Page 92 of Tears of Glass

There’s a knock on the door and both Gerard and Professor McAndrew say, “Come in,” at once. Awkward.

My mouth falls open as Angela Bartlett breezes in. Dressed in a cashmere oversized wrap jumper that swings and swirls, and skinny jeans, she radiates unrefined quirky bohemian chic in comparison to the other suits in the room. “So sorry I’m late, the traffic was a bitch.” She sits herself in the extra plastic chair I hadn’t even noticed. “Morning, Faith. Exciting weekend?”

I flush but try to hide it behind a fake coughing fit. “Wonderful, thank you.”

“So.” I glance about the room. “Can we get to the bottom of what I’m doing here?” I chuckle wryly. “I’m having a bit of a crap start to the day as it is.”

Angela waves her fingers. “Don’t worry about The Sun, this will all be forgotten about. Everyone starts off with a bit of slander, it’s what gets people tuning in.” She shrugs. “If Greg Wallace hadn’t left his wife and lost all his chubby greengrocer weight, Masterchef wouldn’t still be running all these years later on the BBC. Something has to make viewers tune in.”

“What are you talking about? And why are we talking about it here?” I glance around nervously. I don’t know what’s happening with Channel 4; the last Angela and I discussed she was drafting a business plan...

She takes a wad of paper bound in plastic and a spiral binding out of her bag and places it on the desk. Across the top in a neat serif font are the words The Tate Project.

“What’s going on?” Jeez, I need someone to open a window, like yesterday.

“I’ve been talking with Miriam and she had the idea for approaching the Professor here. We want to make your installation at Tate Modern and make that in the show.”

I stare at her blankly. Her words don’t make any sense. What installation. At the Tate?

“I’m sorry?”

Professor McAndrew leans forward, his face alive under his deep wrinkles. “We want you to run a project with our first years. Take them to the Tate, reproduce what you did in Bowsley, and Channel 4 will record it. Everyone wins. The university, the Tate, and you.” He stares at me intently and I shrivel on the inside. “This is the start of you becoming the world class name you deserve to be. Think Banksy, Damien Hirst.”

“But I’m not qualified. Why would you want me to teach your students?”

Gerard sighs and roll his eyes and I glare in his direction.

McAndrew claps his hands together. “This is your dissertation. Your final project.”

“What?”

“Isn’t it wonderful? You get to create something, live, on the fly.”

“But that’s not fair. The other final year students won’t be put under that pressure. The others,” Meg, “they will just get to hand in theirs from the safety of the campus studios.”

The dean shakes his head. “And they won’t be world class artists. They won’t be touted to the galleries and museums around the world. Faith...” He leans forward, his face alive, and honestly I’d rather bury his enthusiasm six feet under. “There isn’t an institution in the world who wouldn’t want to own work by you once this is done. It’s a ticket to you having paying customers for the rest of your career.”

“And,” Angela butts in. “You’ll be bringing Art into the homes of those who know nothing about it. That’s powerful. Think of all those people sat there who can see beauty but don’t know what it means.”

“This is insane.”

Miriam has a cool gaze settled on my face. “That’s what we want. We want you.”

I put my head down, resting it in my hands. It would be good not to puke right now. “Does Elijah know about this?”

If he’s kept this a secret, it will be it. Run...? I’ll be flying.

“No.” Angela holds my gaze. “This is all you. Of course, if we have the support of the Fairclough Foundation then it would be all the better. They bring press coverage.”

“Hm.”

Angela grins.

“You want to film me, in the Tate Modern, teaching a bunch of kids how to make a disastrous mess?”

“Yes.” She claps her hands together. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“And what’s in it for them? What’s the hook that will keep viewers tuning in?”