A few hours later, freshened up and clothes changed, half a baguette and an apple in my stomach, I’m standing inside London College of Art waiting for St. Clair to come out of a meeting with the professors of the college. A display of student art installations sits in the center of the room, and it’s fun to look at what creativity the students are allowed to develop. I remember how much easier it was to take risks when there were safety nets and no real-world repercussions, and I miss the feeling of flying, of being so inspired you just jump and trust that where you land is where you’re supposed to be.
“Grace?” St. Clair is at my elbow. “Sorry that took so long. We’re finalizing the details of the show and as you know, artists can be…particular.”
I laugh. “That’s very diplomatic of you. Now, what show would that be?” I pull out my notebook and pen like a reporter, a trick I learned from Paige, who is always saying her notes are her lifesavers.
“Right,” St. Clair says, shaking his head like he can’t believe himself. “Sorry again. I haven’t even told you what you’ll be doing here, have I?”
“Not in so many words,” I admit.
“My company is sponsoring a graduation show for the college. It’s a whole event, with a huge opening the press will attend and all the big names in the industry. It’s a big honor for the students who are chosen to exhibit their final pieces.”
I nod. “I’m sure it can jumpstart careers. Change lives.”
He agrees, “It does, which is why the professors always bring in an impartial outside judge.”
“That’s a big task,” I say, figuring he must have to look at hundreds of portfolios. “Do you want me to vet the first round?”
He grins. “I want you to select the honorees.”
I catch my tongue before blurting out Me? like a moron. “Are you sure? It wasn’t so long ago I was a student myself.”
He leads me down a hallway. “I want to show you something.” We stop in front of a studio space, and I peer through the big glass window at five easels set up, with painters focused and working behind each. A professor wanders the room, critiquing, wiggling her fingers at some folks and gesturing wildly in sweeping motion with her arms at others.
The smell of paint and just-stretched canvas is thick in the air. I take a deep breath, letting memories of classes and afternoons spent with my brush guiding my hand wash over me. “This takes me back.”
“Exactly,” St. Clair says. He points to the students, who don’t pay any attention to us. In the zone. “You know how much this will mean to those students, and you have no ulterior motives or political agenda, so you are the perfect person to choose the winners.”
“But who’s to say what the best really is?” I ask, nervous.
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, you, for one, being my art consultant. That’s part of your job.”
I frown. “You know what I mean, right? Art is so subjective—why should my opinion matter more than someone else’s?”
“Because it does.” St. Clair looks at me. “You have a gift at seeing the deeper emotion of a piece. It’s why I hired you. Your opinion matters more than anyone’s.”
I have to look away.
I watch the students working, their faces concentrated, their brushes dipping and lifting from canvas to palette. I think about what possibilities may have been out there for me if I’d been able to finish my scholarship at the prestigious east coast college where I met Paige. What an award like this would have meant for me.
“Someone’s life is going to change dramatically after this,” I tell him. Not unlike mine did recently. The universe is funny like that, giving us the thing we want only after we’ve given up hope. Maybe because it’s then that we are finally willing to take a risk.
“Just follow your instincts,” he reassures me.
We walk back to the main entrance, but fatigue hits me like a bullet train and I’m suddenly too tired to stand. I wobble a little and St. Clair steadies me. “You okay?”
“I think I may need to lie down.”
He chuckles softly. “I told you, jet-lag is no joke.” He slips an arm around me. “Now, the TSA, that’s a joke.”
“Haha,” I say, but I’m practically letting him carry me as we begin walking back to the front of the building. “Sorry to be such a pain.”
“Not at all,” he says, always a gentleman. “Let’s get you back to the apartment so you can sleep. We have plenty of time for this, so take tomorrow to rest and settle in.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. A whole day to explore! My tired brain is already racing with the possibilities, so I know I’d better take advantage of this opportunity to rest while I can.
CHAPTER 6
I sleep like the dead for fifteen hours straight. St. Clair was right about jet-lag being no joke, but I wake feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, and ready to take on the world. How could I not be? I’m in London: international center of art and culture— and sexy accents. Though St. Clair’s is still my favorite.
I text Paige. I’m here, lover! Want to have lunch today?
I make a pot of tea and sip as I watch the light play off the orange and pink houses on this block, the white trim like reflectors in the morning sun. Paige writes back, OMG, yes!! Meet me at the Covent Garden market. 2 hours?
I write, Tips for getting there?
Tube it up! She replies. There’s a Covent Garden stop. Excited to see you!
My chest constricts. It’s been so long. ME TOO.
I shower and slip into a casual dress—London is generally dressier than San Francisco, but it’s still a weekday afternoon—and head out into the street feeling like I always imagined it would feel to live abroad: glamorous, thrilling, a little bit scary. Things are new, but that makes them exciting, and I feel like a whole new version of myself, too.
I head down the steps to the Tube station under the big red and white circle icon, figure out how to buy a subway pass, and step through the turnstile. I take a picture of the Mind the Gap sign, for Fred back home, who wants that painted on his kitchen wall someday. The London Underground train seems much cleaner than BART, and it moves fast, though there’s not much to see since it is, after all, underground.
I exit at Covent Garden and find myself in a narrow maze of old cobbled streets. Here, the stores are crammed in older buildings, and there are a ton of tourists watching street performers by the side of the road. I get my bearings, and head down the hill to where a covered market is filled with food and craft stalls, vendors and shoppers milling about like a school of fish. I see Paige sitting at a café right on the edge of the crowd. I quicken my pace, and she jumps up from the table when she sees me. “Gracie!”
“Paigie!”
We squeal and hug, take a step back to look at each other and then hug again. “It’s been so long,” I say, and I start to tear up, feeling silly.
“I know!” she says. “I missed you too much!”
“Me too.” We hug again, until I glance at the other café patrons and notice a few frowns. “Okay, okay, people are starting to stare,” I say, releasing my grip on my best friend.
“Screw ‘em,” she says, but she sits down without a fight. “The Brits are a little weird about PDA,” she admits.
I sit in the chair opposite her. “You look amazing!”
“It’s the working so much you don’t have time to eat diet,” she jokes. “So do you!”