Chapter Text
Johnny loves David. No truly, he does. He’s brilliantly creative, quick witted, and not afraid to stand his ground. In every way, he’s his mother’s son. It just seems like he’s inherited exactly ZERO of Johnny’s business instincts.
“Five thousand dollars? You spent five thousand dollars on champagne, David!?”
“Um, yes? The guest list was elite clientele. They’re not going to drink just any bubbly wine crap that you serve at your branch openings.”
“David, that would only be worth it if it loosened their purse strings. You barely broke even at that event!”
“I’d rather break even than be known for serving subpar refreshments. My friends would shun me if I didn’t serve Moet & Chandon at that gallery opening. The whole thing was French themed!”
“Well, you need better friends if they shun you over champagne. And that ‘bubbly wine crap’ is more than good enough for me, so it should be good enough for you.”
All Johnny got in return was a scoff and a long-suffering eye roll before David literally stomped out of the room.
David has absolutely no sense of reality when it comes to money. Maybe that’s his fault for spoiling him as a child, and then as a teenager, and then as an adult.
He could also rightly blame David’s elite, uppity circle of “friends”. They only seem to stick around when David flashes his cash. Johnny distinctly remembers David renting out a yacht for an entire weekend just because his friend was mad at him. Apparently, the yacht weekend was as good as a heartfelt apology because his friend forgave him the next day.
Johnny saw right through that incident with perfect clarity, but David is still convinced that he doesn’t need to drop his current friends like a hot potato. Ridiculous.
After that last temper tantrum, he’s at his wit’s end. Maybe he needs some outside help because he’s clearly way in over his head trying to manage a stubborn David by himself.
David is proud that he’s able to get to the gallery at his normal time this morning: a bright and early 11 AM. His head throbs rhythmically as he rests it on his standing desk, a potent reminder that he drank maybe a little more than he should have for a Tuesday night.
He decides to rest his eyes for a bit. He’s his own boss; he can do whatever the fuck he wants. David feels his perfectly quaffed hairdo break free from its gel as he shifts his head on the stained oak.
Not even five minutes later, he hears the doorbell jingle, rudely jostling him out of an annoyingly quick nap. So what if the doors are unlocked and he’s technically open? Who comes into a gallery before noon?! David is justifiably peeved. He didn’t even have time to fix his hair in the mirror.
He lifts his head, mustering up his best stink face, and gets ready to deliver the world’s most unenthusiastic greeting. He pauses when he sees the stranger in question; clearly a bit out of breath but put together nonetheless.
He’s in a sky-blue button up shirt with boot cut jeans cinched at the waist by a braided belt. The physical embodiment of a GAP clothing ad if he’s ever seen one. His reddish hair is shorn tight to his head, matching the ruddy cheeks of a man who clearly just ran in the summer heat. This guy clearly isn’t an NYC native. David’s almost certain that he would apologize to a mugger if he stepped on their foot mid-robbing.
Mr. Straight and Narrow catches his breath before giving him a small smile. “Hey, sorry I’m late. I’m new to the city, and I haven’t quite gotten a handle on the subway yet.”
Strange. David certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. “Uh, who are you, exactly?”
“Patrick.” He extends his hand in greeting, a bit too chirpy and pleasant for David’s taste.
There’s a pregnant pause like David is supposed to know who he is, but he’s drawing a complete blank. He makes no move whatsoever to shake Patrick’s hand, so it slowly drops back to the man’s side.
“Yeah, that doesn’t help at all. Like... what are you doing here, Patrick?” David hopes that his what the fuck expression is enough for this guy to get the hint.
“Wow. Is this how you treat every person who walks through your gallery doors? I can start to see why I was called in to help.” Patrick’s words are acerbic, but he has a teasing smirk on his face, like he thinks this is funny. It’s not.
“I’m sorry, called to... called to help? I didn’t call anyone.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I didn’t speak to you on the phone. I think I would’ve remembered hearing your voice. I spoke to Johnny Rose.”
Now David is mad. Seething, in fact. Before he can interrupt with a long list of expletives aimed at his overbearing father, Patrick barrels on. “He told me, and I’m quoting directly here, ‘My son needs your expertise. He’s reckless with money, and I don’t trust him to run a successful business by himself.’”
“Okay... ouch. So what’s your expertise, then? Butting in where you don’t belong?”
“No, I’m a small business consultant.”
“I’m sorry, but I feel like I would know how to run my gallery better than someone who’s barely stepped foot in this city before. I’m doing just fine on my own.”
“I mean, according to your dad and the data I’ve seen, I’m not sure that’s true.”
“Well, from the data I’ve seen...” David raises his eyebrows and not-so-subtlety gestures to Patrick’s business casual attire. “I’m not sure that you’ve got a leg to stand on. I seriously doubt that you know more about art and aesthetics than I do.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But I do know a lot more about small businesses. You know, the thing I consult for.” David’s not sure if he’s met anyone more smug. “There are a lot of things that you could do easily to increase your profit margins.”
“Alright, small business consultant Patrick, tell me. What can I do to increase my ‘profit margins’?” David is prepared to be wholly unimpressed.
“Well, first of all, you’re putting your money in the wrong places. Looking at your expenses, I saw that you spent like 150 bucks per can of paint a few months ago.”
“It’s Farrow & Ball ! This is an institution of art and painting! I’d call that the opposite of frivolous spending.”
“Has literally anyone noticed that you used, what was it, Narrow & Fall paint? At the end of the day, a white wall is a white wall. Using an expensive product just for the name brand is just throwing money away.”
“First of all, it’s Farrow & Ball. Secondly...” David stops his impending rant about the importance of opulence in this line of work as he takes a closer look at his white walls. He remembers the exorbitant bill he got from the painters and how he had to take another loan from his dad because of it. Whenever he takes a close look at his walls, he should be feeling pride, but he can’t help but feel guilty and a bit stupid.
“Okay...” David closes his eyes and surrenders this small battle. “Maybe, possibly, just a little bit, I see your point.”
“I guess that’s a start. I can think of at least five other examples off the top of my head that are pretty much the same. Buying things just because of their brand names.” Patrick opens his mouth like he’s about to genuinely list all those examples in excruciating detail. Yeah, that’s a big no.
“I get it, I get it. I’m an exorbitant spender. Guess it’s just in the Rose DNA. I’m like genetically inclined to buy the most expensive brand.”
Patrick lets out a tiny chuckle and shakes his head a bit. Well, now this guy thinks he’s laughably dumb. That’s just great. What a pity; he has a great smile.
Patrick wastes no time barreling on to his next point. “Next on the list: customer service. Essentially, you need to be less hostile.”
“Hostile? That’s certainly an extreme word to use.”
“I’m sorry, did you forget how you greeted me literally ten minutes ago? I can’t think of a better word for that than hostile.”
“Well, you interrupted my break. I’m sure anyone would act the same in my situation.”
Patrick looks towards the entrance, confused. “The door was open.”
“Yeah... but only one of the lights was on. That’s a clear sign that the gallery isn’t ready for business.”
“What is that, some unspoken New York rule? You can’t expect your customers to read your mind.”
David rolls his eyes and sighs like an over-dramatic teenager, knowing that they’re just arguing in circles. “But that’s the way this gallery is run. I am the owner of this place, after all. I decide how things work, and what I say goes no matter what any customer thinks.”
Patrick shows David his own set of incredulous eyebrows. “Have you seriously never heard the phrase ‘The customer is always right’?”
“Okay, smart-ass, I have heard it. It’s just nonsense. I know my art, my customer base, my gallery. Of course I’m the one in the right.”
“Sure, that may be true. But you can’t act like a know-it-all when your business relies on a welcoming environment. I’ve seen it time and time again: a standoffish attitude does not make a return customer.”
David conjures up a horrific real-life experience he had recently to prove him wrong. “What if the customer is wearing fugly Crocs inside of my gallery, dirtying my floors? You’re telling me that I have no right to kick them out?!”
Patrick lets out another amused chuckle. “Yes, you technically can. I’ve had businesses implement dress codes before. It’s just the way you go about it.” He leans on a nearby table, arms crossed. There’s that smile again: teasing, and very confusingly, warm. “Let’s role play a bit. What exactly would you say to me if I came in here wearing ‘fugly Crocs’?”
Role play. That’s an interesting choice of words.
David musters up the same anger and disgust he felt on that fateful day a month ago. His eyebrows twist up like he’s in physical pain. “Oh. My. God. Those abominations cannot be in my gallery. Can you please get the fuck out?”
Patrick makes a wrong buzzer noise. “Absolutely not. You couldn’t have done that more impolitely.”
“What? I said please, didn’t I?”
“David, c’mon. You say that one time to the wrong customer, and now you have a new scathing one star review online. Which, by the way, I know for sure you already have a few of when I checked.”
One of David’s tried-and-true mottos is “fuck the haters”, so he never actually paid attention to the contents of his one-star reviews. He now realizes that that might have been a mistake.
“It would be nice to have more than a three-star rating...”
“So, would it be too much to ask to migrate from hostile to, let’s say, mildly grumpy? I’m not expecting miracles here.”
“Fine. OK. Sure.” David concedes.
At this point, he is so done being talked down to like this, and he doesn’t like the strange feeling twisting in his gut. David tries his best to force a hasty exit, so this man can’t perplex him any further.
“Well, it seems like you’ve made the points you came to make, so I’ll bid you farewell now. I’ll try my best to work on what you said.” David like, halfway means it. He might think about cursing at his customers less. It’s a start.
“Nope. Your dad paid me to help you out for a month, so I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“But---” David doesn’t know how much more nagging he can take.
Patrick swiftly interrupts him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, David.”
Leaving no room for argument, Patrick turns and saunters out of the gallery. David wouldn’t admit this to a single soul, but his ass in that offensive mid-range denim steals his attention as the door swings closed behind him.
Great. Juuuust great. So now he has to work for a guy who insults every business decision he’s ever made, all with a smarmy smirk on his face. What the hell has his dad gotten him into?