The Art of Curating Romance - Chapter 5

Being around Martin so much was driving Natalie insane. 

The semester was nearing its end, and they'd been meeting in that office in the library every week to plan for the next. He still stayed away from the museum these days, and she dared not venture out towards his office. 

But still. 

Even with them working quietly in tandem, barely exchanging glances, barely exchanging words, she could feel it. The tense undercurrent, hushed, rushing and swirling about in the air between them. 

In moments like those, Natalie thought of some of her favorite paintings for comfort. Curiously, with Martin, her thoughts would always rush to Guido Reni's Penitent Magdalene in a panic. As if she, too, were like Mary Magdalene, gazing heavenward with supplicating tears to just end the pain of being obsessively desirous of the man sitting next to her every other day.

Good god, I seriously need to get away from him, she thought. She should've taken up that offer she'd gotten from an all-women's liberal arts college to be a curator there.

At that moment, she was interrupted from her thoughts by his sharp, fluttering accent: "Have you given it more thought?"

She flinched, but stopped herself just shy of looking up at him. "About what?"

"Splitting the lecture between us," he said. 

Natalie exhaled and folded her laptop partially down as she leaned back in her chair. She opted to look at the ceiling, channeling her inner Penitent Magdalene once again and not daring to look at Martin. Not when he was wearing a button-down shirt with the collar semi-open, where one could peek at his sharp collarbone jutting out and the beguiling hollow of his sternum.

"I told you," she said. "It's not really my lane."

"It is," he said simply. "You helped design half of the content so far. You've practically rewritten the catalogue notes. You should be in charge of some of the lectures, too."

"I assisted," she corrected. "That's what I do. I assist."

Martin tilted his head at that. She had the misfortune of glancing at him as he did so and accidentally admired the contour of his jawline for ten seconds too long. She looked away as soon as she could.

"That's not all you do, and you know it."

She stilled for half a second, her fingers tightening around the pen she held in her hand. 

"I don't know what you mean. It's not like I'm a PhD," she said flatly. "My expertise isn't worth very much."

"What do you mean?" Martin asked. She was somewhat surprised to hear the earnest surprise in his voice. She looked up at him, meeting his blue eyes.

"I'm just..." She felt her voice tighten. "I'm just the assistant curator. I'm not published."

She was surprised to see him shake his head at that. "So what if you're not published? You've curated incredible exhibits at this university."

Natalie looked at him now. Really looked.

"And besides," he continued, "you went to the Royal College of Art and held a fellowship at The Louvre. You've done plenty on the academic side, have you not?"

"It's just..." she murmured, reopening her laptop, even though she didn't need to use it for anything. The lock screen flashed to life, her name blaring out in front of her on a blank blue screen, asking her for the password. "You really think I should do it, then."

"I think you'd be extraordinary," he said. "And I think you know it, too. That's what scares you."

His words made her falter. Sometimes, when she squeezed her eyes shut, she remembered what she'd tried to repress over these past years. What her former advisor — that Professor Greaves — had said to her. This is cleverness masquerading as scholarship. Or, You're playing curator, not historian. Or, I'm afraid you're not cut out for this. It's too amateurish.

She'd thrown her dreams of professorship away. A year in, she'd left that university. Not with a doctorate, but with plenty of shame for not finishing.

When she spoke again, her voice had lost its practiced coolness. "Wouldn't have expected you of all people to say something like that to me," she said, trying to laugh. It wasn't convincing, she knew, as her voice was too shaky and mangled with welling-up emotions. "People don't usually say that kind of thing to me."

Martin looked at her, something almost tender in those blue eyes of his. "Well, maybe they should start. Because you're bloody brilliant."

There was a pause. And then she nodded — once, quietly.

"All right," she said. "I'll do it."

Martin smiled at that. And it was a real smile, one that changed something between them completely, like the pressurized air had finally been released and a cool, refreshing breeze had rushed in and shaken her out of a daze.

Something in her stomach twisted pleasurably when she realized that they were holding eyes now — much longer than they should have.

A breath. A heartbeat.

“I'll get going now, then,” she said, softly.

Martin nodded, just once. “Right. Of course.”

But neither of them moved.

She finally stood, gathering her things. He watched her, silent.

As she turned to leave, she hesitated in the doorway.

Then glanced back. “Thank you. Martin.”

A slow smile broke across his face, tired and full of something unspoken. “Anything for you, dear Natalie. Oh, and...”

Her pulse kicked up. "What is it?"

"Shall we actually establish digital communication other than passive-aggressive emails?"

She blinked at this. "What do you mean?"

He held out his phone. "If you'd be so kind."

"Oh. Of course."

As she put in her number in his phone, she felt like she was a thirteen year old girl, drunk on infatuation. 

"I'll text you," he said. 

"Yes yes," she said, not so much to be dismissive, but because her heart was beating rapidly. She left quickly, before she did something irreversibly stupid. Like close the distance between them again.

But that night, lying in bed, she would remember the way he’d looked at her across that table — as if he’d already imagined it too.