Free Fire After Dark by Sadie Matthews Page B

around his thin lips and the next moment he has burst out laughing. ‘Well, you’re certainly enthusiastic, I’ll give you that. History of Art degree, eh? That’s a good qualification. Sit down, we’ll have a chat. Can I get you a cup of coffee or tea?’
    ‘Great.’ I beam at him and sit down where he’s indicated. From then on, we get on very well. He’s easy to talk to – charming, in fact, with beautiful manners – and I don’t feel any interview nerves at all. It’s more like a pleasant chat with a kindly teacher, except that he has miles more style than any teacher at my old school. He’s extremely good at getting information out of me without my really noticing it and I tell him all about my degree, my life at uni, my favourite artists and why I’ve always been drawn to art even though I’m rubbish at drawing and painting.
    ‘The world needs people who love things as well as who do them,’ he remarks. ‘Theatre, for example, isn’t just made of up actors and directors. There are the agents, the producers, the impresarios and financiers, who keep the whole thing running. Books don’t exist simply because of writers, but because of publishers and editors and all the people who run bookshops for the love of it. Art, of course, is the same. You don’t have to paint like Renoir to appreciate art and to work in the delicate but important business of promoting artists and buying and selling their work.’
    I feel enthused about the possibility of a career in the art world, and I suppose he can see my excitement because he looks at me over the top of his gold-framed spectacles and says not unkindly, ‘But all these worlds are very difficult to work in because the competition is intense. Getting your foot in the door is vital. I’ve already had a dozen answers to my card in the window. People know that it’s an excellent opportunity to get experience.’
    I must look deflated because he smiles and says, ‘But I like you, Beth. And you clearly adore your subject and know a lot about it. As a matter of fact, I know one of the tutors on your course, he’s an old friend of mine, so I know you’ll have an excellent grounding in modern art. I tell you what. I’m seeing some other people later but I’ll certainly remember this conversation.’ He looks serious for a moment. ‘I must stress that the position is a temporary one. My full-time assistant has been unexpectedly taken into hospital and will be away for several weeks, but he’ll be returning to the position when he’s recovered.’
    I nod. ‘I understand.’ I don’t tell him that I’m a temporary Londoner myself. I can work all that out if I get the job, which doesn’t sound very likely.
    He hands me an ivory business card engraved with navy copperplate. It reads:
     
    James McAndrew
    Riding House Gallery
     
    Below are his contact details. I give him my mobile number and email address which he writes down on a pad on the desk. His writing is, like him, measured, elegant and a little old-fashioned.
    ‘I’ll be in touch,’ James says, with another of those wise smiles of his, and a moment later, I’m back on the high street, feeling jubilant. I grin at my reflection in shop windows as I pass them, still getting used to my blonde waves and the curvaceous figure my black dress gives me. Even if I don’t get the job, I’m pleased that I had the courage to walk in off the street and give it my best shot. I decide that, no matter what, I’ll go back and see James and get some advice on what I should do next if I want to work in the art world.
    I’m surprised when I look at my watch and see that it’s getting late. I head back for home. Amazing how much time shopping and preening can take if you let it.
     
    The flat opposite is in darkness. I stare at it for a while, hoping that the light will suddenly go on and reveal Mr R there. I’m desperate to see him. He’s been buzzing around in my mind all day, constantly there, almost as