Page 2 of Mercury Rising
“Where are we going tonight?”
Mercury groaned. The session the night before had not been strictly diarised.
“Do we have to?” he moaned. “I don’t think I can face any booze today.”
Bobby dug him in the ribs, making him yell.
“Yes. Lotty will have something up her sleeve. I can sense it.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Lotty said.
Mercury turned sharply. She did look very proud of herself. Despite his hangover, he was intrigued.
“Go on,” he urged.
“I’ve got us a VIP table at Sin.”
“No way,” Bobby exclaimed. “How have you managed that?”
Lotty shrugged. “Contacts.”
As leading online influencers, Mercury and Lotty had London pretty sewn up in terms of access to places. However, even he had failed to get into the VIP area of the capital’s newest and hippest gay club.
“Can’t wait to get that on the gram,” Bobby said. “Everyone’s going to be so jealous.”
Mercury ignored him and kissed Lotty on the cheek. “Thank you, darling.”
“But before that, you and I are going to see some art.”
“Without me?” Bobby cried out.
“Sorry, love. Just us two. We’ll meet you after.”
Mercury sank his head on the pillow. “There’s never any peace, is there? Even on my birthday.”
The vast white space of the Tate Modern gallery had been temporarily dominated by a black wooden structure, a huge rectangular box that looked as if it would hold about twenty people.
Mercury walked around it, sipping a glass of wine. After the amount of booze he’d had the night before, he wasn’t sure hecould keep it down. Still, he’d always sworn by hair of the dog and that evening was no exception.
“Have the aliens finally come for us?” he asked.
“It’s a tunnel of focus, apparently,” Lotty said, squinting at the brochure.
The great and the good of the London art scene were filing in and out of the tunnel like worker ants. In high fashion, of course.
“We should have a go,” Lotty said.
“Do we have to?” Mercury sighed.
The wine was sitting heavy on his stomach and they had places to be.
Lotty grabbed him by the arm. “Of course we do. That’s the deal. What’s the artist called again?”
They walked past a large sign written in red. “Grim.” Mercury frowned. “That’s quite the brand. One sec.”
He scuttled over to the huge billboard and got his phone out. After a quick check that his hair was fine, he pressed Record.
“Hi, guys. Mercury here at the Tate Modern. Here to see…Grim,” he said into the camera, revealing the sign with a flourish. “Let me read about him. Grim is a northern artist who wrestles with the unfairness of society through his art. He displays rage in a style never before seen in the art world.”
