Paint. The art of scam. (22 page)

Three months later.

32a Samson St, Shepherds Bush, London.

Polly watched
Seymour, fast asleep next to her, studying his angelic expression, complete
with that boyish grin. He was so at peace: innocent. At times, when they caressed
each other, their bodies entangled in a closeness that only love can allow, she
wanted to tell him everything so much: but she couldn't. The consequences would
have been too wild. That troubled her. Why couldn't she tell the man she loved
the truth? She concluded that the reason was precisely why she loved him.

Initially,
Seymour had objected to the idea of moving to London. He was happy in Hove and
Polly had to work hard to persuade him; secretly driven by the possibility that
Mrs. Pascali might suddenly burst through the door brandishing a machine gun.
The moment Seymour agreed to move, Polly went into action and within days she
found, with the help of convoluted contacts -including the
British
Bat Conservation Society
- a large, first floor Victorian era, ex-dance
studio; a spacious light room with a basic kitchen and bathroom. The rent was
minimal, as the building was in line for demolition to make way for a new
supermarket. The project had been delayed, thanks to the discovery of a pair of
rare and protected Nathusius’ Pipistrelle bats in the attic. Polly and
Seymour’s job was to make sure nobody poisoned the little buggers. As long as
they did that, their tenancy was secure.

Hogarth Heavy
Engineering had made a deal with her, just before they left Hove. They paid her
over £5,000 plus three months salary in compensation for her ordeal; on the
condition that she signed a letter declaring that they were in no way
negligent. Against all advice from lurking, vulture-like lawyers, she signed,
took the money and ran.

The complete
change in environment was, for Polly, a great relief. It felt like she was
recovering from an illness at last. Back in Hove, she had been continually
swallowed up by her mixed feelings of what she had done. Her relationship with
Seymour had suffered too. Understandably, he was confused by her behaviour, but
then, so was she. But still, somehow, despite the complex soup of lies, born of
secrecy, their love remained the rod that ran through their lives. Now, over
time, living in a new bubble, Polly's fears had diluted from a terrifying fear
that occupied her mind continually to an occasional waft of terrifying fear
that were an unpleasant intrusion.

She had moved on;
just as she had moved on many times before in her helter-skelter life, but this
time, it felt different. The violence she had witnessed, the death of Mr.Arnold
and Spider, the lies she still had to hold in her gut, somehow gave her life an
extra dimension. The sheer power of the whole episode had frightened her, but
that fear had somehow morphed into a primal sensation she never wanted to
forget. Her life had been directly threatened and the more she thought about
it, the more she was grateful for it.

The chaos of
moving to London had enabled her to make a covert trip to the bags she’d
hidden. It was a spontaneous decision, whilst heading to London in a hired car
to meet up with George Bourne from the British Bat Conservation Society. It
took her just a few nerve racking seconds to reach in and pull out one of the
bags,
grab
a bundle of damp notes and leave: the adrenalin nearly popped her eyes.

Polly slipped out
of bed and went to the kitchen, made coffee, sat at the large oak table and
opened up a folder in front of her. The folder contained list of art galleries
she had compiled over the previous weeks and it was getting shorter by the day;
angry lines scratching out each one that had rejected her requests for a
meeting to show them slides of Seymour's work.

She was beginning
to feel foolish about her naivety and closed the folder. Seymour hadn’t helped.
Although he had initially been supportive of her mission to show his work, now
he was mocking her, sarcastically: of course apologising afterwards. ‘Only
joking,’ etc. But now it was increasingly looking like he was right. You can’t
contrive the credibility of an artist. But then, Seymour didn’t know the full
story of what she had in mind. Polly had been busy this last few weeks, she’d
been to several art exhibition openings and by now she had realized that these
exhibitions were more about flirty, wine soaked, social gatherings than
anything else. The art was just an excuse in her eyes and rightfully so; most
of the art she had seen was unremarkable. She had met many pretentious,
arrogant, but generally attractive, fun people at these openings, good
connections like: Simon Baxter, the curator at "D'Art," Graham Single
at "Le Hamlet Gallerie," Vidor Mallinski at "Homeless,"
Shana Porstus at "Vingt Six," all of whom were attracted to Polly for
her intelligence, her oozing sex appeal and her irrefutable charm. Talents she
had used in the past to achieve her aims. She had shown all of them the slides
of Seymour’s work; the response was always polite.

With a sigh,
Polly finished off her coffee and went for a shower. She wasn’t about to give
up quite yet.

As usual, dressed
to kill, Polly set out for another, maybe final, attempt to find a gallery
space. It had crossed her mind, having seen several empty shops, that maybe she
could just open a new gallery and fill it with Seymour’s work; price it high.
Just with the contacts she had already met, she could easily populate an
opening party. With the right booze and plenty of it, she could create her own
buzz of excitement. Until people could see his work in the flesh, it was
impossible to feel magic they radiated. Slides just didn’t do the trick. She
would pretend to buy the lot and Bingo! Dirty damp money becomes nice, fresh
,crispy, kosher cash. At least then she wouldn’t have to deal with all these
smartasses that made her feel like some door to door hawker. She hadn’t
mentioned that idea to Seymour yet.

Carva’s gallery.

It was becoming
yet another disappointing day but, as she was having a quick sandwich and a
coffee, she spotted a gallery across the road from the cafe, as yet not on her
list. It was grand deteriorated Georgian building, standing amongst more modern,
but long closed shops. The name above was written in a classic cursive text in
gold, peeling paint that was so complicated, it was hard to make out. She
watched, as a stiff, sad looking gentleman arrived, unlocked the door and
opened it with some difficulty; due to a pile of envelopes blocking it, which
he cursed at and went inside. It was three o’clock; a strange time to open, she
thought. After a few moments, the gentleman appeared in the shop window from
behind a burgundy velvet curtain and carefully placed an old oil painting on a
rickety easel. She finished her coffee and went across the road to take a
closer look, cupping her hands against the grubby window to peer in. The
gallery was bleak and austere: badly lit. It had a stiffness that Polly assumed
was designed to ward off flippant riff raff with no money. It probably worked.

As she entered,
she gazed around at the serious looking paintings, mainly nicotine soaked oils
of grim, peasant poverty that hung on the walls. It was so unlike the snazzy
hip contemporary galleries she had been to and its gloom affected her. She was
about to turn to leave when the phone rang on a messy desk in the corner. The
gentleman appeared from behind a curtain and acknowledged Polly's presence with
surprise as he picked up the phone. Polly wandered over to the desk, casually
glancing at the paintings on the wall next to it.

‘Hello, Carva
speaking. Oh hello. Yes I've been meaning to call you.’

Carva turned away
from Polly, cupped his hand around the mouthpiece and retreated back into the
doorway, as far as the old coiled handset wire would allow him and began to
whisper. Polly stood there for a moment and quickly scanned the desktop.
Several bills stood out, the redness of the stern messages of threat seemed to
have the desired effect. A court summons lay underneath them, its assertive
heading poked out.

‘Yes, I
understand. But I am having some difficulty at the moment but...Yes of course.’

Polly could make
out the odd word in the conversation, but the tone in his voice more than
filled in the gaps. This man was in serious trouble.

She continued her
fake interest in the paintings until he put the phone down hard.

Polly approached
him smiling.

‘Good afternoon.’

He still had his
hand on the phone as if he were daring it to ring again. He was thinking hard
for a moment, but snapped out of it with Polly's words.

‘Oh. Hello. Can I
help you?’

He studied her
quickly from head to toe. He didn't seem impressed.

‘Um, yes I hope
so. I'm promoting a new artist and wonder if you would take a look at these
slides.’

Polly had already
pulled out the transparent slide sheet and was offering it to him.

‘I'm sorry Mrs.?’

‘Capital, Polly Capital.’

‘Mrs. Capital, we
only deal in established, traditional artists as you can see.’

He gestured to
the dark walls of doom. Polly was resigned to hearing this response in one form
or another and had become immune to it. But something zipped inside her. It was
that old tingle.

‘I think you will
find it worthwhile to at least take a look.’ said Polly as she shook the slides,
as if to tease him.

‘Mrs. Capital, I
am a very busy man, so if you would excuse me? I can be of no further help to
you.’

Polly didn't
budge. Something was holding her there. The man could see her defiance and,
being a genetic gentlemen, he sighed, took the sheet from her hands and held
them up to the light.

‘Yes, very nice
madam, but I'm afraid our clientele are extremely discerning people and have
little or no interest in this sort of thing.’

He offered the
slides back to Polly. Polly stood still, her arms crossed.

‘You're in the
poo, aren't you Mr Carva?’

Carva, aghast,
stared at her, in an attempt to portray outrage at her charge.

‘Now look Mrs.?’

‘Capital. You can
call me Polly. If you want.’

‘Mrs. Capital, I
don't know who you are or what you are trying to do, but I can assure you that
you are wasting your time and indeed mine and I would appreciate it if you
would kindly leave. How did you know my name?’

‘It's on the
summons on your desk.’ Even Polly was amazed at her behaviour. ‘Look, I have a
business proposition that will involve no investment from you and indeed could
be extremely profitable for you.’

‘Mrs. Capital I
can't see for the life of me how....’

‘Mr Carva. Please
just hear me out. I am looking for a way to exhibit my husband's work and I am
willing to pay.’

Carva’s
indignance grew. Polly saw it. He looked again at the sheet of slides and tried
to hand them back to her.

‘This will be of
no relevance to my regular clients Mrs. Capital. I'm sorry, but the art market
does not work like that. If I showed this, stuff, my reputation would....’

‘Change?’
interrupted Polly.

‘The tradition of
this gallery is built on generations of loyal clientele and I'll have you
know..’

‘Is your loyal
clientele living or dead?’ said Polly interrupting again. ‘Maybe that's why
you're in trouble. Look Mr. Carva, I'm sorry if I'm being rude but...’

‘Yes Mrs.
Capital, you are being rude and I suggest you stop right now and leave this
gallery. There are plenty of those alternative contemporary places. You should
try them.’

Polly stood there
staring into Carva's eyes.

‘I need a gallery
with reputation and a good mailing list. I'll give you five thousand pounds to
hold the show and I guarantee most, if not all, of the pieces will sell. You
will of course receive the usual 40% commission on sales.’

‘That, Mrs.
Capital, is a ridiculous notion, one can never guarantee, or indeed hope, for a
single sale from a show by an unknown artist.’

‘I am going to
buy them’ said Polly, cutting Carva cold.

Polly, bit her
lip, wondering if she was stepping over the mark: going too fast. She watched
him as he held her gaze for a second, then looked down at his desk.

‘Simon, my
husband is a very talented painter, you can see that. I do have funding in
place for this, um, project.’

The words rolled
easily from Polly's tongue. She was on the right track, she could see that from
Carva's eyes, as he held the slides up to the light again, this time with a
reserved enthusiasm.

‘Well, they do
have a certain, charm.’

After clearing
the several bills and the summons on the desk out of the way, Polly pulled out
a cardboard tube, slid out some full sized paintings and laid them on the desk.
Carva seemed genuinely moved and rightly so. The sheer power of the colours
Seymour used, seemed to glow in pulses in the grim ambience of the gallery.