Paint. The art of scam. (11 page)

‘Luck? No such
thing Polly. But we won't go there.’

Suddenly there
was a tap on the door. Polly looked around to see a traffic warden standing
there, his head peering in.

‘Come on Tracy,
for Christ’s sake. Can you move? Please?’ said the warden. ‘Me supervisor’s
giving me stick about you.’

‘Alright Ted, I’m
going. Why the hell did you give me another ticket? You know it’s a waste of
time’

‘That wasn’t me,
that was him. Now come on Trace, please?’

Polly watched the
exchange between them with amazement. The warden seemed to have respect for Tracy,
almost with a matriarchal fear.

‘Alright,
alright. I’m going, for God’s sake.’

The warden left
with a tut. Tracey looked at Polly.

‘You see what I’m
up against?’ said Tracy smiling. ‘Now you take good care of Seymour Polly. He
could be your key to get you out of your cycle.’

‘Cycle? I don’t
know what you mean.’

‘Bollocks you don’t. It ain’t often you find love Polly and when
you do, it’s a gift, you should be grateful and take good care of it.’

Polly nodded.
‘Yes I know. Have you ever been in love Tracy?’

Tracy stood up
and offered her hand. Polly took it.

‘Yes, now bugger
off and remember what I said OK?’

‘OK.’ said Polly,
detecting a momentary sadness in Tracy.

A change of heart

Polly gently
opened the lead light front door and closed it as carefully as possible. The
old wooden stairs creaked as she climbed up, breaking the silence she was
trying to maintain. She had the cheap but acceptable bottle of fizzy white
wine, that she wanted to be champagne, in a carrier bag. She was going to
smuggle it in, pop the cork and seduce him.

As she entered
the room her body froze. The whole place was immaculately tidy. Even the bed
was made. Seymour's clothes were gone from their usual place on the floor; the
washing up had been done and put away. It was an eerie sight.

There were two
definite parts to the room, separated by a huge but usually drawn burgundy
velvet curtain. One side was Seymour's, the other Polly's. Polly's space was
always well- organised, tasteful and aesthetically pleasing. A beautiful old
four -poster bed dominated the space, its grandeur suggesting it played an
important role.

Seymour's side,
on the other hand, was usually a mess and would have several paintings
scattered around in various stages of completion: an easel, a chair, a table
full of discarded objects that once had a use, half-full cups, overflowing
ashtrays, odd socks and multi-coloured rags, stiff with dried paints.

But now even
Seymour's area was neatly ordered, and standing there, in the middle of the
room, was his easel and on it stood The Vase Lady. It was as if The Vase Lady
had just finished cleaning up: her proud, smug grin, those elegant handle arms
perched on her curvaceous hips, her piercing eyes.

Polly looked at
her suspiciously.

‘Seymour? Are you
home?’

She checked the
bathroom. It was immaculate, even the toilet bowl.

‘Oh no,’ she
whispered as she went back into the main room and slumped down in the old
armchair. Her eyes panned the room. Its neatness and silence sent a shiver down
her spine.

‘Shit,’ whispered
Polly, her eyes moistening.

The sound of a
key scratching at the door lock made her jump. Seymour wandered in, kicking the
door shut after him.

‘Seymour! What
happened, where have you been?’

‘Oh . . . Polly
– shit - I didn't think you'd be back yet. I . . . um.’

‘Seymour. Did you
do all this?’ she asked, standing up.

‘Yep.’

‘Why?’

‘Um. Well. I
thought, well you know - um. - I've just been down the road to get a paper.
You know, to look for a job.’

Seymour looked
across at Polly. Her expression was unreadable, a mixture of surprise,
confusion and possibly anger.

‘It’s - um -
not too late. Is it Polly?’

‘What?’

Seymour suddenly
realised the consequences of talking to himself.

‘Too late for
what?’

‘For - um - you
know. Us?’

He waited for an
answer.

‘What on earth
are you talking about?’

‘I'm going to go
out there, Polly, and I'm going to get a job!’ declared Seymour, ‘I just . . .
can't stand to see you like this anymore.’

‘Like what,
Seymour?’

‘Honestly Polly,
I've decided. You're right. I've been unfair. I'm going to change. Right now.’

Polly wandered
across his studio space. Seymour felt uneasy with her silence.

‘I can't believe
it Seymour. It's so tidy in here and you've been working. The Vase Lady, she's
so beautiful.’

Seymour sat down
at the table, his hands nervously wrestling with each other.

‘Oh, yeah, well,
I thought I'd better get it finished. You know, before I um, get out there and,
you know, get a job. Won't have time you see, what with overtime and
everything. If I can get it that is , probably do Saturdays as well. You know,
you get time and a half on Saturdays. Double time on Sundays. Some bloke told
me down at the Job Centre. He's just got a job in the Underground in London.
Cleaning. You don't need any qualifications or anything! Might apply myself.
There's loads of work out there, Polly. Even Hogarth's are looking for
labourers. Wouldn't that be a gas!’

Polly's mouth
dropped open.

‘You've been to
the Job Centre?’

‘Yes, very
helpful. Nice people.’

‘Seymour, what on
Earth are you on?’

‘What do you
mean?’ said Seymour indignantly.

Polly crossed her
arms as she approached the easel.

‘Seymour, The
Vase Lady is beautiful She's changed so much! She's amazing, truly beautiful.’

Seymour shrugged
his shoulders. His mind was running through scenarios of some hideous heavy
industrial workplace like an aluminium smelter or a car factory. It was unknown
for Seymour to turn down the chance of glory, but Polly's compliments were like
distant voices trying to break through the sound of heavy machinery as he swept
the factory floor. He could smell it. Maybe he could work behind a bar or
something. No, he had tried that once: didn't work out.

Polly was still
staring at The Vase Lady, mesmerised by her.

‘Oh Seymour. We've
got to do something with your work.’ She walked over to him and caressed him
from behind, her eyes still fixed on The Vase Lady.

‘I'm sorry,
darling,’ said Polly

Seymour's eyes
crossed involuntarily. What on earth was she talking about? He screwed up his
face and whispered, ‘That's OK, darling. That's OK.’

‘I'm just, you
know, pissed off, with the job and everything. I can't stand it anymore. I've
been feeling such a shit after all the things I've said to you over the last
few days. I'm really sorry.’

‘It's OK.’
mumbled Seymour, unsure if he was being tricked, ‘I understand, but you're
right, I don't do nearly enough to help out. But I've decided, from now on
things'll be different, just you wait and see.’

It occurred to
him that he had just quoted a line from an Australian soap he'd watched a
couple of days ago. Still, she wasn't to know that. Polly kissed his head.

‘You watch too
much television,’ said Polly as she slid her hand down to his crotch.

‘Seymour . . .
Seymour. Wake up.’

He did, slowly.
Polly was shaking him.

Her voice had an
aggressive edge to it. She was serious. He sorted through his mind for a clue
that would account for this rude awakening. The night before flooded back. With
a head full of not so acceptable cheap fizzy wine, several hash joints and
exhausted from writhing sex, Polly had agreed to stay on at Hogarth's until the
end of the year, providing that was, that her campaign to get the sack that day
failed, which was likely with Mr. Arnold on drugs. In return, Seymour was to
play the role of househusband.

How fucking modern,
he thought, as he rolled lazily on the pillow
and looked across at Polly. She was waiting, arms crossed.

With a sudden
burst Seymour sat up and scanned the room, his eyes fighting to focus.

‘Oh my God, what
do you do? How do you make breakfast?’

Polly punched him
playfully in the ribs. Seymour slipped out of bed as gracefully as he could
and wandered over to the kitchen area.

‘Eggs?’

‘Mmm, that would
be lovely,’ said Polly, watching him smugly.

Seymour took two eggs from the fridge examined them carefully.
Polly glanced at her watch.

‘Oh shit! Look at
the time! It's nine o'clock. I've missed the bus. Shit, shit, shit!’

Polly sprang out
of bed and ran to the bathroom.

‘Right. OK. Eggs.
Right. What else? Toast, coffee, right,’ he muttered, clattering various
utensils that were a mystery to him.

As Polly came out
of the bathroom, Seymour started to whistle the theme tune to
Neighbours,
to hide his displeasure. It
wasn’t that he objected to making breakfast for Polly, it was just that it
seemed contrived and uncomfortable somehow. Duty never worked well with
Seymour.

In no time Polly
was dressed immaculately, slurping down a cup of warm cloudy coffee as she
gathered up her bag and slipped on her shoes.

‘What's the hurry,
Polly? It isn't the first time you've been late. Come on. Sit down, relax.’

‘I can't,
Seymour, I was doing my best to get the sack yesterday. Shit, shit, shit.’

‘What? You mean,
but you said last night....’

‘I know, I know. I’m
sorry: I've got to go.’

‘No! Sit down
Polly, I've just done all this stuff for you, toast, eggs, another fifteen
minutes won't hurt. I'll phone the office for you. I'll tell them we got really
stoned last night and you had your eyes shagged out. They'll understand. Come
on. Please?’

Seymour gently
grabbed her by the shoulders and eased her down into a chair at the table.
Returning to his own chair, he watched her as she picked at the toast. He felt
strangely primal and satisfied. It was something about seeing her eating food
he had prepared or something, he wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it made him
want to take her there and then. He looked across at the bed and secretly
worked out the logistics of picking her up and throwing her on it. He would
stand there for a moment then slowly bend down and begin to kiss her toes. He
would look up to her bulging crutch and see it gently moving up and down. His
hand would slide up her legs; his fingers would feel the heat radiating from her.
He would touch her dampness and then she'd gyrate those wonderful hips. His
kisses would move slowly up her legs, a bit at a time, to join his hand and
take over, his hand would then journey up to her breasts. Pulling her panties
to one side with his teeth he would enter her with his tongue and....

‘Oh shit - it's
no good. I gotta go!’ said Polly as she lurched out of the chair and kissed
Seymour on the cheek.

Seymour sat there,
dazed, as Polly
left
. He looked down at his erection, then at the door.

He wandered
across to the bed holding his erect penis, gently working at it. Climbing into
the bed he lay his head on Polly's pillow, sniffed it and began masturbating.

Suddenly the door
flew open. Polly dashed in, ran over to her dressing table, grabbed her
handbag, headed back to the door and took an umbrella from the hat stand. She
stopped for a moment, looked at Seymour and smiled.

Seymour was
frozen in mid-stroke.

‘Bye, darling,’
whispered Polly, as she blew a kiss and disappeared, closing the door, very,
very gently behind her.

A Bad Day at the Office.

The wind gusted
around buildings, driving the rain near horizontally, making Polly's umbrella
pointless as she made her way to the bus stop. Waiting in the shelter,
snapshots of the night before popped into her head. She smiled to herself as
she watched people walking briskly, crouched under and battling to control
their protesting umbrellas.

On the bus,
Polly's amusement at her last sight of Seymour quickly faded as the day ahead
began to haunt her. She'd missed the number three and was now on the number
nine. The bus stopped outside a grim old shoe factory, which, a month before,
had threatened to close its doors to give job opportunities to ten year olds in
Portugal. The protests by the unions had threatened to bring the company to its
knees. The company revoked its threat, in exchange for the dismantling of union
demarcation practices. The workers were jubilant at the decision and were now
serving a life sentence of hard labour.