CHAPTER 8
The art agent had finally had enough; he clenched his fists and gritted teeth. “She’s done it again! How many times do I have to be treated like this?”
That was it-the last bloody straw. He was going to tell her exactly what he thought of her. Richard, the agent, attacked his mobile phone and poked in the numbers furiously. “She’d better be on her way! Or... or I’ll...” he muttered. He paced and stamped on the black and white patterned marble floor of the gallery creating an echo. The phone rang.
“This is Olivia, please leave a message,” said the answering machine clicking on.
“Where the bloody Hell are you? Get your pathetic arse over here now! I won’t take this shit anymore! You will get here and put this exhibition together or we both loose everything!” he yelled. When he was finished he snapped the phone shut, it dropped awkwardly to the floor. The agent loosened his collar; his neck took on an even darker shade of red. Beads of sweat caressed his forehead and dribbled down his nose. He clasped his chest. “She’ll be the death of me.”
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