It was the last day of the exhibition, the last day invigilating, and the last tie left to the university and the college. She stared at Laura’s installation, streaming, insanely vivid spirals of sprinkler hose, strimmer cord and yarn, and felt sad in spite of it. Was it sadness, or just fatigue? It had been a good decision not to go for a drink with the band after the previous night’s rehearsal. The invitation was tempting, of course, as the new bass player had a story about everyone in the music industry, it seemed; “I met Bob Marley,” he said. How funny, he actually did say it in italics, she thought. But the drive back home had been wearing, and by the time she parked outside the house, she felt permanently creased and car-seat shaped.
Since the degree show went up in Chatham, nothing had stopped. There had been two days in the last week when she was free, but what did she actually do? They weren’t just blurred, they had disappeared in a flurry of driving. It had taken six hours in all to get to Basingstoke, do the site visit, then drive back to Kent to collect T from school – all in the hope of making a winning proposal for a commission. There was no knowing whether it would be worth any of it, especially after seeing the number of artists there – the odds shrank visibly as yet more and more latecomers trickled into the room for the briefing – but the entire experience made her feel like a professional. In on it. This is my job, of course, she thought. She’d like to be paid for it at some point in the not too far future.
That day, there had been less than an hour between getting back from the school run to getting into the car to make the 16:09 train to London Bridge. All in order to look at some feminist crochet. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. It was partly to have a look around Goldsmiths at last, and to try to work out how long the commute would be, door-to-door.
T was getting accustomed to private views, but that didn’t mean he was impressed. He didn’t seem to notice the two crocheted penises on display. Either that, or he did, and found them, as well as the crocheted breasts, entirely unremarkable. After playing hide and seek with the staff upstairs, he chose a moment when the exhibition was full of people, and yelled, “Can we go home now, Mum?” Chuckles from the room followed by a quick exit for a glass of wine.
One hour and forty-five minutes, door-to-door.
She had to come up with a plan. Or money for a childminder. She also had to come up with a band name, but that was the least troublesome thing to come up with.
Talking to Ali usually made things clearer, as though her kitchen had magical calmative qualities – probably the tea – but this time, it wasn’t as easy. The ideas suddenly seemed too vague, and to make things worse, there was a new idea for a proposal; usually a good thing, but in this case, a proposal for an entirely different project, and the energy for coming up with anything for the commission seemed to be fading away. When she got home from Chatham, she would leave the evidence of the her degree in the car, and go to bed.
A couple of days to think, then time to finish the two writing projects she’d started – can’t put them off any more, she thought – and then she could concentrate. She hoped.
