Page 6 of Midnight

‘So, what’s the word?’ Tricia rushed over, hovering by Olivia’s side as they walked back to her desk. In response, Olivia held up the tickets.

‘Ooh, fancy. You’re taking me, right?’

‘Naturally.’

A few days later, and she and Trish had been on their way to the gallery.

She’d tugged at the hem of her plain black Zara shift dress, the nicest thing she owned. Despite her best intentions, she hadn’t had time to buy something new – her next set of exams were rapidly approaching, and she’d fallen behind on her studies while she researched the art world for Mr Lavaud. The people queuing to enter the gallery were all in chic outfits by well-known designers,and Tricia looked fantastic in rented Hervé Léger. She’d understood the assignment, and Olivia wished she had half her friend’s style. Trish had offered to lend her a dress, but there was almost a foot of height difference between them. Olivia towered over her friend – clothes sharing had never been one of the benefits of living together.

She wasn’t here for fashion, she reminded herself. This was for her career. She needed to write up a comprehensive report for Mr Lavaud, to establish if any of them would be worth a potential investment.

All the facts stacked up in Olivia’s mind, neatly arranged. She’d compiled recent auction sales over the past five years into a spreadsheet, trying to model a pattern for the investments. She tracked the major crashes too.

The financial models for art investment were complicated. Very few artists ever achieved blue-chip status with their work – meaning that they were likely to increase in economic value. It required all the stars to align. Not just producing an incredible piece. But also having the backing of the right gallery. The swirl of buzz from the media, acclaim from the critics. A heady cocktail of talent, luck and hype. Social media presence could help too. Flipping art for profit was a risky venture, but could be incredibly lucrative for the right buyer, with the right artist.

And it helped to have a feisty, motivated dealer to support you.

Everyone in the room was hoping to find the next Rothko or Hirst. Olivia craned her neck, trying to get a glimpse of the art on the walls, but the crowds were so dense, she could barely see – only glimpses of brightcolour, interspersed among the cocktail attire and blow-dried hair.

‘I’m going to find us some drinks,’ said Tricia, who hadn’t given the paintings a second look. She looked sensational, though, like she belonged.

Olivia wandered the gallery rooms, each sectioned off in a seemingly random fashion – a warren of art, each piece given its own dedicated space. The walls were so blindingly white it made her eyes ache. It didn’t seem right that somewhere so bright could conceal so many secret corners – but she found it as easy to get lost in the blank spaces as in a darkened labyrinth.

Almost towards the very back of the gallery, she found a spot where a group wasn’t already crowding the space in front of a piece, sipping champagne and making pretentious remarks. A slim red velvet rope sectioned off the room from the rest of the gallery. She checked over her shoulder before unclipping it and slipping inside.

For a moment, she found herself alone. The tension in her shoulders eased almost as soon as she entered the space, a soft hum vibrating over her skin.

A single canvas hung on the wall opposite, dominating the space. Olivia walked until she stood directly in front of the piece, transfixed.

She found herself transported back to visiting art galleries with her mum. Each time had been a treat, their chance to connect – whether learning about the grand masters in the Scottish National Gallery or checking out the latest installation at the Tate Modern on a rare weekend trip to London. Her mum had been an accomplished artist herself, painting from their cottage deep inthe Scottish wilderness. Olivia blinked. When was the last time her mum had picked up a paintbrush? It must have been years.

Her mother’s talent lay buried under a mountain of grief, and now was lost to her disease – like so much of her personality and memories. Every visit, Olivia hunted for a way for them to connect again, a life jacket to throw out and rescue their relationship. Yet her mother only seemed to drift even further away.

Pinpoint the feeling.That’s what her mum would say. Olivia took a step closer to the painting, trying to find the right word to describe her emotions. It was something like … wonder? Not quite.

Awe. Awe was closer. The sound seemed to wrap its way around her body, all while she was entranced by the image on the canvas: a stark, barren landscape made up of bold streaks of blue and white paint that almost seemed to glow from within.

It was a restless piece that seemed almost alive, like the paint was crawling across the frame, made of ants instead of oil. The hum in the background grew louder as she lost herself in the visuals, until she was bathed in sound. Finally she could wait no longer, and she scanned the piece with her phone, needing to know more.

nemigaby Kostas Yennin. A mixed-media piece. The hum was intentional, composed by the artist himself. She remembered the name from her research, but not much had come up about him – no social media presence to speak of, no major sales as of yet, represented by a young dealer with a lot of ambition but no real success yet. Aaron somebody.

She took a step closer.

Then a waft of cologne washed over her, the sense of it so strong, she felt it tingle her nostrils, something musky with a hint of vanilla sweetness. Expensive. Alluring.

She spun around, thinking of the velvet rope. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, skittering back from the artwork. ‘I was just looking for some space and …’

But the man smiled. ‘And what do you think?’ He gestured to the canvas behind her.

She took a deep breath. With the white walls behind him, the man looked not unlike a painting himself – almost too perfect to be real. He looked so at ease in his expertly tailored suit but no tie, his hands resting in his pockets.

She used his words as permission to look at it again. ‘It’s astonishing,’ she said.

He tilted his head. ‘I personally think this isthepiece to watch in this whole collection. The desolation of our planet’s most remote landscapes inspires him, in particular Antarctica. Yet he takes something that’s quite bleak and manages to find that spark of beauty too. His art speaks to the tension between isolation and peace, loneliness and purposeful meditation. A canvas devoid of life and yet full of emotion.’ He lowered his voice.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Olivia. ‘But why aren’t more people in here looking at it?’

‘I roped off this piece so I could bring key VIPs to see it individually. But since you found it on your own, please – take your time.’

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