around me now, I know without a doubt that there’s nowhere I’d rather be. And, at the end of the day, how many people can honestly say that?
My thoughts are interrupted as the imposing facade of the Montague Museum comes into view. My glittery lilac ankle boots make a hollow tapping sound on the smooth stone steps as I ascend between the soaring Corinthian columns. One of a row of stately Georgian townhouses, it’s quite an impressive-looking place of work; I still get a thrill of anticipation every time I walk up to it.
Even so, it’s the inside where it really takes your breath away.
The cold air is still tingling on my cheeks as I push through the revolving door into the opulent marble foyer.
Just bear in mind, if you will, that when I say marble, I don’t just mean a few niches or a bit of panelling here and there. Oh, no. That, someone clearly decided, would be far too pedestrian.
Instead, the entire space, from floor to ceiling, is lined in the purest white marble. It’s quite dazzling to the eye if you’re unused to it. Ancient Greek statues flank the sweeping staircase and priceless Chinese porcelain is scattered across every available surface.
In short, it’s a health and safety nightmare. Not to mention a conservationist’s one. But that’s how Lord Montague, the slightly mad Victorian collector who bequeathed the house, wanted it. He actually stipulated the fact when he left the place in trust to be run as a private museum. What began as a cabinet of curiosities soon overtook his entire home, and he was adamant that it should remain that way.
It isn’t a big museum, not at all, but it holds some breathtaking pieces of art. I haven’t even begun to talk about the paintings – that’s really my area of expertise although, in a little place like this, the role of assistant curator covers all departments, as well as some other jobs which a curator would never dream of undertaking in a larger establishment. I help out with everything: hanging pictures, showing visitors around, doing further research into some of the pieces … Just last year, we discovered that one of the more nondescript sketches which had hung in the corridor by the ladies’ toilets was in fact a previously unknown Renoir.
That’s what this job’s like – from the sublime to the ridiculous. I’ve discovered it’s best not to dwell upon the sheer responsibility of it all. It only induces mild panic. Which, in turn, can only be alleviated by several biscuits and a mocha made in the largest mug in the staffroom cupboard.
That’s chocolate biscuits, obviously. I mean, what else?
“You’re here!” Ruby bears down upon me in a kaleidoscope of colour. “Thank God, we’ve been absolutely desperate to talk to you.”
Immediately, I feel a shiver of alarm and my hands stop halfway down the velvet-covered buttons of my coat.
“What’s the matter? It’s not one of the paintings, is it?”
I have this recurring nightmare that I’m standing in the main picture gallery, and someone’s drawn all over one of the Gainsboroughs with permanent marker. I’m trying desperately to rub it off, but the paint itself begins to dissolve, running down the wall in rivulets. Then, if I don’t wake up at that point, it only gets worse, because someone else trips over Casper, who’s mysteriously appeared, and I can only watch in mounting horror as they pitch head first into a William Etty, before …
“We can’t wait to hear all about your date,” Eve, who’s been following behind at a more stately pace, ventures excitedly. She claps her hands together, making the stacks of rings she wears jingle against one another.
The sound of her voice catapults me back into the present, visions of irreplaceable artworks biting the dust receding mercifully into the abyss. My relief is short-lived, however, as my heart sinks all over again, this time for an entirely different reason.
Why did I have to tell them about my date? I should know better by now, what with Casper’s track record in that department.
To be honest, after the disastrous events of last night, I’d sort of begun to forget about my equally disastrous date with James. One disaster rather eclipsed the other, if you will. But now it comes rushing back to me, with an attendant sense of acute humiliation. I really can’t face talking about this now. I look down, hoping I can hedge my way around it.
“Oh, it was … uh, fine. You know, nice. Ish. Kind of.”
They’re looking hopelessly confused, not unreasonably. I focus my attention on unbuttoning the rest of my coat, not meeting their eyes. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again, though.”
“Oh,” they chorus, faces falling in mutual disappointment. There’s a brief awkward pause, during which I brace myself for the inevitable barrage of questions. But, to my immense gratitude, they hurriedly start chattering about museum matters, Ruby recounting a story about someone who brought an illicit sandwich into the Egyptian gallery and refused to give it up, resulting in an undignified tussle with one of the room attendants. Eve chimes in every now and again, filling the gaps with amusing observations, and not for the first time, I find myself sending up a little prayer of thanks for my wonderful volunteers.
No one would ever imagine that these two would have become such fast friends. A candyfloss-pink-haired art student barely out of her teens and an elegant, cashmere-clad grandmother of four wouldn’t usually even mix, let alone find so much in common. But they adore one another. They’re usually to be found together, laughing over something or other in a corner. They’re not exactly the most productive of volunteers; they’re far too busy having a good time for that. But they’re easily my favourites. The museum just wouldn’t be the same without them.
Not, of course, that I’d ever tell them that. It wouldn’t do for them to get too complacent.
I have a sneaking suspicion that they know anyway, though.
“But we ought not to detain you, dear,” Eve is saying now. She leans towards me with a meaningful look. “You might want to get straight up to your office, if you catch my meaning. You know who has been looking for you.”
Over her shoulder, Ruby is nodding conspiratorially, her flamingo-shaped earrings dancing against her neck.
I don’t need telling twice. I head for the stairs, mouthing a thank you as I go.
It’s not often that I view my poky little office as a haven. The walls are a depressing sort of magnolia colour which has greyed with age, and the tiny window looks out onto the car park. My desk is wedged into the corner at such an angle that I have to climb into my chair from the side because I can’t pull it back properly. On the whole, I endeavour to spend as little time holed up in here as possible, but today, as I close the door behind me, it presents a welcoming refuge.
In here, I’m safe. No one can get to me.
Even so, it’s with a lurch that my gaze falls upon the ominous-looking pile of grant applications still looming large on the edge of my desk. I really can’t put those off any longer. The odd offhand query as to their state of completion began to be flavoured faintly with vexation a couple of weeks ago. Last Wednesday, it morphed into something more closely resembling a demand. I simply can’t admit to Jeremy that they’re still not finished.
And I can’t carry on avoiding him for much longer either, I concede reluctantly. I’m running out of pillars to jump behind and garbled excuses as to why I can’t stop for a discussion. Sooner or later, the game’s going to be up.
