You would be happy for me, Ben. You would encourage me.
That’s unfair. You can’t compare Richard to a ghost. That’s what Ben is, practically. And maybe Ben’s not all he was cracked up to be. You were only sixteen, you know. You were probably looking at him through rose-tinted glasses. He’s probably a grumpy old git in reality.
You know I’m not.
Yes, I know you’re not. But shut up, would you? You’re not here and Richard is. Stop interfering!
I am sounding more and more like a crazy woman every day.
Never mind. The upshot is I’m going to this super-cool launch, Nathan and Lucy won’t mind, and Richard will get over it. There. It’s done.
‘Phwoar, sexy!’ Nicola squeaks into my ear, later that evening.
I knew she’d fancy the pants off Pier Frank. He’s in his mid-twenties, with scruffy dark hair, stubble that verges on a beard, and skinny jeans. He’s not that tall at probably only five foot nine, but Nicola is my height at five foot six, so she doesn’t care one iota.
‘Don’t tell mehehas a girlfriend, because I don’t want to hear it,’ she jokes, dramatically flicking her long blonde hair away from her face.
‘Nah. He’s gay.’
‘Nooo!’ she practically squeals.
‘Shhh!’ I giggle. ‘I’m joking. I don’t know if he’s tied up or not.’
‘Phew.’ She breathes a sigh of relief and ogles him once more. ‘Shall we go and say hi?’
‘Not yet.’ I drag her back. ‘Let’s check out the exhibition first, hey?’
The gallery is situated in the Rocks area, so we walked here in about ten minutes. Nicola wanted to hail a taxi because she’s a lazy little minx, but I wouldn’t let her. She only stopped complaining about her sore feet when we arrived at the venue.
The ceilings are high and the lighting is low, but each of Pier Frank’s black and white photographs has been lit with a startling spotlight. His work is dark and disturbing – a dead dog at the side of the road; a man stalking a woman – and the atmosphere suits them well.
‘I don’t like his stuff very much,’ Nicola reveals after ten minutes of browsing.
‘No, me neither,’ I agree. ‘Shall we get pissed in the corner by the kitchen and nab the canapés as they come out?’
‘I like your thinking.’
‘So what are you going to say to him if you get a chance later?’ I ask through a mouthful of goat’s cheese and caramelised onion mini-tartlet.
‘I don’t know. Do you reckon I should tell him I think his work is pants?’
‘It’s not pants,’ I say. ‘It’s just a bit disturbing.’
‘Disturbing, then.’
‘Why not? That’s clearly the angle he’s going for.’
‘Of course, you’re right. So he’ll be delighted with that reaction?’
‘Probably.’
‘I might nip to the loo,’ she says. ‘Do you wanna come?’
‘No, I’ll save our place by the canapés.’
‘Back in a tick.’
Five minutes later I’m still standing there like a lemon and starting to wish I’d gone to the toilet after all. I could go now, but it’s a big gallery and there are so many people crammed into it that I’d probably miss Nicola on her return and we’d struggle to find each other. She’ll be back soon.
