smile and say in her normal voice, ‘The Finns, not to mention the rest of the Scandis, are sort of avoiding me.’

‘Really?’ Tess didn’t bother to disguise her disappointment. ‘I thought they were all quite open-minded?’

‘They’re not quite as open-minded as we all thought.’ When all the emerging artists had assembled at the gallery earlier, they’d been very polite but there’d been a certain froideur in the air. ‘You’ll have to source your own Nordic totty.’

‘If I must,’ Tess sighed, but she was already pinning back her shoulders and shimmying a little to assess how her breasts looked in the deep blue Victoria Beckham trapeze top, which she’d snagged cheap at a sample sale, that she was wearing with tailored shorts and gladiator sandals.

‘You look gorgeous,’ Ellie told her. ‘The Finns won’t know where to put themselves.’

Tess was in the middle of telling Ellie in no uncertain terms just where the Finns could put themselves when a middle-aged man insinuated himself between the two of them. ‘Ellie, my darling, how are you?’ he cried, throwing his arm around her shoulder and boxing Tess out of the way. ‘Terrible business. Don’t believe a word of it, of course, unless there’s anything you want to tell your uncle George in the strictest confidence, eh?’

Ellie would have really liked to tell her ‘uncle’ George that he should have changed his shirt and reapplied his antiperspirant before he left the merchant bank where he worked but she forced another smile.

‘Nothing to tell, George,’ she said, tucking her arm into his and leading him away from Tess, who was surreptitiously wafting her hand under her nose. ‘The truth is that I lead a very boring life.’

‘I’m sure that’s not the case,’ George insisted. Even his scalp underneath the few wisps of hair he had left was a brilliant red. ‘No smoke without fire, eh? Silent waters and all that, eh?’

‘It’s all hot air and bluster,’ Ellie insisted, because surely George understood about hot air and bluster when they were the sum total of all his parts. ‘Now, is there anything here that’s caught your eye, apart from me, that is?’

A bit of lame flirting with George was all part of her job. For ten minutes Ellie put up with his arm round her shoulder, partial asphyxiation and a bit of light innuendo, as she persuaded him that the triptych by a Norwegian artist was a great investment, especially as one of his earlier pieces had been bought by the Getty Museum, and no, it wasn’t a buy two, get the third painting for free kind of deal.

Once people could see that, a) Ellie wasn’t suddenly going to revert to tabloid type, strip off her clothes and start humping light installations, and b) she was still a fully functioning display and exhibitions manager, they couldn’t wait to come over. She was sure that she wasn’t simply being paranoid: clients, acquaintances, even the cultural attaché from the Icelandic Embassy all seemed to think that she’d start over-sharing if they took her hand, tilted their heads and said, ‘So, really, how are you doing?’

It was humiliating to have people staring at her, talking out of the corner of their mouths about her, and making it abundantly clear that she was among them, but not of them. It didn’t matter how nicely she spoke, or how well she dressed, or even how shiny her hair was; these people gathered here to judge her were all cushioned by their wealth and their fame and their privilege, and Ellie had never had any of that. She’d only had Ari, but Ari had taught her well. And all of Ari’s life lessons could be distilled down into eight succinct words: Never let the bastards get you down, babycakes.

So, if people wanted a piece of Ellie, then she wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. By nine o’clock, when the private view was officially meant to have ended, she’d sold five paintings, one light installation and an origami sculpture, and had seven orders for floating Perspex bicycles. Everyone wanted a floating Perspex bicycle.

The crowd was thinning out and though several people were hovering and shooting Ellie longing looks as if they’d been waiting all night to talk to her, Madeleine, Vaughn and even Muffin were herding people out of the gallery.

Tess, and Lola, who’d come for only the last half-hour because she and Vaughn could barely tolerate each other, were standing under an open skylight to try to catch the breeze as they flirted with at least three emerging Scandinavian artists. Ellie could feel her fight face starting to slip. She hung back until Tess detached herself from the group and hurried over.

‘It’s all right,’ she said to Ellie. ‘Everything’s cool. The Scandis don’t hate you or think you’re a skanky lady of ill-repute, they’re just all really miffed about Pals and his floating bike getting centre stage.’

‘Really?’ Ellie asked. ‘Are you just saying that to make me feel better?’

‘I’m your best friend so I’m contractually obligated to say things to make you feel better, but not this particular time. Apparently, Pals will sell a floating bike in any colour to any fool who wants one. Let’s not even talk about it because all those buff boys keep banging on about art, and Lola and I need to know what a Reidar Aulie is, because they keep going on about that too.’

‘He was a famous Norwegian political painter best known for the work he produced during the Second World War,’ Ellie said without even having to think about it because her knowledge of Scandinavian art was at its absolute peak. ‘There’s a mural of his in Oslo City Hall celebrating the history of the labour movement and actually—’

‘Please, stop! I don’t want to hear another word about art or Scandinavia or Perspex for the rest of the evening,’ Tess begged. ‘More importantly, S?ren, sexy Danish sculptor with amazing green eyes and excellent muscle tone, has been wanting to talk to you all day. Said you’d promised to show him your double-jointed right elbow. I can’t believe that you’re still using that as a chat-up line.’

‘It has never once failed me,’ Ellie said gravely. She glanced over at the little group where Lola, who looked like she’d come straight from a burlesque revue, was holding court. Right on cue, S?ren looked over, smiled and gestured at his right elbow. It wasn’t enough incentive. ‘I’m going to bail, Tess. It’s been one hell of a day and I’m pretty much running on empty now.’

Tess looked at Ellie imploringly. ‘Oh, come on! Let’s go to the aftershow and drink free vodka and flirt with sexy artists. Did I mention the free vodka?’

It sounded like a plan, except … ‘But what if there are photographers?’ Ellie asked anxiously. ‘It doesn’t even need to be photographers. Everyone has a camera on their phone. Vaughn managed to keep the security watertight but Grace doesn’t have that kind of sway.’

‘Ellie, you can’t live the rest of your life worrying about photographers and what the papers might say about you.’

‘I think you’ll find that I can. I mean, I don’t know how not to at the moment.’ Ellie shrugged and, once again, she was widening her eyes and staring at the ceiling to stave off the tears. Work had been a great distraction but now it was time to clock off. ‘How long before everything goes back to normal?’


She got a hot, sticky hug from Tess by way of reply, then her friend said, ‘I don’t know when this is going to stop. But it’s only going to ruin your life if you let it. Crap boyfriends aside, you’re a strong woman, Ell. You will get through this.’

It was Tess, her best friend, and apart from artists and staff, everyone else had been removed from the gallery so Ellie could rest her head on Tess’s shoulder. ‘I will get through this, but not tonight. I can’t deal with any more people.’

‘Do you want to go home? Do you want me to come with you?’ To her eternal credit, Tess managed not to sound too downhearted at the possibility of missing out on the free vodka.

Ellie straightened up and kissed Tess on the cheek. ‘I wouldn’t want to stand between you and a fit Finn. I’m … well, I’m going to check into a hotel for a few days so I’m hidden away from the press.’

‘You’ll do anything to get out of cleaning the bathroom,’ said Lola, who’d come over to chivvy them along. ‘What you need to do, Ellie, is get absolutely hammered. Then you’ll feel so shit tomorrow, you won’t care about the press.’

Ellie gave Lola some side-eye, not that it ever did any good. Lola was impervious to side-eye. She only responded to a raised voice, and if that failed, a good thump on her BCG scar. ‘I can just see the front page of the Sun tomorrow with a photograph of me hurling into a wheelie bin.’

‘Lightweight.’ Lola gave her a swift up and down. ‘Are you all right, Ellie? If you didn’t want to be on your own, me and Tess could come with you. Order some room service, have our own little afterparty, right, Tess?’

Tess knew Ellie better than that. ‘You’re having an attack of the Greta Garbos, aren’t you?’

Ellie nodded. ‘Kind of am, with a little bit of Martha Stewart thrown into the mix.’

‘Ell needs to be alone when she’s stressed out,’ Tess explained to Lola. ‘She literally barricaded herself in her bedroom for three months when she was doing her finals and went ballistic if anyone so much as left a dirty teaspoon in the sink.’

‘It’s my way of dealing with stuff.’

Lola didn’t look convinced. She also looked rather horrified at the thought that Ellie when under stress could be even more zero tolerance about clutter than she normally was. ‘Well, if you’re sure …’

‘I am,’ Ellie said firmly. ‘But if either of you manage to sex up a Swede …’

‘Or knob a Norwegian …’

‘Or f*ck a Finn, then I expect all the sordid details. Length, girth …’ she started to clarify and then her blood turned to antifreeze in her veins as a smooth voice behind her said, ‘Velvet? Could we go somewhere private to talk?’