Fine Lines - SA (29 page)

"There's a Mr. Dryden on the phone. Shal I tel him you're busy?"

"No. No, that's al right, I'l speak to him." I was in the back room of the gal ery, ostensibly to finish cleaning a tobacco-stained oil.

But the materials lay almost unused at my feet, the canvas as dirty as before, except for one corner where the colours shone through more brightly. I had managed that much before my mind wandered.

"Are you al right?" Anna asked. She had been solicitous al day, concerned after my "chest pains" of the previous night. But I had been too preoccupied to feel touched. I smiled, reassuringly.

"Fine! Just daydreaming." That was almost the truth. The meeting with Zeppo that evening was preying on my mind, but there was another reason for my distraction.

I had had the dream again.

Once again I was in the same room as before, watching my mother brush her hair in the firelight. But this time there was nothing comforting in the sight. The feeling of contentment and security had gone.

Instead, as I lay on the sofa and watched her hair gleam in the flames, I was fil ed with apprehension. Each crackle of the fire, each brush stroke, seemed pregnant with impending catastrophe. I knew that something terrible was about to happen, but had no idea what. I could only lay there, my anxiety growing with each moment, waiting for the unknown disaster to arrive.

This time when the doorbel rang in the dream I did not wake up. I saw my mother put down her brush and come towards me. The white silk of her robe glowed in the half-light as she studied me for a moment before walking from the room. There was a pause. I heard the door being opened and listened in dread to the murmur of voices. My mother's and one other. A man's. A stranger's.

Then my mother laughed and my fear became panic. I knew with awful certainty that the moment had arrived, and with utter terror heard her say, "It's al right. He's asleep." I woke. I was sweating. I stared around my room, heart bumping, until I realised where I was. Gradual y, I calmed down. But I could not go back to sleep. I lay and stared at the ceiling, watching it lighten with the approaching dawn. I could not understand why the dream had been so disturbing. It was not as though it had been a nightmare. It was just a dream, after al . There was nothing in it to justify such a strong reaction.

But tel ing myself that had done little good. Even daylight had failed to lift the mood of foreboding it had instil ed. I almost had another accident on the way into the gal ery, and since arriving I had been unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes.

Now, with Anna watching me, I began to walk to the telephone in the gal ery before I realised what I was doing and stopped.

"I'l take it in the office." I went upstairs and closed the door. I picked up the telephone. "Thank you, Anna." There was a click as she replaced the other receiver.

"Donald Ramsey speaking."

"Hel o, Donald. It's Charles Dryden here." The voice was plummy and rather smug. "I thought I'd let you know that I've come by one or two new pieces you might be interested in." At one time, that would have been enough to make my stomach knot with excitement. Dryden was a specialist dealer in erotica. I had dealt with him several times in the past, although I did not particularly like the man. He had no feel for the pieces that passed through his hands. To him they were simply objects to be bought and sold, appreciated in direct proportion to their market value. But he had his uses. I had come by several beautiful pieces

through him. And, indirectly, I had him to thank or blame for my present situation. It had been in the back room of his shop that I came across the examples of Zeppo's less public model ing work.

Now, however, my customary excitement was diluted to a mild curiosity.

"Oh yes?"

"Two Rowlandson prints. And a Fuseli." The way he said this last implied a silent fanfare.

"A Fuseli? Authenticated?"

"Of course." He sounded slightly indignant. Despite his merchant-like motives, he stil had professional pride. "No doubt about it. I'd put it as one of his later courtesan drawings. It's from the same col ection as the Rowlandsons. They've al got unimpeachable provenances. But the Fuseli is quite exceptional. Absolutely exquisite." I distrusted this last piece of information, since Dryden's aestheticism was purely monetary in nature. But he was rarely mistaken about the authenticity of his pieces, and a Fuseli, exquisite or not, was a find indeed.

Any serious col ector would be desperate to possess it. Not long ago so would I. Now I found myself completely unmoved.

"I appreciate your letting me know, but I think I'l have to pass on them." I said.

"Oh." Dryden's surprise was obvious. "They are al excel ent pieces.

Particularly the Fuseli. I'm sure that would be very much to your taste."

"Quite possibly, but I'm afraid I'l stil have to say no."

"Wel , of course, that's up to you. But I think you'l regret it.

Perhaps you'd like to see them before you make up your mind ...?"

"I don't think that's necessary. I'm real y not interested in buying just now." There was a subtle change in his tone. "In that case, perhaps you might be interested in sel ing? I know you have a sizeable col ection yourself. If you're considering letting go of one or two pieces, I'm sure we could come to some arrangement." With shock, I realised he thought my reasons were financial. My dislike for him grew. "I've no intention of either buying or sel ing.

I simply don't want to add to my col ection at the moment."

He picked up the coldness in my voice. Now I was no longer a prospective client, he responded to it. "That's your choice, Mr.

Ramsey. I'm certain I don't need to tel you what an opportunity you're missing. But I'm sure you have your reasons. If you change your mind about anything you know where to find me."

"Thank you. I don't think I wil ." I hung up before he could, furious that he should have the nerve to try to patronise me. The man was nothing more than a common trader. I had no doubt that Dryden had already made, or was planning to make, similar telephone cal s to other possible buyers, hoping to play them off against each other in a blind auction. I was glad that I had robbed him of at least one potential bidder. But as I began to calm down, I began to think about what he had said, and wonder if he had not had a point. Although I had no financial need, perhaps I should consider sel ing some of my pieces.

They no longer held any fascination for me, and there is no point in keeping anything once the passion for it has gone.

Then I remembered my meeting that evening with Zeppo, and suddenly my col ection, Dryden, and his wares seemed unimportant. Even the unsettling influence of the dream final y faded into the background in the face of this much more real crisis. This was the watershed.

Everything depended on Zeppo's reaction to what I told him.

Shaking off the last wisps of my earlier abstraction, I focused my energies on preparing myself for the coming confrontation, imagining almost every permutation of Zeppo's possible reactions to what I had to say, and preparing my arguments in advance. There was one, however, that I shied away from considering too closely. Refusal.

Even so, fear of it was very much with me later that afternoon as I said goodnight to Anna, closed the gal ery, and drove to Zeppo's flat.

He answered the door with a sardonic grin. "Nice of you to drop by." I had nothing to say. I fol owed him inside silently. "Drink?"

"A brandy, if you have it."

"Oh, I think I might just be able to rustle one up." He went over to a black table that held a vast col ection of bottles. From what I could see, they were al costly and famous brands. But not

necessarily the best. His knowledge of quality seemed to depend largely on name and price, and I reflected that his model ing career must pay better than I expected. The room too was expensively, if rather gauchely, decorated. But I was not real y concerned with that just then. He handed me a drink and sprawled on the huge black leather settee opposite. He smiled, condescendingly.

"So. Confession time." I looked into my glass. "It's hardly a matter of confession. More making sure we understand each other."

"Donald, you can cal it whatever the fuck you like so long as you tel me what you're playing at."

"I'm not "playing" at anything."

"Wel , you certainly seem to have been making up new rules as we go along. So come on, let's have it. What's been going on in that devious little head of yours?"

"You're making this sound much more Machiavel ian than it is. I've not been plotting anything, I assure you."

"What is it then? Second thoughts?"

"No, not at al . Far from it."

"So what's wrong? Either you stil want me to get Anna into bed or you don't. Which is it?" I could not look at him. "Yes. I do."

"Then why al this pissing about?" There was an impatient edge to his voice. I could feel him staring at me. There was no avoiding it now.

"Because ..." I stopped. The words refused to come.

"Yes? Because?" Zeppo prompted. "I'm waiting, Donald." I wondered if he already knew. It would be like him to torment me.

"Because I want to watch," I said.

When there was no immediate response I looked up. He was staring at me, dumbly. I felt a smal flicker of satisfaction. Obviously he had not guessed after al .

"You want to watch?" he echoed.

"Yes." His poise reasserted itself. The smile came back: he relaxed into the sofa. "Fine. I'm sure Anna won't mind. We'l just put a chair by the bed for you. Would you like some popcorn, as wel ?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Is there anything else you'd like while we're at it? Any more surprises you've got lined up for me?"

"No."

"Oh good."

"I don't find your facetiousness amusing." He snorted. "Wel , what did you expect? Congratulations? Jesus!" He looked sharply over at me. "You do just want to watch, don't you?

You're not thinking about joining in as wel ?"

"Of course not!"

"Don't look so appal ed, Donald. You're hardly in a position to start with the moral outrage routine." He gave an incredulous laugh. "Al your prudishness when I've talked about fucking her, and it turns out you're nothing but a dirty old man who gets his kicks by watching someone else shaft the girl he fancies."

"It's not like that."

"Oh, no, of course it isn't. What is it, then? Scientific interest?"

"I'm paying you. I don't have to explain my motives as wel ."

"Donald!" His tone was teasing. "You want to share a beautiful moment with me, and you won't even tel me why? Shame on you!" I could feel my face burning. "You already know why. This ... this is the nearest I can get to … to possessing Anna myself. I don't think it's too much to ask."

"Oh, don't you?" Zeppo gazed at me, a half-smile on his face. "And don't you think Anna herself might have something to say about it? Or do you seriously think she won't mind you having a ringside seat?" I looked into my glass. "Anna doesn't have to know anything about it." Zeppo's smile grew. "Ahh, I get it now. You want your own private peepshow! You sly old voyeur, you!"

"Do you have to demean everything?"

"What is there to demean? Having someone's boyfriend bumped off so you can hide in a closet and slobber while she's serviced by a paid stud is hardly a noble enterprise, is it?"

"I don't think your moral record entitles you to criticise anyone."

"Who's criticising? Al it boils down to is that you want to get

your rocks off, and if this is how you like doing it then that's up to you. I'm just pointing out that you've got nothing to be pious about."

"I didn't expect you to understand."

"Oh, I understand al right. Probably better than you do." His smirk was infuriating.

"Whether you do or you don't doesn't concern me. Al I want to know is if you'l co-operate." The leather hissed and creaked as he lounged further back on the sofa.

"What if I don't?"

"Aren't you forgetting the little matter of certain photographs?"

"Fuck 'em. You daren't use them now. So like I say, what if I say no?" I kept my face deadpan. "Then I'l find someone else."

"You think you can?"

"It would be inconvenient, but I don't see why not."

"And what about what you owe me so far?"

"I expect a settlement could be made. But since you wouldn't have done what I original y employed you for, it probably wouldn't be very large."

"And what about Marty?"

"I'd take that into consideration. But that was a side issue, not the main one." Grinning, Zeppo shook his head. "Donald, you're unbelievable. A prick, but unbelievable. Al right, it's no skin off my nose. If you want to watch an artist at work, who am I to spoil your fun?" His tone was indulgent, an adult conceding a favour to a child, but I did not care. I took a drink of brandy to steady myself and hide my relief.

"There's stil the little problem of Anna, though, isn't there?" he went on. "How do you propose working it so she doesn't realise she's on Grandstand? Unless you've changed your mind about drugging her?"

"No," I said, firmly. "Nothing like that."

"Why? She wouldn't mind what we did then. You could even have a go yourself afterwards, if you wanted."

"That is a disgusting suggestion!" He laughed. "I thought you'd like it. Don't worry, I'm only kidding.

I don' think I could face the thought of a threesome with

you. But I stil think doping her might not be a bad idea. It'd make things much easier."

"No. That's out of the question." I had not gone through al this just to see Anna in a drug-induced stupor.

Zeppo shrugged. "Okay. It was only an idea. But while we're on the subject ..." There was a smal , lacquered wooden box on the low coffee table. He opened it and took out a mirror and a quantity of white powder. I watched as he divided the powder into two thin lines on the surface of the mirror, and with a smile at me sniffed them sharply, one with each nostril.

"Wow." He blinked several times, stil inhaling. "That's hit the spot. Want some?"