Free Playing Grace by Hazel Osmond Page B

this; certainly not towards any practical considerations. Like whether Tate had the tact and patience needed to deal with tricky people. Tricky people who weren’t him. Or if his organisational skills would enable him to make sure he had the right people at the right place at the right time.
    ‘I suppose he understands all the health and safety issues?’ she tried.
    ‘He’s doing art tours, Grace,’ Alistair shot back, ‘not potholing.’ He got up and put an arm around her shoulder and she realised he was going to usher her out of the room. ‘I know what all these worries are about.’ His tone was kindly. ‘They’re just manifestations of a teensy bit of jealousy.’ She went to remonstrate, but he held up his finger. ‘And I understand, I really do. We’ve been a settled team for a while and this younger, trendier guy turns up. Charismatic. But really, Grace, you have nothing to fear. He won’t be stealing away any of your potential clients – totally different market. He won’t even be in the office much. It’s not like he’s going to share your desk or anything.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘So, let’s welcome him on board. I told him we’d all go out for a quick one after work. Get to know each other.’
    ‘That’s a good idea,’ she said, despite having absolutely no intention of doing a quick anything with Tate
    ‘And after the weekend, first thing Monday, we’ll get to grips with publicising him and his tours, eh? Update the website, do some emailers, amend the leaflets.’ He took his arm from round her shoulders. ‘Right ho. Out in a minute.’
    She found herself back in reception and there was a click behind her as Alistair locked his door.
    Locking himself in now, as well as locking them out?
    Grace returned to her own office, but hesitated in the open doorway. Tate was sitting at her desk and Gilbert was perched on a corner of it.
    ‘I went to Chicago once,’ Gilbert was saying, ‘very disappointed.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Well, it wasn’t windy. That’s like going to Manchester and finding that it’s not raining.’
    Tate spotted her. ‘Alistair mentioned about going for a drink tonight,’ he said, standing up. ‘Gilbert’s up for it. What about you?’
    ‘Oh, real shame, I’m afraid. I need to see my parents tonight … urgently. Bit of a crisis. Sorry.’ She avoided looking at Gilbert.
    Tate still had one hand on the back of her chair, the onewith the silver ring on the thumb. There was no way she was sitting down, even though he had angled the chair as if inviting her to.
    ‘Sure you’re not still sore, you know, about me in the gallery?’
    ‘Absolutely not. I deal with difficult people all the time.’
    He gave her a look that suggested he had got the insult. ‘Well, as long as you’re OK about it. No hard feelings? ’Cos some people might be tempted, you know, to make faces at me when they think I’m not looking? Perhaps even suggest I was a bit of a dickhead?’
    She thought back to him blowing on her ear in the dark and stooped down to get her bag before executing a quick turn to unhook her coat from the back of the door. ‘I’ll give you a ring on Monday, Gilbert,’ she said back over her shoulder, ‘let you know when Alistair’s written that cheque and, Tate, you have a lovely weekend, enjoy your drink and I’ll see you soon. Not sure when your first tour will be; expect Alistair has it all under control.’
    ‘Doubt it,’ Gilbert said, ‘and, Grace, are you sure you can’t just come for one drink?’
    ‘Love to, but can’t. Sorry. Have fun.’
    She didn’t wait to hear any replies, just got herself out of the room, into reception, picked up the bag of rubbishand opened the front door. Disposing of the kettle could wait until Monday.
    She heard them start talking again and felt forgotten already. Forgotten and miserable about being forgotten.
    She went back to the door of her office. ‘Sorry to interrupt. I just felt I ought to remind you, Gilbert, about