Page 5 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

“Fine. I’ll go.”

I stood up, nerves fluttering in my stomach, warning me that I’d just given in way too easily and I had no idea whether it’d pay off. God, I really hoped it paid off. I couldn’t stand being stagnant in my job for much longer. Not to mention, I’d just traded in a night with my best friend to spend time with Mr. Gold and a bunch of strangers. To be on show. It wasn’t my finest hour, but I’d made the decision. There was no point stressing over what-ifs. This was work. It had to be done.

Mr. Gold didn’t wait for me to walk over to him or offer to hold the door open for me as I hurriedly cancelled my Uber on my phone. After hearing me agree, he turned his back to me and strode out of the building towards his driver, who was waiting beside his limo. He left me to trail behind him, juggling my handbag, phone, and the door, as he called over his shoulder, “Don’t make me late, Miss Bellamy. I’d hate for your career to be over before it’s even started.” And then he smiled to himself as he added, “What you’re about to see tonight is going to make your hair curl even tighter.”

CHAPTER

THREE

EMMA

Make my hair curl even tighter?

What was I about to see?

What the hell was he talking about?

And where was he taking me?

I sat in the back of the limo with Mr. Gold, trying to ignore the awkward tension in the air as I gazed out of the window at the neon streetlights racing past. Every time we hit a pothole or a speed bump, the jolt from the car made the skirt of my dress ride up my thighs, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed that Mr. Gold kept staring at my legs, making me feel even more on edge. I pulled at the hem in an effort to lengthen it, but it was satin; it wasn’t going to stretch.

So, to distract myself, I fired off a text to Grace, explaining that I wouldn’t be able to make it to the bar tonight. A work opportunity had come up, and I couldn’t say no. I added that I thought this could be my big break, hoping it might soften the blow. I hated letting her down, especially at the last minute. But at least she had her other colleagues around to keep her company. It wouldn’t be a total washout for her.

‘Please tell me that asshole hasn’t got you working overtime again,’ she messaged back. She knew I wouldn’t admit it.

Instead, I replied, ‘I’ll text you in the morning. Wish me luck.’ And ended the message with a smiley face.

She sent me a ‘Good Luck,’ but I knew I’d have to face the music tomorrow. It was hard to gauge someone’s mood over a message, and I didn’t want Grace to be pissed off with me. I treasured our friendship.

“Where exactly are we going?” I asked as I slipped my phone back into my purse.

“The Void. It’s an art gallery in the city. They’re showing an exclusive exhibition of eclectic street art tonight. One night only.” He turned to stare at me and waggled his eyebrows, then dipped his gaze, focusing on my legs again, making my stomach turn. “We need to take some photos, get a few quotes from the organisers, maybe from a few artists too. And when the boring stuff is out of the way, we can enjoy the free champagne.”

I wasn’t going to enjoy any free champagne with Mr. Gold. No alcohol would pass my lips tonight. I was here to work. I’d make that damn clear from the get-go.

“Why did you say an art exhibition would make my hair curl?” I asked, placing my hands on my knees and glaring back at him.

“The Void is a unique place. And let’s just say some of the artists have a very... distinct way of expressing themselves.”

They couldn’t be any worse than you and your wandering eyes, I wanted to say, but I just gave him a tight-lipped smile and turned to stare out of the window again.

Traffic in the city was heavy for a Friday night, and after sitting in it for longer than felt comfortable, we pulled up outside an industrial looking building, with a steel sign saying ‘The Void’. A queue of people were already snaking down the road, waiting to get in. If I hadn’t been told this was an art gallery, I’d think it was some kind of hip new club on opening night. There were certainly a lot of people here ready to experience the hair curling spectacle Mr. Gold had talked about.

Mr. Gold waited for the driver to get out and open his door, and once he did, Gold got out and walked off, not bothering to turn and help me out of the car. The driver reached forward to offer me his hand, but I refused.

“It’s okay. I’m fine,” I told him. “But thank you.”

He smiled and nodded, closing the car door behind me and tipping his hat in response. The driver received a genuine smile from me in return. He deserved it. But when I glanced ahead, I noticed Mr. Gold was striding towards the security, waiting at the doors to the gallery, bypassing the queues of people.

There were velvet ropes along the front of the building, and the people behind it were dressed in suits and smart dresses. Most of them watched Mr. Gold with disgust; their noses turned up as he ignored the line and went right to the front.

I did a little speed walk to catch up with him, and when I heard the security guard, I wished I could back away like Homer Simpson, disappearing into a hedge.

The security guard put his hand on Mr. Gold’s chest, as he said, “No. Not gonna happen. I have clear instructions not to let you in tonight.”

Mr. Gold pushed the security guard’s hand away in disgust and sneered back at him.

“From who? Who the fuck would dare to do that? You know I’m here to work. Don’t you want the gallery on the front page of my newspaper?”