"I...made an error of judgement. And now I find myself in a bit of a financial hole."
I get up then, so I can do some good quality pacing. "You entered into a dodgy deal and now the entire artistic community in this town is going to pay the price to cover your arse?" I say, "You are not going to raise the rents," at the same time as he says, "I need to raise the rents."
I stop pacing and lock eyes with him. "Over my dead body."
"You only own thirty percent of the building, Bess. Or should I say, yourbusinessonly owns thirty percent of the building. Both of us bought this building through our companies, which means I am the majority shareholder. I think I can raise the rents if I want to."
He's right. He absolutely can. And there's nothing I'll be able to do about it.
"They need to be at market rate."
"Market rate? Do you have any idea what impact that will have? I'll have to increase the percentage the gallery takes from sales, so less money for artists. I'll have to cut staff, so fewer jobs for artists. The people currently living in the flats won't be able to afford the rent, so no housing for artists. This place is the one thing propping up this community. It'll be gone overnight. Sixty years of being the artistic centre of Devon, gone. And all because you did some dodgy backroom deal, and you have the poor grace to come here and drop this bombshell in brand new, designer fucking shoes."
He has the decency to allow an expression of embarrassment to pass across his features. It is fleeting, however. "I didn't do a dodgy backroom deal. Don't be presumptive. I am a gentleman."
I snort. "I've met many a true gentleman in my time, even some who earned the title and were not born into it. None of them are standing on this roof."
"Look. I'm sorry, okay? I really am. But the financial situation I now find myself in is...difficult and I need to turn a charitable investment into one that, well, behaves like a normal investment. I have no choice but to make money off this building."
"No. Go and cry to daddy instead."
Folding his arms, The Odour says, "Don't be ridiculous. I'd never cry in front of my father."
"I bet you're too scared to ask him for a bail out, because this isn't the first time."
He says nothing.
I throw my hands up in the air. "Christ. Why on earth did Olympia suggest you as someone who might be a patron?"
The Odour drops his voice. "Olympia wouldn't have known about that. The matter was between me and my father." He sniffs. "Anyway, I paid him back. I'm not a total flake whatever you may think of me."
"Sell your share then. I'll find another patron." It's complete bluster. It was difficult enough finding the first arts patron who was willing to spend a lot of money for little return. I'd have better chance at successfully terraforming a colony on Mars.
"I need to prove to my father I can manage my money in perpetuity. Selling assets to cover one's arse is short-term management."
"You'll have turned a profit."
"Not enough of one after two years."
I stop pacing and stand in front of him. "Are you really willing to risk the demise of a whole community, because you have daddy issues?"
His eyes harden. "Don't be dramatic, Bess. You'll be alright. You said turnover was up seventy percent."
"I did say that. But the crucial thing is, Theo, it needs to be to account for winter turnover running at a loss. Income is seasonal in this town. It's a very different world from your life in London."
The Odour looks down at his new shoes and says nothing, like the shame-faced fucker he should feel.
Eventually, I ask the only question left. "How long have we got?"
Chapter eight
Ed
Tuesdayisoneofthe best days of the week. Partly because I get a hand-delivered coffee and a pastry, but mostly because the day ends in Lutek’s workshop behind the gallery and café, hanging out with some of my most favourite Port Derrumites and pursuing my own creative endeavour of writing. Which means I get to see Bess twice in one day.
The official name for the weekly event is Tuesday Night Art Fight. It's less a no-holds barred, paint-slinging death match and more a gentle evening for arty people to share the processes around their various artistic mediums. And drink wine. But Bess came up with the name, naturally, so it just sounds like a no-holds barred, paint-slinging death match.
But, who knows? Sometimes after the fourth bottle of wine is collectively consumed, things can get a little messy, so there's still time for the evening to live up to its ridiculous moniker.
