Chapter 4: Front Desk

On Monday morning Blair gave me a job.

She did it in front of the whole staff, in the big back room with the long table.

A dozen people sat around it holding coffee they were afraid to drink.

"Siobhan will be our front-of-house associate," Blair said. "The desk by the door. She greets, she answers the phone, she doesn't touch the art."

She smiled at me.

"It's a promotion in a way. Fewer decisions."

"Does the front desk come with my old email?" I said.

"No."

"Or the vault code?"

"Certainly not."

"Good," I said. "That's less to forget."

Blair's eyes narrowed.

She did not know what to do with me yet.

She clapped her hands once.

"Last thing. Anyone who goes around me to Siobhan on gallery business will be let go. I'd hate for that to happen to anyone."

The room went very quiet.

I looked at the registrar, then at the two preparators who had hung every piece with me for two years.

Nobody looked back.

I took my plant and my mug and sat down at the desk by the door.

It had a phone, a visitor book and a bowl of mints.

I opened the visitor book to a clean page.

At ten the registrar walked up to the desk with a stack of loan forms.

"I'm on my break," she said. "I'm taking it here."

She put the forms down in front of me.

"These need checking," she said. "By somebody who knows what they are."

She walked away without waiting for an answer.

At ten fifteen one of the preparators leaned on the desk.

"The big crate won't fit through the freight door," he said, to the air. "I'm taking a break. Anybody know a trick?"

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