Where My Love Never Reached Chapter 03
The next day, I received a call from the gallery owner.
“Gigi, we’ve received an authentication authorization document from Paris for an eighteenth-century artwork. It’s packed with specialized Old French terminology. We’ve contacted several translators, but none of them are willing to take it on. Do you think Mr. Rowland could take a look?”
The document would determine whether I could travel to Paris as the curator overseeing the project. It was a turning point in my career.
“Okay. I’ll send it to him.”
I scanned the document into a PDF and emailed it to Jeremiah. When he came home that evening, I carried a mug of milk into the study.
“Did you get the document I sent?”
He was staring at his computer screen without looking up.
“I got it.”
“The gallery has to respond to Paris by nine tomorrow morning. Can you look it over tonight?”
“That urgent?”
“Very. It determines whether I get the Paris exhibition.”
His fingers paused on the keyboard. For the first time, he looked at me.
“Georgina, the scale of your little gallery exhibitions is barely more than a local hobby.” The contempt in his voice was unmistakable. “The Paris art world isn’t nearly as easy to break into as you imagine.”
“I know. That’s why I need this opportunity.” I held his gaze. “Jeremiah, this is the first time I’ve ever asked you for help.”
He was silent for several seconds.
“Leave it on the desk. I’ll look at it after I finish this briefing.”
“Thank you.”
I set the milk down and left the room.
At one in the morning, I sat on the living room sofa staring at the wall clock. The study door remained tightly shut.
I walked over and was about to knock when the door suddenly opened. Jeremiah stepped out wearing his coat, car keys in hand, looking rushed.
“You’re going out?”
“Something happened with Vee.” He changed his shoes as he spoke. “She’s accompanying an Italian delegation. There was a serious interpreting error during the meeting. The delegation is furious and refusing to continue negotiations.”
“It’s one in the morning.”
“Because of the time difference. It’s afternoon there.” He pulled the door open. “I need to get to the headquarters’ video conference center immediately. We have to do damage control and salvage the negotiations.”
“What about my document?” I stepped in front of the doorway. “You promised you’d look at it tonight.”
His brows drew together in irritation.
“Georgina, can you please learn to tell what’s important?”
“What’s important?”
“Vee’s situation involves a major international cooperation project. If the negotiations fall apart, the entire organization could be held responsible.” His voice rose. “As for those few pages for your art exhibition, the world isn’t going to end if the response is a day late.”
“If Paris doesn’t receive a reply by nine tomorrow morning, I lose my chance,” I stated the fact calmly. “This is my career.”
“Your career?” He let out a cold laugh. “Your career is running errands at a small gallery?”
The words stabbed straight into my heart.
“Georgina, don’t waste my time with your little make-believe projects when something actually important is happening.”
He shoved past me. I slammed into the doorframe, a dull ache shooting through my shoulder.
“If the negotiations go well, I’ll look at it tomorrow morning.”
The door slammed shut behind him. I leaned against the frame and slowly slid to the floor.
Make-believe. In his eyes, everything I had worked for over the past five years—every day and night I had struggled alone in this city—amounted to nothing more than a game. Only Vanessa’s mistake qualified as a real crisis.
I got to my feet and walked into the study. When I opened his email inbox, I found the Old French document sitting exactly where I’d sent it. Status: Unread.
He hadn’t even opened it.
At the top of his Sent folder was an email sent one minute earlier. Recipient: Vanessa Harvey. Attachment: Analysis of Key Issues in the Italian Negotiations and Crisis Response Strategies.pdf
So he hadn’t spent the night reviewing a briefing at all. He had been writing a rescue plan for Vanessa.
I closed the window and removed my flash drive. Back in the bedroom, I switched on the lamp and pulled out a thick Old French dictionary.
From two in the morning until seven, I sat alone at my desk. Word by word. Sentence by sentence.
Outside, the sky gradually brightened. At eight o’clock, I pressed Enter for the final time. The translation was complete.
I packaged the files and sent them to the gallery owner.
A voice message arrived moments later. “Gigi, thank you so much! The translation is incredibly professional. Paris has already approved it. Have you booked your flight for next week yet?”
“Yes.” I sent my reply.
Then I shut down my computer, walked to the closet, and pulled out the black suitcase.