Authors: Nicola Yeager
Picture Imperfect (8 page)
She pauses, as
if she’s going to say something else, but doesn’t, and returns to her office.
Kristin has a big smirk on her face.
‘Well that’s told you!’
When I get home that evening, I start work on Canvas
Two. I’m so pissed
off,
I want to do something that
will take my mind off all the awful, worrying thoughts that are coursing
through my brain like evil tadpoles. I get out of my work clothes, have a
shower and change into my new artist’s uniform of old t-shirt and knickers. I
make myself a large coffee and stick Jack White on the stereo. Not literally,
you understand.
After all the trials and tribulations of Canvas One,
I’m sick of red and decide to go for something brighter – yellows, oranges,
stuff like that.
Bright colours like this are usually there to give a
happy, uplifting mood, but considering what I feel like at the moment, I don’t
think things are going to turn out that way. I keep thinking about all the
things that Kristin said.
Her immediate outrage.
Her pithy, decisive comments.
And Mrs
Goddard.
Who would have thought
it? I knew there was something going on with her, but I would never have
guessed it was that. I wonder if her ex became a famous writer
afterwards?
And if he did, would he have tried to get her
back? I doubt it somehow, particularly if he knew she’d been sleeping with
other men. I wonder if I’ve ever read any of his
books?
Maybe they’re all about her…
I dab paint onto the canvas as if the canvas has done
something terrible to me and I’m exacting my revenge upon it. Sometimes I
imagine I’m poking the brush into Mark’s face. After two and a half hours
without a break, I step back and have a look at it. If I didn’t know any
better, I’d say it was finished. It’s a little disturbing to look at, and
despite being in jolly colours, is a little depressing, too. It’s so bloody
big!
On a whim, I drag Canvas One across and place it next
to Canvas Two. Together, they’re pretty overwhelming, particularly in a
confined space like this hallway. I walk to the front door and look at them
from there. They’re overwhelming from the side, too. I reckon if Rhoda fires me
tomorrow, I could probably get somebody else interested with these two. I start
fantasising about how much I could get for them. A few hundred quid would be
handy. But who would buy?
Maybe I could get a reputation going and start getting
loads more work. For some reason, that’s never happened. Whenever Rhoda has
sold a painting or two to someone, that’s it, and we have to start again from
scratch. Maybe that’s what it’ll always be like. I don’t know any other artists
to ask.
I suddenly feel very tired. I clean my brushes, eat
some scrambled eggs and watch an episode of
The
Killing.
I can hardly keep my eyes open. I realise I haven’t thought about
Mark for a while. When I do, and when I remember where he is, I get a feeling
like someone’s stabbing me in the stomach with a carving knife.
I get into bed and drop off straight away.
Another morning without an alarm
clock bothering my delicate artistic sensibilities.
I keep my eyes
closed for a while before bothering to discover what time it is. What’s
happening today? Oh yes. Rhoda’s coming ‘round. What’s she going to say?
‘Darling – you know how much I admire your work and we’ve really given it a
good shot, haven’t we. But…’
I start to wonder about Rhoda’s love life. I’m not
really sure how old she is and we don’t talk about personal stuff. I would
guess that she’s over fifty. She doesn’t wear a wedding ring. She dyes her hair
a sort of blue/black, but has a big white streak on one side, as if she’s
trying to give the impression that she doesn’t dye her hair and is naturally
going stylishly off-white in just one area. I’m trying to think where I’ve seen
that look before, then remember that it’s Immodesty
Blaize
,
the burlesque artiste, though I’m sure Immodesty is wearing a wig.
Rhoda often mentions that she’s buying an expensive
gift for some young beau she has on the go. I’m not sure how many of these
there actually are, or whether she has more than one on the boil at any one
time. She is very sexy (very big bottom, tiny waist and big boobs), with the
most yummy
mouth you’ve ever seen, so I imagine it’s quite
easy for her to attract young guys like she does. Her money wouldn’t be much of
a drawback, either.
In fact, I don’t really see why she bothers with all
the gifts. I would imagine any red-blooded male would be only too glad to sleep
with a woman who looked like that. I’m sure she makes a big profit from all of
her artists (present company excepted) and can treat herself to that sort of
lifestyle.
And why not?
I think I might do exactly the
same if I was her.
I start to wonder what it would be like; being pretty
wealthy and having a bunch of handsome young studs at your beck and call.
You’re sitting at home, you’re feeling horny and all you have to do is pick up
the phone. It’s either deeply fulfilling and supremely sexually satisfying or
lonely and depressing. I don’t think there’s an
inbetween
bit with that sort of carry-on.
I finally take a look at my alarm clock to see what
time it is. It’s 7.15, so I have a big stretch and get
up,
feeling very refreshed after another good night’s sleep. Maybe I sleep better
on my own. I can’t remember what time Rhoda said she was popping over. I think
she just said ‘morning’, though what her interpretation of morning is
is
anybody’s guess. She refers to getting into her office
at 10 a.m. as ‘the crack of dawn’ or ‘the middle of the night’.
I purposely avoid looking at the paintings, which are
still leaning malevolently against the hall wall.
I don’t feel as angry at Mark as I did yesterday. It
could be that I got it all out of my system with yesterday evening’s frenzied
painting
sesh
. Kristin and Mrs Goddard certainly
whipped up some angry, resentful feelings between them, though. I know they
were only trying to help, but still.
This morning, my thoughts are more like ‘Well, it’s
only a week. This time next year we’ll be having a laugh about it.’
Maybe it’ll turn out to be a disaster. Maybe Danny
Crump isn’t as much fun as he used to be. Maybe he’s an alcoholic. I don’t know
him at all, but I could imagine he’s the type of boorish mega-nerd who would
leave Mark on his own if by some miracle he got lucky with some near-sighted,
intoxicated girl he met on the beach. But what if she had a friend? Danny is
also the sort, I suspect, to try and impress his mates by getting them ‘fixed
up’ with some bikinied beauty, so they’d be in his debt forever.
If Danny left Mark alone, Mark could wind up being the
only company for the two girls, whose names I’ve already forgotten. Was one of
them Margaret?
Margot?
Yes, Margot.
That was it.
And the other one?
It’s gone completely.
Margot was pretty attractive, though.
I realise that I’m clenching my teeth together and
pursing my lips angrily as I think about this. Damn it! I just can’t stop
thinking about Mark on this fucking holiday! No matter what I think or do, I
just can’t put it out of my mind. I can’t stop it putting me in a bad mood.
Damn you, Mark. You are ruining my week. In fact, I can’t remember a worse week
since I started going out with him.
I remember the effect that the two paintings had on me
last night when I put them next to each other. Often, when you get that sort of
feeling from your own work, you take a look at them the next day and all the
power you thought you’d achieved has gone. It was all in your mind and the
painting just looks at you, mentally transmitting a message like ‘Ha! You
thought we were really good, didn’t you! Now look at us, you deluded,
talentless bitch!’
With a little fear in my heart, I turn the hall lights
on and take a look. The paint has dried a little, so it doesn’t look exactly
the same as last night, but the impact is still there. I now get the familiar
‘is it good or is it bad’ feeling rising up, so I turn the hall lights off and
go back into the kitchen to make another coffee.
Just as I’m sitting down and thumbing through an eight
month old copy of Vogue, the doorbell rings. I look at my watch – it’s only
8.17! Who the hell…?
I spill my coffee as I get up. Surely it can’t be Rhoda
this early? Is it Mark? Has he come back after a couple of days because he
couldn’t stand it and missed me terribly? Will he be out there with his bags,
begging my forgiveness?
I look through the peephole in the door. It’s Rhoda, of
course. Anyway, Mark has a key.
It seems like she’s in the flat before I’ve even opened
the door properly. She breezes past me and the canvases straight into the
kitchen. I’m left standing in a cloud of spicy, sensuous perfume that leaves
the air sparkling with sage and jasmine. I don’t know where she’s come from and
she isn’t wearing a coat.
‘Any coffee on the go?’
She
looks around the kitchen and spots the coffee maker, pouring some into the cup
I’d just been drinking from. Her eyes roll up into her head as she takes the
first sip. ‘Coffee is better than sex and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’
Maybe she doesn’t have such a good time with her young
men after all. I’m amazed to find that she’s so glammed up at this time of day.
She looks around the kitchen with an expression of bafflement on her face.
‘Have I been in here before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thought so.
What is this?
What is this on the mug?’
‘It’s Patrick from
Spongebob
.’
‘Mm.’
‘I didn’t realise you were out and about so early.’
‘Haven’t been to bed yet, my sweet.
I’m still up from last night. As far as I’m concerned, it’s still Tuesday. I
was with Kevin last night, well I’m telling you ‘Kevin’ like you’d know who
that is but you don’t know who I’m talking about do you and why should you?’
‘New boyfriend?’
‘I suppose he is. But ‘boyfriend’ is such a stupid term
for the whole thing isn’t it. It’s as if you’re hanging around with some six
year old child or something. Hello everybody this is my boyfriend Peter, he’s
just started school, isn’t he a sweet little thing? How tall are you now,
Peter? Anyway, Kevin is a post graduate student in some university or other.
He’s actually twenty-five which is a nice change. Handsome like you wouldn’t
believe. I mean really wouldn’t believe. I bumped into him in Selfridge’s food
department yesterday afternoon.’
‘What, you mean you picked him up in Selfridge’s?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. Does that sound terribly awful?
He was browsing near the Italian deli section. Do you know it? I bought some of
their truffle sauce and this is a trick you may like to remember, Chloe, I
asked him if he’d ever had any and he hadn’t so I asked him if he’d like to
smell it and you know what truffle sauce smells like and after that he was
hooked. I’d landed him like a forty pound salmon, which reminds me they sell
fabulous smoked salmon there, too. Also, that’s a pretty poor metaphor as you can’t
bonk a salmon, really, can you. Unless you’re another salmon and even then I’m
not sure that’s what they do.’
‘What is that perfume you’re wearing?’
‘Well, it’s still technically Tuesday, so it must be
Tom Ford
Jasmin
Rouge.’
‘It smells fabulous.’
‘Here.’
She takes a deep red perfume spray out of her handbag
and squirts me on the wrists and on the neck. It’s a fantastic, voluptuous
smell that actually makes me feel slightly dizzy for a few seconds. So this is
what it smells like to be rich, I think. God know the effect this stuff must
have on a man. They’d want to die in it.
‘It’s lovely. I mean, it’s fantastic.’
‘Oh my good god you’ve just reminded me.’
She fishes in her handbag and pulls out a Selfridge’s
carrier bag.
‘Here. This is the truffle sauce. You can have it.’
I take the bag and put it in the fridge. Posh perfume,
truffle sauce and it’s not even nine-o-clock in the morning yet. I’ve still got
to find out why it’s still Tuesday for Rhoda. Luckily, she’s not one of those
people you have to push hard for information of that sort.
‘So we went shopping together and it was obvious we
were getting on like a house on fire, particularly after I bought him a
Burberry sports watch. I could see he couldn’t take his eyes off me or off my
tits at least, so I thought why not cut to the chase and book into a hotel
right now. Of course most of the good hotels in the West End are booked solid
at this time of year particularly if you want a room at short notice…’
‘Why didn’t you go back to your place?’
‘Even if I could have got a cab immediately, it would
have taken forty, fifty minutes at that time of day and I didn’t want to spoil
the magic and then it hit me; we’d only been in Selfridge’s less than an hour
ago possibly and there’s Selfridge’s hotel. We were in Piccadilly, so you could
walk to it in about ten minutes or so. It turns out it’s actually called The
Selfridge which I didn’t know did you?
So I rang them and booked a room and they had quite a few free which surprised
me, but you realise why once you get inside. All very nice but a bit on the
small side, you know? Not that that really mattered. At least the room had a
bath and lots of free things.
And a bed, of course.’
Bending slightly under this gale force hedonism, I
realise that I’m still in the dark about why Rhoda is actually here in the
first place. She rummages around in her bag. Perhaps she’s looking for more
truffle sauce. I notice that the kitchen smells strongly of it and can’t wait
to see what it tastes like. I see what she means about the smell. The kitchen
smells like people have been having sex in it, which unfortunately has never
happened in real life.