How to Have Meetings

by Ruth Thomas

Ruth Thomas has had two short story collections published by Polygon and several short stories broadcast on BBC Radios 3 and 4. Her novel, 'Things to Make and Mend', will be published by Faber in 2007.

She has arranged to meet Mr Miller in the gallery garden, by the sculptures, at 11:AM. She has with her her portfolio containing examples of her work. Black and white photos of the city: pictures of people shopping, people eating, people under umbrellas, people feeding pigeons.

She did not tell Mr Miller that she would have her daughter with her. This had not been part of the plan.

'Come on sweetheart', she says, pulling Emma across the lawn.

'No', Emma says, 'no, no. Look - flowers'

'Yes, aren't they lovely? But we have to go and talk to that man now'

There is an array of metal sculptures at the far end of the lawn. A square one, a cylindrical one, a tall one and a doughnut-shaped one. They look very beautiful and sophisticated, shining in the sun. She can see a short man standing by the tall one. He is looking up at the sky. He is wearing an alarming black leather jacket and stubble, discernible from 30 feet. Somehow she had not pictured Mr Miller like this. She had imagined more height and a suit.

'Mr Miller?' she says, hammily, like a secret agent in a film. She walks the last few feet towards him, grasping her big, plastic portfolio in one hand. Emma pulls at the other one.

'I am he', says Mr Miller. He stops looking at the sky, flickers a sort of smile then stares down at Emma.

'This is my daughter', Jane says. 'I'm afraid her nursery is on strike'

'Oh dear', says Mr Miller.

'But she won't mind playing in the garden while we chat'

'OK', says Mr Miller.

His leather jacket creaks a little as he extends his right hand to shake hers.

'Hello', Jane says, feeling that the conversation is already out of order. That they are somehow going backwards, like a reversing cassette. She leans her portfolio against her thigh, smiles and shakes his hand. His grasp is firm to the point of painful.

'Let's grab a coffee then', Mr Miller says.

'Right', she replies cheerily. She bends to talk to Emma.

'Little one', she says, 'would you like to play here? By the sculptures? Look, it could be your house'

'Yes', Emma says, delighted. 'Little house'

Jane stands straight again. She feels suddenly tired. Mr Miller is already legging it across the lawn, in the direction of the café, and she has to trot to catch him up. The portfolio bangs against her leg. Every five seconds or so she turns to check that Emma is still there.

Today she has with her a large, yellow, plastic bag containing a Porta-potty. Emma is at that stage. The Porta-potty swings nonchalantly from a draw-string around Jane's wrist.

Now you can go anywhere and not have to hunt for a toilet! says the cheery message on the porta-potty instructions. Of course! It is so simple! Jane holds the bag so that the word Porta-potty is hidden from view. She does not want to put Mr Miller off his morning coffee.

'So', he says, standing in the coffee queue and helping himself to a coconut and almond slice. 'How long have you been taking photographs?'

'Oh, ever since I could hold a camera', Jane says distractedly, pleased that there is a window through which she can make out the leaping figure of her daughter.

'I think that probably goes for all of us', Mr Miller says.

'Sorry?'

'We are all photographers'

'Yes', says Jane, a little irritated. 'But we don't all develop the film and make the prints'.

'True', says Mr Miller, reaching into one of his many pockets for some small change. 'I'll get this', he says.

'Thank you', Jane replies, not sure how grateful to sound. She has almost forgotten how to do this: how to have meetings. Maybe the comment about the film and the prints was rude. But at least she is in a place she likes; that will hopefully calm her down. She likes the warmth and the blur of voices and the smell of coffee and the pictures on the walls. She likes the glass cabinets full of expensive ceramics.

'Would you like something to eat?' Mr Miller asks. 'How about a scone? Or a piece of flapjack?'

'Well', she says doubtfully, 'a piece of flapjack would be nice'

None of this is what she had imagined. Did people eat flapjack in business meetings? Did they talk about contracts and commissions with oats falling from their lips? She is sure it wasn't like this in the '90s.

'Your daughter looks as if she's having fun', Mr Miller observes.

'She likes playing house'

Mr Miller picks up their tray of coffee and cakes, and leads the way back out into the garden. He finds an empty table surrounded by lavender and ox-eye daisies, and sits down.

'Actually', Jane says, and he looks up at her a little tetchily, the sun in his eyes.

'Do you mind', says Jane, 'if we swap seats? It's just, I like to have my daughter in sight'

Mr Miller clears his throat. He has just sat down and arranged his cake and coffee in front of him and now he has to get up again and swivvle everything round.

'OK', he says, when they have assembled themselves with the appropriate cups and sideplates. He pulls his chair forward, away from some encroaching lavender. 'Now. I'll just explain a bit about the set-up. About our exhibitions'

Jane's heart thumps. This is it. This is me, here, talking about my work.

It is a warm day and there are quite a few people sitting in the garden, admiring the flowers, absorbing the peace and the insect noise and the birdsong. A young couple hold hands across their table; an old man smokes cherry tobacco; three women wearing floral dresses drink tea.

'Isn't this delightful?' Jane hears one of them say. She didn't think people used words like 'delightful' any more. Not without some kind of irony attached.

'Is that buddleia?' another says, 'or a type of lilac?'

'What a darling little girl', says the third woman. 'Look, over there - playing by the sculptures'

And Jane glances across at Emma, who is evidently frying some pretend sausages on the cylindrical sculpture. Almost everywhere they go, Emma finds somewhere to fry pretend sausages. Any small, low object is a cooker. Jane wonders if, at any moment, she will come running across the lawn, to offer some sausages to Mr Miller.

'We're currently looking for photos for our winter exhibition', Mr Miller is saying, 'which is obviously the most popular time of year. Because people spend a lot of time in cafes in the winter. It's a competitive slot'

'Yes', says Jane, her head on one side. Maturely she picks up her coffee cup and takes a sip. It is extremely hot. Mr Miller blinks at her, his eyes a flat, all-seeing green. Jane puts her cup back in its saucer.

'I'm seeing five other photographers this week', Mr Miller says. 'So, you know, you might not be successful this time…'

'No', she says, her heart thudding. She has an urge to say, 'Look, let's just forget it, shall we? You haven't even asked to look at the damn pictures'; to go running across the lawn, scoop Emma into her arms, get into their car and drive off. Cat on a hot tin roof. Ants in her pants. She can't do business meetings any more. She has forgotten how to do it. She squints at her watch. They have been in the gallery garden for seven minutes.

'So', Mr Miller says, 'shall we have a look at your photos then?'

'Yes!', she exclaims, fickle hope sliding back into her heart. She bends, undoes the lengthy, elaborate zip of her portfolio, pushes the handles to one side and brings out her pictures. She puts them down on the table, the one with the pigeons uppermost. She is particularly proud of the pigeons.

'Very nice', Mr Miller says. He pauses. 'Pigeons'.

'That one was taken on a very long exposure', she explains, 'Because I wanted to get the wing detail. The feathers. F4. That's also why it's got that sort of brooding look'

'Brooding pigeons', Mr Miller says.

'Yes!', Jane replies.

'Very nice'

'Thank you'

She is bashfully proud, like a schoolgirl having her work commended by a teacher.

'And what else have you got here?', Mr Miller asks. He lifts the pigeons off the top of the pile, places it carefully to one side and moves onto the picture of people eating sandwiches in a shopping mall.

'I took this one a few months ago', Jane says. 'I did this whole sequence in a shopping mall. It's kind of about…'

— she rummages in her brain, wondering what it's about —

'…consumerism'

And Mr Miller is saying, 'Yes, I like this. Very atmospheric. Very 'wet day in Bluewater', when Jane is aware of something. Some event on the fringes of her consciousness. One of the floral ladies is saying something to her.

'Is that your daughter?' she is saying, leaning across from her seat, and Jane looks up, her heart lurching suddenly.

'I think', says the lady, 'that she might think that sculpture is a toilet'

'What?' says Jane.

'Yes', says the lady, 'we just noticed that she has pulled her knickers down'

'What?' says Jane.

And she looks across the lawn, at Emma, who is squatting semi-clad on the doughnut-shaped sculpture.

'Oh', says Mr Miller, still holding the photograph delicately between his fingers.

And without even being aware how she got to her feet, she is rushing across the lawn, the Porta-potty swinging from her wrist in its yellow, plastic bag.

Mr Miller is still sitting there, patiently, urbanely, nearly ten minutes later, after they have returned from the Ladies. He is finishing the last of his coconut-and-almond slice, and staring off, into the cyanothus bushes. Beside him the floral ladies are getting up from their table, smoothing down the skirts of their dresses and hanging their handbags over their shoulders.

'Little lamb', one of them says, patting Emma's cheek.

'It's OK', Jane says to Mr Miller, 'she was just pretending'

'That's… good', Mr Miller says.

'Yes', she says. 'It's quite a difficult stage at the moment. Fortunately we have something called a Portapotty'

'Right' says Mr Miller, looking at Emma. 'Hello', he says.

'Hallo' says Emma.

She had not imagined having this sort of conversation when she got up that morning and put on her smart, 'working' jacket. She had imagined using words like Postmodernism. Chiaroscuro. Portraiture. Portapotty had not come into it.

'Maybe she was making a comment about modern art', Mr Miller says.

'Yes' Jane replies, wondering what she can add. But she does not think she can save the meeting now; it seems to have gone too far in the wrong direction, like a goat falling down a mountain.

'I suppose everyone has to learn how to use the…' she begins, but then stops.

'So', says Mr Miller, zipping up his leather jacket because there is a little breeze now, blowing across the lawn, suggesting autumn suddenly. 'I'll be in touch by the end of the week'

He smiles at her.

'I liked the pigeons'

'Thanks'

On their way out, Emma offers to carry her portfolio for her.

'It's quite heavy, sweetheart', Jane replies, but somehow she manages it, dragging it across the grass.