Lullaby by Claire Seeber

she’s a little—overrated?’
    ‘If she’s overrated, why would you have her work on your wall?’
    ‘As an investment, mainly.’
    But he was lying now, I knew. Masking himself. ‘That’s a bit depressing, isn’t it? You should have artthere because you love it, I think.’ I was enthusiastic. ‘Or because it allows you to escape, or stirs up something—you know, some passion. Some big emotion.’
    ‘Is that right?’ He was staring at me now. I had the uneasy feeling I wasn’t meant to answer back. ‘Well, perhaps I hate it then.’
    ‘Do you?’
    ‘No. But you might be happier if I did, mightn’t you?’
    I smiled nervously. He looked down at my work again. ‘You know, these aren’t bad—’
    There was a pause. I realised he didn’t know my name.
    ‘Jessica. Most people call me Jess, though.’
    ‘Jessica. In fact, these are very good. You’ve really understood the brief.’
    I tried to hide my blushes; I was secretly ecstatic. ‘Thank you.’
    His phone rang. Answering it, he swung his leather chair around until he had his back to me. I waited for a minute then I realised that, apparently, the meeting was over. I gathered up my proofs and left; I was angry for the rest of the week. Meanwhile, he ignored me for the rest of the week, although one afternoon I looked up from the paste-up I’d been concentrating on, my tongue between my teeth, my tangled curls skewered with a lone pencil, and found his eyes burning into me through the glass divide. He smiled a very slow smile and turned away.
    I went out most nights and drank too much with my new mates from St Martin’s, finally living part ofthe dream I thought I’d been denied, crawling home to my bedsit alone and happy.
    One evening I stayed late at work to finish a job that I’d been struggling with. An unseasonably warm spring was creeping towards summer and the office air-conditioning was on the blink. I worked on until I found myself practically expiring with heat, and then I stripped to the old petticoat beneath my jersey dress. Through the open window I could hear the bustle of a Soho evening: sirens wailing, chatter and catcalls, laughter and lovers arguing, cars and running feet and the jingle of rickshaw bells. I was so wrapped up in my work that when the door opened suddenly, it made me jump. Mickey, quiet as a cat, padded across the room, champagne in hand, a couple of major Japanese clients in tow, set to close a deal in his office.
    ‘Sorry,’ I stuttered, jumping down from my stool. I kicked the art-school project I’d been about to start work on as far under my desk as I could manage.
    ‘Jessica.’ He stared at my petticoat, then glanced at his clients. Very quietly he said, ‘That’s hardly appropriate for the office, is it now?’
    Mortified, I scrabbled for my dress as the Japanese woman bowed her head towards me, sublimely elegant in midnight-blue; her short, rather haughty male colleague ignoring me entirely. I nodded back, horribly conscious of my unmade-up shiny face, my scraped-back hair; and I dived into the loo to change. When I came back, Mickey had shut his office door, and I felt a twinge of something, but I soon lost myself in my work again, looking up only to see him pourthe woman a drink. Soon after that, I slipped out and home.
    The next morning I expected a bollocking, but instead I found an envelope propped against my computer. An invitation for a Tracey Emin private viewing in Cork Street that night, a Post-it note attached.
    ‘I’ll meet you there at seven. Dress for dinner. Or wear your petticoat. Your choice. M.’
    I went out for a coffee on my own, my hands shoved deep in my pockets while I paced the buzzing streets around the office. I didn’t really do relationships. I had such a bad template, you see. And dallying with the boss: textbook mistake, surely? Or perhaps he just wanted to discuss art…Wandering up and down Broadwick Street, I ate some early strawberries that weren’t quite ripe and