A Tale Of Sechs City
For Dianthus
***
Charlotte Thompson sighed deeply. She was not satisfied.
She appreciated the irony of the situation but she didn't exactly want to dwell on it.
"You don't like it?" said the man next to her unhappily. It was more of a statement than a question.
Charlotte shook her head. "It's not that, Mike. It's just...I don't know if it means anything."
Mike's eyes boggled slightly. "Mean anything? Why the hell does it have to mean anything? It's a red square painted onto a white background. The public are going to lap it up. They always do."
Charlotte frowned at him. Much as she admired her Assistant Director at the Museum of Art History for his credentials, his expertise and his own paintwork, she had always differed with him on their opinion on the subject of modern art. He found it crass and vulgar; she often found it exciting and intriguing.
They were currently looking at a new piece by a young local artist, Troy Newman, who Charlotte had thought was an emerging talent in a pretty lacklustre couple of years for the art world. Judging by this piece, however, she was beginning to wonder whether or not she'd made the right choice. She worried that, having spent a large proportion of the budget she had on this new exhibition of this new work, she'd wasted it on a load of squares, circles and triangles.
"What's it trying to say?" Charlotte pondered out loud, stepping closer to the painting to try and examine it fuller. "It must be saying something."
"It's saying bull shit," replied Mike, sighing impatiently and tapping his foot. "Do you want to go ahead with this or not? We've got five more to look at before lunch, and I want to get back in good time for the Italians this afternoon."
Charlotte breathed out slowly, running her hands through her long black hair. Mike was right, of course – the Italians' visit was a huge deal, particularly for him. It had taken him nearly eight months of negotiations, long transatlantic phone calls and video conferences, and a very large sum of his own budget, but Mike had finally been able to obtain one of the most famous pieces of art in history – Michelangelo's David. The months had been so stressful for him, Charlotte could have sworn he'd aged ten years at least, but nothing could compare to the happiness on his face when he'd burst into her office a month ago with the biggest, most relieved grin on his face, shouting, "We got it! We got it!" at the top of his voice.
This just wasn't big for Mike, Charlotte knew; it was big for the Museum. They were a relatively young establishment – only around fifteen years old – and they had never had such an exciting coup as this.
In honour of it, every important public official in the local area had been invited to attend a gala ceremony in a couple of days time where the statue would be unveiled; and an exhibition of other work by the famous artist plus pieces inspired by his work was also being set up.
Sadly, it was destined to overshadow the exhibition of this new artist's work – a complete balls up of a scheduling by the overall boss and Chairman of the Museum, a pompous twit called Rupert Gold. Correction – SIR Rupert Gold; though Charlotte was sure that, if any members of the Royal Family back in England ever heard about what the Knight of the Realm enjoyed doing on a Saturday night in what could only be described as "animal houses"...well, bye bye, title.
Charlotte and Mike spent five quick minutes choosing the last of the works to include in the exhibition before agreeing to meet in half an hour after lunch. Charlotte went into her office, her stomach rumbling right on cue as she grabbed her bag and a smart, black jacket to go over the rather expensive work clothes she had dressed in especially for the arrival of the Italians. Though it was spring time in the city, a cold breeze occasionally blew through the streets; the last thing she needed was to catch a cold.
She walked out of the Museum and started the three minutes twenty-seven seconds walk to the local deli, her favourite place to get lunch. She chided herself as she walked for being so sad that she actually knew how long it took to get her there – it was just another example about how pathetic her life had become lately.
There was nothing wrong with her career, that she was certain. At only twenty-eight years of age, Charlotte appreciated just how lucky she had been to rise up the ladder of the Museum so quickly. Both a degree and a Masters in Art History had certainly helped, plus years of hard work and essential experience gained by working in museums across her home state of Florida. When the Museum of Art History in Sechs City, California, had contacted her first about the available Directorship, it had seemed almost too good to be true, like an amazing dream that she would be cruelly awoken from at the pivotal moment. More amazing was that it wasn't; it had all been for real, and she had now been happily working for a good year and three months.
No, work was fine. It was her personal life that was bringing her down. She'd put so much effort into her work and career, Charlotte very rarely ever had time for any kind of dating, let alone a proper relationship.
Her last one of those had been way back in college, towards the end of her final year, with a wonderful guy named Alex, who was a couple of year younger than her. Meeting at a shared friend's party, they'd connected quickly, brilliantly, with their love for the same kind of art and artists, weird Indie films that not many other people really understood, and the all important music of The Smiths. The sex hadn't been bad, either, when they'd got round to it. Alex had been a virgin, so Charlotte had had to teach him what to do for the first few times. She hadn't minded this at all, obviously; the power trip had been an immense turn on.
The relationship had ended when Alex got the opportunity to go to Paris for a year to study and work there. It had been Charlotte's idea to break up; Alex had been dead against it, but Charlotte ahd told him he would have been crazy to give up such a fantastic opportunity for her. As soon as he had left, after one last glorious goodbye session of lovemaking, Charlotte had cried and cried for two days straight, eventually taking a week off her studies to go home to lay all her troubles on her loving mother's shoulders. She hadn't realised how easy it could be to fall in love like that, and she'd never experienced it since.
Over the last few years she'd had more than a few flings, though nothing to really feel amazing about. Drunken one-night stands and a dirty weekend away weren't exactly the most scandalous of things to write to Penthouse about. The last of these had been a good four months ago. For someone who enjoyed sex as much as Charlotte did, it almost felt like four lifetimes.
She reached the deli and found herself at the back of a small queue of three. This wasn't unusual; though hardly insanely busy the deli had a good reputation among its small number of clientele and treated them brilliantly. The smell of hot pastries cooking, along with the fragrances of mixed salads and various cheeses made Charlotte's stomach rumble even more. She began to wonder if she would order her usual Tuna Melt or if she would try something different today. Oh, the tribulations of her life.
"Charlotte? Charlotte Thompson?"
