Chapter Twelve
London, present day
The days after the exhibition went past in a blur. The press reviews had been sensational, not least Elliot Hall’s piece in the Chronicle entitled ‘The Last Goodbye: why the new RCI exhibition restores your faith in humanity’, and Abby had been fielding calls asking for tickets, prints, even private views ever since. Just the day before, Christine Vey herself had called with the news that RCI membership had tripled literally overnight, and in return, Abby had told her that the limited-edition print run of The Last Goodbye, as she was now calling the photograph of Ros and Dominic, had entirely sold out.
She clicked on an email – another request for a copy of The Last Goodbye – and was just typing back her regrets when her phone started to ring.
She looked at it, forcing herself to wait before she picked it up. She had been anticipating a call from Nick since the exhibition, as she knew he read the Chronicle – at least he had done, when they were still together.
‘Abby. It’s Stephen. Can you just pop through a minute?’
Glancing at the clock, she hung up and walked across the basement to Stephen’s little cubicle. If she left in five minutes and caught the first tube, she’d be at Piccadilly in plenty of time. Relax, she told herself, as she tapped on Stephen’s door frame.
‘Ah, Abby, come in,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’
‘You do remember I’m on a half-day today?’ she said as she perched on a small fold-up chair; there wasn’t really room for anything more in the cramped cubbyhole.
‘Of course, don’t worry,’ said Stephen. ‘This won’t take long.
‘Now then,’ he said, sipping his tea. ‘I want you to know that we have been very pleased with your work here.’
She knew there was little room for promotion at the Institute, but a bonus would be very welcome right now. Nick was still paying money into their joint account, but with an uncertain financial outlook, any sort of cash injection would be appreciated.
‘The exhibition has been a roaring success and Christine wanted me to pass on how impressed she was with its execution – and of course you were a part of that success, Abigail.’
‘Thank you,’ said Abby, feeling genuinely flattered.
‘We’re all very excited that the archive is showing it can be a commercial force as well as an important cultural resource,’ continued Stephen, putting down his china cup.
‘As you know, Christine is a very modern thinker. Her vision is that the archive should be a global resource available online, like AP or Getty. Genius. Absolute genius. Of course, future exhibitions are vital for marketing such a plan.’
Abby nodded politely, although she did have some reservations about their director’s vision. Christine Vey had never so much as set foot in the archive, and probably imagined it as some sort of high-tech mechanised warehouse instead of a dingy cellar crammed full of cardboard boxes. Still, she was glad that people had recognised its potential.
‘So is she going to allocate more funds to us?’ she asked hopefully. ‘If we had a newer scanner, maybe Photoshop, it would certainly help . . .’
Stephen dropped his eyes to his desk and the mood suddenly shifted.
‘There’s the rub,’ he said finally. ‘Our budgets are finite and we have to look at ways in which we can economise. Economise to expand, as it were.’
‘Economise?’ repeated Abby. They had so few tea bags in the kitchen, she had started to bring in her own.
Stephen shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Abby, an online archive of saleable prints represents the future of this Institute. But until we can make that work, really work, we don’t need two senior full-time archivists. Christine thinks one person can oversee the archives and handle exhibitions, possibly with the help of someone junior. Then we need someone with real digital experience who can sort out the launch of a website.’
‘I can do all of those things,’ said Abby quickly. ‘Okay, I haven’t got much online experience, but the exhibition was a success, I’m a quick learner and I have lots more ideas . . .’
‘Abby, you’re keen. We both know that. It’s probably why I gave you so much autonomy with the show. Too much, perhaps. It was naïve to put a limit on the prints. You know we can’t extend the print run after we have sold them as limited editions, and Christine is particularly disappointe
d that we can’t squeeze any more out of The Last Goodbye. The way my phone has been ringing off the hook, we could have sold ten thousand of them. But no. We had a ceiling of seventy-five and that has cost us.’
‘But you agreed everything, Stephen,’ said Abby, starting to fret. ‘Numbered prints meant we could charge more for them . . .’
‘Abby. I’ve done all I can to protect your position, but Christine insists that I take a more hands-on role, and I agree with her.’
Abby shook her head. The truth was that he was protecting his own position. She thought of Stephen’s day-to-day work life. Swanning around the library, taking long lunches, hiding in his office reading back issues of the RCI magazine. There was no place for that sort of role any more, and he knew it.
‘So I’m fired,’ she said, disguising the panic in her voice.