He was slightly ahead of her. ‘No problem. The cocktail lounge is just up here, I’ll go in and order the champagne.’
‘Great.’ Holly walked into the gift shop, well aware that her Versace dress and Cartier bracelet looked sorely out of place amongst the ‘Vegas Vacation’ souvenirs and knick-knacks. She found her way to a jewellery case that contained myriad trinkets and baubles of every shape and size. Briefly looking inside, she found exactly the thing to commemorate such an occasion.
Peering down into the glass case at a selection of silver Vegas-themed charms, she asked the clerk to remove one in particular. A set of dice.
She paid for her purchase, slipping the small charm into her evening bag alongside her bracelet, reflecting that Nick could have saved a lot of money if he had just thought of a charm as a souvenir of their time here as opposed to the Cartier bracelet.
And as Holly headed to the lounge where Nick waited for her with a bottle of champagne, a new thought occurred to her, a much more troubling one, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
Roll the dice …he had said.
Could it be that Nick was reducing their relationship to a simple game of chance? And what’s more, Holly thought regretfully, hadn’t she just agreed with him?
33
Greg packed up his camera and some film and loaded himself and his kit bag onto his bike. Billy from theNYThad very kindly thrown him another bone – this one with the New York Historical Society of which his wife was curator.
The society was one of the oldest museums in New York and located on the Upper West Side. His parents donated money to them, and he and Karen had gone to a few charity events there.
‘She wants to know if you would be interested in doing an instalment of a show they're working on, called Right and Riots or something, about people protesting down through the ages.’
Greg didn’t need to be asked twice. It was exactly along the lines of his ‘People and the City’ portfolio and he couldn’t wait to get started.
When he got to the building, Billy’s wife was waiting in the huge marble lobby. She was short and energetic and zipped over to him with her hand stuck out.
‘Greg. Hi, I'm Ingrid.’ Before he could even say hello, she had pinned a visitor’s badge on him and was shepherding him into one of the galleries.
‘I'm sorry; it's always crazy when we plan a new show. We never have enough staff, or money … ’
She paused and blushed a little. ‘Speaking of which, did Billy tell you anything about money?’ she asked meekly.
‘Only that I probably wouldn't be getting much of it … ’
Ingrid squeezed her eyes shut, like a child trying to ignore a bad deed it had done.
‘How about … none?’ She opened one eye and peered at him hopefully.
Greg stood in the middle of the gallery, with its beautiful high ceiling, marble floor and heavy oak doors. He was standing in the oldest museum in New York City and they couldn't afford to pay him. Yet, in truth, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
‘OK, so what do I get?’ he chuckled. ‘A Hudson River Valley painting? Free membership for life?’
She laughed with him, relieved. ‘No, but I think we can put your name in lights. In here at least.’
Greg stuck his hand out this time, ‘Sounds great to me, I'm in.’
‘Phew!’ Ingrid shook his hand again and brought him through the empty gallery, pointing out where things were going to go, and showing him how she wanted the photos to be blown up and hung. When they got to the end of the gallery, she led him through another pair of huge wooden doors to the other end of the main hall.
‘Let's go up to my office, we can go over paperwork, and you can meet a few people.’
She pushed a big brass button for the elevator; when the doors opened, Greg found himself entering the largest elevator he had ever seen.
‘I know,’ said Ingrid as they stepped inside, ‘it's pretty amazing, isn’t it?’
They went up to the offices on the third floor and he followed Ingrid into her office. He sat and filled out paperwork, amazed at himself for making financial and copyright decisions without a lawyer, but feeling pretty confident anyway.
Ingrid beamed as she gathered up everything, ‘Wonderful, now you meet our resident photographer.’
They took the elevator back to the basement where he was led into a huge workroom. There a little man sat at a stool going over prints with an eye piece. ‘Greg Matthews, this is Ed Rushton, out staff photographer – he's in charge of the exhibition.’
