Page 6 of Pride
I took a moment to gather my thoughts.
I could look at this in one of two ways.
I could get pissed off. Feel angry that my Friday night plans had been ruined and lament the fact that my boss was an absolute twat and treated me like garbage.
Or I could see this as an opportunity. Go into the art gallery on my own, without my sweaty boss breathing down my neck. Take the photos, get the quotes, and do the job I’d always dreamed of doing. Tonight, I could be Emma Belmont, Reporter. Instead of Emma Belmont, lackey and general dogsbody to Mr Gold. I knew which one I preferred.
I took the card from Mr Gold and turned to face the guards. I fully expected them to tell me to get to the back of the line, but they didn’t.
Instead, they stood back to let me enter.
“I’ll do my best,” I said, walking forward, then I turned to face Mr Gold, but he wasn’t there anymore. He was already heading towards the limo, waiting at the kerb.
“Don’t worry, Miss,” the first guard said. “We’ll take good care of you tonight.”
And my stomach rolled.
Why did it feel like I’d just entered the lion’s den?
CHAPTER THREE
EMMA
“Name?” the girl at the entrance desk asked snootily.
“Emma Belmont.”
She scanned her iPad for my name, and then, without looking up, she snapped, “You’re not on the list.”
“Oh. Well, I’m here from the Merivale Echo,” I added, trying to inject confidence into my voice.
She lifted her head and narrowed her eyes at me. “Why didn’t you say that then?” she hissed, and then tapped away at her iPad before thrusting a lanyard at me labelled ‘Press’.
I gave her a wry smile as I took the lanyard and put it on, wishing I could tell her she was fucking rude, but I kept that in my head, and instead, I thanked her for her help.
It was bad enough that I didn’t want to be here, working on a Friday night, when there was a gin and tonic with my name on it in a bar in this city. But to have to deal with rude assholes too was trying my already super-thin patience. But then, I did want a promotion at work. I wanted it so badly I was prepared to enter the room behind me with its electric buzz of music and animated chatter that made my stomach roll with nerves.
I could do this.
I could show Stephan Gold that I was worth more than the menial tasks he’d always given me.
I straightened my back, stood tall and proud, then strode forward, walking down the short corridor into the main area of the gallery.
Once inside, I stopped for a moment to take it all in. There were people everywhere, dressed smartly, standing in groups, talking and laughing. Waiting staff were walking around with trays of champagne and canopies, and rap music was playing in the background. It wasn’t the kind of music I’d have expected to hear in a room full of well-dressed, mostly middle-aged men and women. But the people here were the wealthier classes, the ones who could afford to buy the artwork on display. And that artwork matched the vibe of the music to a tee. Young, urban, edgy, my eyes didn’t know where to look first.
To my left, was a huge canvas with a painted image of the Grim Reaper, his finger pointing into the room, looking so creepy it sent a shiver down my spine. The words, ‘Don’t get crazy with me. I’m better at it than you’ were written underneath, and then the artist’s name, Finn Knowles, was signed at the bottom. I had no idea who he was, but I took a picture on my phone and added the name to my notes app.
To the right was an image of the evolution of man, from apes to humans, walking in a line until, eventually, at the end, the human images turned into a barcode. And on the other side of the barcode was a man with an axe, cutting through it. ‘Consume Life’, was the title, and the artist was listed as Shelley Masters. I did the same again, snapping a few photos on my phone and adding her name to my list.
I wandered further into the gallery, where sculptures and artwork were placed in glass boxes. One particular sculpture caught my eye: a man’s hand holding a child’s, both hands emerging from soil, sprouting like flowers from the ground. Theman’s hand had blemished skin, mottled almost, like old burns had marked it. But the child’s was flawless. The exact opposite. ‘The Beauty of Rebirth’ was the sculpture’s title, and below, the artist’s name was listed as Zak Atwood.
I started to type out a few ideas and thoughts on my phone as I ventured forward, making a left turn as I did, and then I stopped. My head whipping up as I saw the graffiti wall at the end of the gallery. My mouth hung open as I tried to take it all in.
The words ‘Follow your heart’ were spray-painted in the middle of the wall, but the heart around it was shattered into pieces, and inside each piece was something the artist obviously felt torn about. As torn and broken as the heart itself. I took slow steps forward as I studied each section of the shattered heart.
On one piece was money scattered about, but when I looked closer, I saw the image on the notes was of a skull with a raven beside it, pecking over the carcass. Another piece depicted a family; a mother holding a baby, as a man held her. Then there was a book with the pages torn out and falling to the ground. Another had music notes held behind the bars of a prison cell. There was a mouth taped shut, and a face that seemed to scream out, its eyes bulging in fear. There was so much to absorb from this one piece. It had stunned me into an awe-inspired silence.
I took a photo of the artwork as a whole, then moved closer to photograph each part because it was captivating and held so much meaning. Each section deserved to be seen.
