Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79438 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79438 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
As I get up to dispose of my cup and walk out of Starbucks, their conversation sticks with me. Particularly the part where the brunette said it was nice to have a conversation with a man who made her feel special.
I wouldn’t mind having dinner with someone who actually takes an interest in what I have to say.
Damn, would I really hire a man? I mean…it’s not like the attention will be genuine. He’d fake everything. Right?
I don’t know how I feel about that. It’s defeating the purpose, isn’t it?
Still, it would be nice to have dinner with someone who’s focused on me.
With the thoughts mulling in my head, it only takes fifteen minutes before I reach the gallery where I work as an art conservator. I’ve been with ART24 for three years. When I started, the manager, Ridge, promised they’d consider looking at my art once I’ve been with them three years.
For the past two weeks, my stomach’s been spinning with nerves. I’m in two minds about waiting for Ridge to bring up the subject or approaching him myself. He’s not the easiest person to talk to.
During my spare time, I’ve been working to create a collection for when my moment comes.
Entering the gallery, I smile at the guard, Jerry. “Morning.”
“Morning,” he says, only giving me a quick glance.
Heading down to the basement, where various art pieces are stored, I place my handbag on a desk and grab hold of my apron. While I put it on, I inspect the two pieces that got damaged when a pigeon flew into the gallery last week.
It was a shit show, quite literally. The pigeon kept slamming into the walls, and it didn’t help that Ridge was scared of the bird. In his haste to get away from the flying devil, he bumped into the metal tree art piece depicting two faces, and it got a couple of scrapes and chips when it fell over.
The other art piece is quite old, and the pigeon pooped all over it.
Grabbing a cotton swab, I carefully begin to remove the poop, trying to salvage as much as possible of the original oil painting.
I love art and don’t mind restoring pieces, but I’d much rather work on my own designs. It’s my dream to make a living from my artwork. It will show my parents I have talent and didn’t choose the wrong career.
Art has always been my passion.
I come from a family who are all in law. My father is a judge, and my older brother and younger sister are lawyers. My siblings, Mark and Sadie, just opened a law firm together, and because of it, I had to hear what a disappointment I am to the Harrison name.
I’m not going to lie. Sometimes, it feels like I was adopted because I don’t fit in with my family. I love arts and crafts, strolling through markets, and dressing comfortably.
My family loves all things law-related, exclusive events, and getting dressed up on a daily basis. They never dare leave the house in something as simple as jeans and a camisole. Or, God forbid, a T-shirt.
They love heated debates, and I hate confrontation.
They love going to the golf club on Sundays for lunch to mingle with the rich and famous, while I prefer to fly under the radar.
Mom and Sadie have set weekly appointments for their nails and hair, whereas I keep my nails short and neat and only visit a salon twice a year for my hair.
I’m the odd one out. Always have been and probably always will be.
Honestly, there have been times they’ve forgotten to invite me to a family event. Lately, it’s been happening more and more, though.
There’s a familiar sad pang in my chest, but shaking my head, I focus on the painting. It doesn’t help to dwell in my thoughts, and it only makes me feel depressed.
As I lose myself in my work, time creeps by, and before I know it, the day is over. I stand back and inspect the painting, happy with the progress I’ve made. Tomorrow, I’ll be able to patch up the faded spots.
After I wash my hands, I grab my handbag and head up the stairs. Goosebumps spread over my skin as I walk through the gallery that’s much warmer than my workspace.
The basement is always cold, which is nice during the summer, but in winter is downright arctic. Because the art pieces are stored down there, there’s no heating, so I have to dress super-warm.
It’s not the best work conditions, but I’m holding out so I can get my chance to show my work to the gallery.
With summer coming to an end, I make a mental note to go through my winter clothes this weekend to make sure I don’t need anything new.
Just as I walk into the lobby, Ridge comes from the other hallway.