‘Well cheers to that!’
After tapping their glasses together, they sat in silence, for a long moment. Gareth seemed to be contemplating again.
‘You know, nothing spurs creativity like more creativity …’ His thought process was whirring almost visibly behind his eyes. ‘I was at a strange little dingy place in Vauxhall last week and there was this girl there, Ruby Tongue – great name. She was some kind of poet, and she made me think of you. Maybe it was just the jewel name similarity, but she had this amazing energy, and I thought … I mean she’s black and looked pretty scruffy, but I thoughtthisis where this country’s great artists are, out there in the streets, scraping a living, barely getting by, let alone selling their art. You know, running the gallery, I’ve gotten so tired recently of the same old thing, someone’s mediocre son coming to me with a portfolio of landscapes that I’ve seen a million times before, but in this very city there is real grit, and we just can’t seem to tap into it.’
‘What are you saying, Gareth? That I should find this RubyTongue girl and buy one of her poems? Or be her patron or something?’
Gareth raised his eyebrows. It would seem that was exactly what he was saying.
‘Or collaborate on something? I don’t know, set up an artists’ residency for the underprivileged. You love all that charity bollocks. Why don’t you funnel some of that money into something you actually care about?’
It was true that she had always felt a bit of the imposter Tory poster wife with her charity endeavours, like the other women around her. The point was mainly to keep her occupied. What Gareth was suggesting, though, it filled her with a cautious excitement. ‘So how would that even work, a residency I mean?’
Gareth had takenhisart history degree and made his mark. The gallery that he managed and curated was called Toad, for what reason it was never explained, but it was one of the most successful private art spaces in London, right in the heart of Soho. Despite its risqué neighbours – it was flanked by a strip joint and a pornography shop – it always seemed to attract those with enough money to adorn most of his collections with red stickers within forty-eight hours of the private viewing.
It was disconcerting for Opal to think too hard about the fact that when they had met, they had both been on, if not the same track, then at least at the same pit stop. Gareth, though, had gone careening down the road of professional success, whilst she had slowed into the leisurely pace of kept womanhood.
‘You just invite an artist that you think just needs the time and space to create something and offer them bed and board. Some residencies offer grant money alongside that.’
‘And what happens at the end of that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Like what happens to the art they make, and their work after that?’
‘Well, if it’s good they can sell it, or perform it or exhibit it.’ Gareth seemed confused with all the questions.
‘I feel as though it’s rather a short-term fix.’ Opal imagined some poor artist coming to Fairfax for a summer, far from the inspiring world of the London art scene and finding themselves obliged to make something to satisfy their temporary patron, only to be cast back out at the end of August.
‘If I’m going to help, I want it to be impactful, and I want it to be someone deserving, truly talented.’ Opal was animated but firm. Only then did she even notice that both their glasses were empty. They were both enthralled by this burgeoning daydream.
‘Well maybe instead of just bed and board you could offer a prize, a sort of grant, but only if they can create something really special—’
Opal was getting giddy. She cut Gareth off. ‘Maybe it should be a contest? That way it’ll be deserved. They’ll have to prove themselves against a bit of healthy competition!’
‘How many could you accommodate?’ Gareth leant in.
‘Well, probably no more than about five; some of the rooms in the east wing are far too damp to put anyone up, especially for the whole summer.’
‘Five would do perfectly. And the prize money?’
Opal leant back. How much money would change a life? Or if not a life then at least propel a career. The thought that it would in fact be Martin’s money she was offering only made her tend towards an even more generous suggestion.
‘Seventy-five thousand pounds,’ she said triumphantly.
Gareth’s eyes twinkled. ‘Christ, Opal, can I sign up?’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way but you’re far too old,’ Opal teased.
‘I most definitely will take it the wrong way!’ Gareth’s voice was high with faux indignation. ‘And I will also make another suggestion, as you seem open to performers as well as artists.’
‘As far as I’m concerned they are one and the same.’
‘Adam, he’s a dancer, tap by day and ballroom by night …’ Gareth trailed off. ‘You know what I mean by ballroom?’
Opal shifted in her seat. She got the sense that if he was asking, she probably didn’t.
‘It’s a gay thing, well specifically a black gay thing, so understandably not your scene …’ Gareth reassured her. ‘All you need to know is that Adam is a great dancer.’ A pause. ‘He was Joshua’s nephew.’
