Wednesday, 3:47 PM
Charlotte was at the front desk, reviewing the collector contact list, when the door chimed.
She looked up, professional smile ready. "Welcome to West LA Contempor—"
The words died in her throat.
Mrs. Eleanor Pemberton stood in the doorway, dripping in jewelry and judgment.
Charlotte's mother's oldest friend. The woman who'd hosted her engagement party to Thomas. The woman who'd called Charlotte "such a disappointment" when she left.
"Charlotte?" Mrs. Pemberton's voice was loud. Too loud. "Charlotte Morgan? What on earth are you doing here?"
Every head in the gallery turned.
Charlotte forced herself to stay calm. "Hello, Mrs. Pemberton. I work here."
"You... work here?" She said "work" like it was a foreign concept. "As in, for employment?"
"Yes. I'm the gallery assistant."
Mrs. Pemberton's face went through several expressions—shock, confusion, something that might have been pity. "Does your mother know?"
"I imagine she does."
"This is..." Mrs. Pemberton looked around, as if searching for hidden cameras. "Charlotte, darling, if you need money, I'm sure your family would—"
"I don't need money. I have a job."
"But this is—" She lowered her voice, but not enough. "This is gallery assistance work. You used to be on boards. You used to run foundations. This is quite a step down, don't you think?"
Charlotte felt heat rising to her face. Behind Mrs. Pemberton, she could see Emily and David pretending not to listen but obviously listening.
"I don't think it's a step down. I think it's a step forward."
"Into what? Poverty? Charlotte, this is absurd. You can't possibly—"
"Mrs. Pemberton." Lisa Chen appeared from her office, professional smile in place. "How lovely to see you. Are you here to view the new exhibition?"
"I—yes, I suppose I am."
"Wonderful. Let me give you a personal tour." Lisa shot Charlotte a look that said I've got this and smoothly guided Mrs. Pemberton toward the back gallery.
Charlotte sat at the desk, hands shaking.
After a moment, Emily walked over.
"So," she said. "Charlotte Morgan."
"Yeah."
"As in Morgan Hotels? That Charlotte Morgan?"
"That's me."
Emily crossed her arms. "You gonna tell us, or should we all just Google you?"
Charlotte took a breath. "My family owns Morgan Hotels. I was on several nonprofit boards. I was engaged to Thomas Ashford—you might have seen the news about his legal troubles. I left all of that three months ago. And now I'm here, trying to start over."
"Jesus."
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"Would you have treated me the same if you'd known?"
Emily considered this. "Probably not."
"Exactly."
They stood in awkward silence.
Then Emily said, "For what it's worth, you're actually good at this job. I thought you'd be useless. But you're not."
"Thanks?" Charlotte wasn't sure if that was a compliment.
"Don't mention it." Emily walked back to her desk.
After Work
Charlotte sat in her car in the parking lot, not ready to drive home yet.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Mateo: How was work?
She started to type Fine, then stopped.
She called him instead.
"Hey," he answered. "You okay?"
"Someone from my old life came into the gallery today."
"And?"
"And now everyone knows who I am. Charlotte Morgan, the poor little rich girl playing at having a real job."
"Is that what they said?"
"Not in those words. But it's what they were thinking."
"You don't know that."
"Mateo, one of my coworkers literally said she thought I'd be useless. Past tense. Like she'd been waiting for me to prove I was just slumming."
"But you proved her wrong."
"Did I? Or am I actually just slumming? Playing at independence until it gets too hard?"
Mateo sighed. "Charlotte, we talked about this on Saturday. You're being too hard on yourself."
"Or I'm being realistic. You and Maria have something I don't—authenticity. You've actually struggled. You've actually built yourselves from nothing. What have I built? I bought one painting and I think that makes me an art patron. I work one week at a gallery and I think that makes me independent."
"That's not—"
"I should go. I need to process this."
"Charlotte, wait—"
"I'll talk to you later, okay?"
She hung up before he could respond.