The words are kind and I nod, planting my hand on my abdomen, which doesn’t pay the slightest bit of attention.
Once we’re through the doors, it settles. There are far too many things to look at, people to wonder about, to worry whatthey think of me. He guides me around the room with a hand hovering behind my lower back, not touching. It’s strange to catch glimpses of him from the corner of my eye, see the same features that are dominant in his son.
“Let’s stand back a second, get a feel for who’s here,” he tells me, guiding me into a corner and snagging two sparkling waters from a circling waiter. “Have you been to an opening here before?”
“No.” Just the thought makes me smile. “I don’t think I’ve been in town long enough to warrant an invitation.”
“Well, we’ll get that impediment sorted immediately. Gail!”
He heralds a pale man with jet-black hair who sports a pencil moustache like a silent-movie-era villain. An effect he cultivates with the black and white stripes of his fancy suit, the brilliant fuchsia handkerchief the only reminder he’s in colour.
“Gail is the director of this lovely establishment,” Paul explains as we shake hands. “And has a notoriously good eye for spotting new talent. Gail, this is Avon. She’s in her final year at Tiaki Academy and is destined for Matthewson next year, with an excellent chance at their scholarship.”
“Ah.” The man’s eyes light with recognition. “So, it’s your pieces filling up the inbox of every gallery owner in the country? The painting of your father?” He clutches his chest, rolling his eyes back like he’s in ecstasy. “Exquisite. I could feel the grief tearing at me through the image, and that was from a photo. We must get you in soon to view the original.”
The offer is so unexpected I blink, my mouth frozen in a half open position, trying to remember how to formulate words.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Paul says, coming to my rescue. “Give me a bell anytime and we can arrange a viewing.”
“You don’t need to hold me to anything, I’ll be phoning to remind you every five minutes. Now, tell me darling, do you know anyone here?”
I shake my head and he laughs at my shyness. “I’ll take you for a whirl around the room, then.” He hooks his elbow, patting his forearm until I loop my hand around it, whereupon he gives a gentle pat. “And don’t worry if you get tongue-tied, all the best artists are hopeless introverts. Not like me. I’m splashy.”
Cue one circuit of the room, so many faces and names they fill my head to bursting. After the second introduction, I settle into the groove, finding a few easy platitudes and some self-deprecating banter to get me through.
Internally, I’m delighted. Not just that he’s taking the time when he only knows me through photos in an email but because he properly introduces me to each person here. No sticking to names and occupations; he gushes over me to each new target, giving me a rundown on their history so I understand how they fit into this world.
At the end of forty minutes, I have details on most of the room and more than a few have swapped numbers, easily tripling the contact list in my phone.
“Take a breather,” Paul says, smiling at my overwhelm as I stare at him, giddy from the evening already. “They’ll have some canapes circulating soon, that’ll give us a chance to embed with a few of the more important people.”
“How do you tell who’s more important?”
“They’re either very loud or very quiet.” He tips me a wink. “It’s always the quiet ones you need to watch out for.”
I finish my glass and swap it out for a new one. Despite the offers of wine, I notice a lot of those gathered aren’t drinking and my shoulders relax a little at the sight. I’m never sure how my abstinence will impact in our alcohol heavy culture.
“What do you think of the art?”
I stifle a nervous giggle with another sip. “Tell you the truth, I’ve been too distracted to look.”
“Then we can do a far more sedate circuit than Gail put you through, just staring at the walls.”
“Thank you so much for this.” My enthusiasm means the words spill out in a rush. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“You’re more than welcome.” He taps the back of my hand. “And remember, you belong here. These are your people.”
We begin our slower circuit, my attention focused on the walls rather than the people gathering. A large abstract painting catches my eye and my body leans towards it enough that Paul notices and guides me there. A rush of emotion captures me as my eyes pick out the tiny details.
“Isn’t it amazing,” he says, turning to nod at a couple of other pieces hanging from the far wall. “Colours and textures on a board but it makes us feel such deep emotions. My wife used to say, this is the closest thing we have to magic.”
“I love her work. When I went through a rough time, her paintings were one of my few sources of joy. She was extraordinary.” The statement is both far too gushy and far too drab to encompass everything her paintings elicit in me, but he nods, lost in introspection. “Would I be able to take a selfie with you? To send to Zane.”
“Show him what he’s missing?” The animation returns to his face as he stands shoulder to shoulder with me.
I take the shot and he plucks the phone from my hand. “Quality control,” he announces when I try to grab it back. “My god, you look absolutely radiant.”
“Of course, I do,” I mutter as he relinquishes my device. “This is one of the best nights of my life. The only thing better would be if my work was on these walls, being stared at. An artist is only fulfilling her purpose when other people see her art.”
