In that moment of pressurised panic, my wheeling, turning, flighty brain lands on something solid. "Wait. Say nothing," I say in a hurry. "I think I know of a sure-fire way out of this."
We scatter back to our workstations as Bess opens the door.
Chapter twenty-nine
Bess
Outinthestreet,a car roars as it gets closer then the noise dies abruptly with a short screech of tyres.
I don't need to look out the gallery window to know a Jag with the number plate WEPN is parked outside.
"Awesome," I say to no one in particular. I don't really have time to talk to him today. We had a record number of orders come in overnight and I have a lot of wrapping to do and sending to arrange. But talk to him I must, since he won't make ignoring him an option.
The door is open for the breeze and he bellows "Chica!" several swaggers from entering the gallery.
I don't bother to look up from my task. "Hello, Theo."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him throw his arms wide.
"Don't hug me. I'm too busy and I also don't want you to touch me."
He puts his hands up in surrender. "Hey now, sister. I'm all about the consent."
"No you're not."
The Odour laughs. "Bess, you have the wrong impression about me. Underneath it all, I'm actually a pretty decent guy."
"Say all men who touch women without asking and hold a gun to the head of their investment partners."
"What? I would never hold a jammy to anyone's temple."
"It's a metaphor for you forcing me into a position I desperately don't want to be in, Theo. Now get out of the way while I get the next product."
I push past him and a harried-looking, middle-aged, white man steps in behind The Odour, his arms cradling a large box. He wears a tweed jacket over a linen shirt. "Hi Bess, I stayed up most of the night and have the next two landscapes."
"You're a trooper, Phil. Put them behind the counter and I'll hang them this morning." Phil is one of the many Port Derrum artists the gallery supports. Phil is also one of the many Port Derrum artists now struggling to meet consumer demand, which is a problem everyone is both delighted and despairing about.
Something comes over The Odour, like he's stepped through a portal into the Land of Nobs and has recognised his home planet language of 'Tweed'.
"Hello there, my fine man," he says, his vowels fattened and rounded to bursting.
"Hi," says Phil with a sideways look, because he's far too polite to say, "Who the fuck are you and why are you being a patronising dick?"
"Theo Pinkerton, co-landlord of this fine establishment." He gives a little bow and holds out his hand for a handshake.
Phil doesn't make a move. He raises his chin and eyes The Odour unblinkingly. All the artists who contribute work to the gallery know about the reneging of his charitable spirit due to financial stupidity. Because I called a meeting and told them. It didn't go down well, understandably.
After several seconds, Theo forces out a magnanimous laugh. "I guess I deserve that."
"You actually deserve a punch to the throat, but Phil is far too much of a gentleman to stoop to that."
"And am I glad about that. You're a strapping man. Ex-rugby player?"
Phil doesn't answer.
The Odour glances down at the paintings Phil's leaned against the wall. "Might I add, you're a very talented –"
Phil looks at me and cuts him off. "I've got some prints coming too. Should be here tomorrow."
