Paint. The art of scam. (3 page)

Tracy and Seymour
became friends easily. Once Seymour had got beyond assessing her as a sexual
possibility, he realised that despite her hairy armpits, abnormally sagging
breasts and bulbous bottom, she was in fact a sound person. She was funny,
intelligent and to his surprise unimpressed by his now ingrained, unfounded
elitism. She had a way of grounding him with her honesty without using cruelty,
a tool that he had both used and been a victim of in the past.

Seymour,
intrigued by Tracy's Tarot cards, asked her for a reading, which turned out to
be uncannily, almost offensively accurate in its assessment of his state. This
was, according to Tracy, a time for great change, a rebirth. An exciting
opportunity awaited him that would lead him to a new level of achievement. If
he listened to it when it arrived, great things would mysteriously occur, but
if he didn't listen to it, the chance would pass him by and boredom would
swallow his spirit. It all sounded quite exhausting the way Tracy had put it.
It was a strong reading she said, very strong.

‘How will I know
when it comes?’ asked Seymour, after allowing Tracy to calm down from her
animated proclamation.

‘You will know,’
she intoned, staring deep into his eyes.

She was deadly
serious. She scared him. Nobody had ever pinned him down with words before, not
that he had noticed anyway, and Tracy was visibly exhausted after the reading.
Seymour, digesting what Tracy had told him, suddenly felt the uncomfortable
weight of responsibility on his shoulders. It hurt, but Tracy had put his mind
at ease in her final words: ‘It’s unstoppable. It will happen, and there is
nothing you can do to encourage it or stop it,’ she said, as she opened her
eyes from a convincing trance. ‘It is done!’

It was, in
Seymour's eyes, a win-win situation. If he screwed up, he always had boredom to
fall back on, which sounded a lot easier to maintain.

In the following
days he found himself working furiously on new paintings, building a makeshift
stall from forklift truck pallets and feeling strangely ambitious.

Tracy watched him
with amusement. She could see the future.

Seymour was
surprised at how well his work sold, mainly to the hordes of coach tour
pensioners temporarily released from their strict itinerary for good behaviour.
The most popular were small unframed paintings of pebbles, seascapes and
cartoon-like sun lounging figures, none of which he was particularly proud of, but
they captured a lazy seaside feel that was an antidote, Seymour cynically
suspected, to people's otherwise miserable existences. A questionable judgement
for someone living in a caravan that rats refused to occupy.

He even began
enjoying the brief flirtatious encounters he had with his clients, where his
talent for charm didn't have to be maintained beyond a few minutes.

Larger paintings
never sold, which puzzled Seymour until Tracy pointed out that nobody would
want to wrestle a canvas the size of a small spinnaker back to their car, bus
or bed and breakfast in a Force 8 gale, no matter how beautiful it was.

One evening, as
he was packing up for the day, he noticed Polly studying the half dozen or so
large paintings strapped to the railings. It was the third time he had seen her
that day. Their eyes had met: they had smiled at each other. He had watched her
wander away, seemingly deep in thought, the breeze pushing at her skimpy cotton
dress showing the contours of her firm, fit body. He felt they had made a
connection, more so than with the countless other rambling women he had ogled
and temporarily fallen in and love with on an hourly basis.

This time she
stood there longer, studying the paintings, her slender hands cradling her
perfectly honed chin.

He watched her,
then looked at Tracy, who he sensed was watching him. Tracey winked, smiled and
muttered.

‘There's trouble
if you were looking for it.’

‘Like them?’
ventured Seymour.

‘They’re
beautiful,’ said Polly.

‘You can have
them for twenty quid apiece.’

‘Really? Why are
they so cheap?’

‘Because I want
you to have them.’

Polly looked
embarrassed, but smiled.

‘Why?’ she asked,
suspiciously.

‘Because they
suit you,’ said Seymour. He glanced at Tracy again, almost for approval. Tracy
rolled her eyes and shook her bowed head in mock defeat.

‘I'm tempted, but
I'll have to get my boyfriend to look at them.’

Seymour's flirt
gun dropped. It showed.

‘Is that OK? Can
you keep them for me?’ asked Polly.

Seymour shrugged
his shoulders. ‘Sure. Whatever.’

‘Would you like
some sort of deposit?’

Seymour busied
himself with packing up.

‘Nah, so long as
it's not for long.’

‘We'll come back
in the morning. Will you be here?’ said Polly to the suddenly-too-busy-to-talk
Seymour.

‘Yup.’

‘OK. I'll see you
about tennish then.’

‘Righto,’ said
Seymour to the pavement.

Polly wandered
off, occasionally looking back at the paintings.

Tracy watched as Seymour
impatiently stuffed his paintings into boxes.

‘Don't worry,
Seymour. She'll be back, alone.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said
Seymour. ‘Not bothered.’

‘Bollocks,’ said
Tracy.

Dead on ten
o'clock the following day Polly returned, alone.

‘Told you so,’
muttered Tracy smugly.

‘Hi,’ said Polly.

‘Oh hi. Didn't
bring your boyfriend then?’ said Seymour, attempting to hide the childish grin
he wore.

‘No,’ said Polly.
‘He's left it up to me. He had to go away to London.’

‘That's good. He
trusts your taste, then?’

‘No, not at all.
It's just, well, he hasn't really got any.’

Seymour thought
he detected animosity in her voice.

‘What's he doing
with you then?’

‘Oh, for fuck’s
sake,’ whispered Tracy.

Polly smiled,
attempted to ignore his clumsy compliment, and reached into her bag.

‘Here's the cash,’
said Polly, handing him an envelope.

Seymour took it
and massaged the bulging contents.

‘Blimey. Thanks.’

‘My name's Polly,
by the way.’

‘Oh right. I'm
Seymour,’ said Seymour, his eyes jumping between the envelope and Polly.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Oh? How?’

‘You signed the
paintings.’

‘Oh right. Yeah,
of course . . . um . . . so you want to take them with you?’

‘Bit tricky. I
walked down, can you deliver them?’

‘Uh. . . I could
if I could drive - or had a car, come to that.’

‘You don't drive?
How unusual.’

‘I forgot to
learn. Maybe . . ..’ Seymour looked across at Tracy. ‘Tracy? Have you got a
car?’

‘Sorry Seymour,
never had one.’

‘Oh, um well, how
far away do you live?’

‘Just up at
Kemptown. It's not far.’

‘Well I could
bring them in a cab this evening if you like.’

‘OK, about
sevenish?’

‘Sure.’

‘Ok, great - here's
my card. I'll see you at seven then. Do you do commissions, by the way? We're
renovating our house, you see, it’s hard to find good work.’

‘Well not
normally but, well, I could, I suppose.’

‘Good. We'll talk
about it this evening, might even cook some dinner, Kevin should be back by
then.’

‘Kevin?’

‘My boyfriend.’

‘Oh. Right. See
you at seven then.’

Polly offered her
hand and Seymour took it, holding it a little longer than he should, studying
it as a pawnbroker would. She didn't seem to object.

‘Can I have it
back?’

‘Oh. Sorry, of
course.’

She slipped her
hand from his, smiled affectionately again and sauntered off. Seymour watched
her for a good ten minutes until she was out of sight.

‘Well,’ said
Tracy, ‘that's you fucked.’

‘What?’ said
Seymour still staring into the distance to see if he could catch a last glimpse
of her. He turned to the grinning Tracy.

‘You be careful
there, Seymour.’

‘Of course I
will.’

‘Bollocks.’ said
Tracy.

If he'd had a
watch Seymour would have counted every second of that day. He was obsessed.

He sold nine
small paintings, almost his entire stock, mainly due to his unbearable
enthusiasm. By six he had cleared away his stall and was frantically shaving
and showering himself by pouring gallons of cold water on himself from a bucket
outside the caravan and was dressed in an ill-fitting suit he'd bought at a
charity shop at lunchtime.

‘Well don't you
look a picture,’ said Tracy, straightening his collar. ‘Not sure about the
sandals though.’

‘I'm an artist, Trace,
I can wear what I want.’

‘Bloody fool.
Don't forget Seymour, be careful, you're wearing blinkers.’

‘What do you
mean?’

‘For Christ's
sake, Seymour! Remember the “that's it, no more women for me, from now on it's
just me, me, me. Stuff 'em all?” Now look at you, the first sniff of a woman
and you're off like a fucking rat up a sewer pipe.’

‘No I'm not. I'm
only going to drop some paintings off, for God's sake,’ flashed Seymour
indignantly.

‘Yeah well, you
make sure you don't drop anything else off or you'll find yourself in the poo,
mark my words. She could do your head in from fifty paces.’

‘Nah, it's just
business Trace, I gotta make an effort, haven't I? Jesus Christ, remember my
reading?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

Tracy stood back
and admired him. Her eyes fixed on his with an uncomfortable intensity.

‘Lucky bitch,’ said
Tracey as she turned away suddenly and folded up her table. Seymour saw her
sudden change of mood.

‘What's up Trace?’

She carried on
packing her things, her head bowed.

‘Go on Seymour,
fuck off and have a good time. I'll see you in the morning, OK,’ said Tracy. She
hurled the camping table and two stools strapped together with a bungee strap
onto her back, and struggled off like a camel. Seymour watched her for a
moment, puzzled, before slipping into his compound.

He had to walk
all the way up to Kemptown. No taxi would stop for him, possibly due to the
fact that he looked like a madman.

Seymour, after
climbing the endless, near 45 degree hill, put the paintings down on the
pavement and attempted to catch his breath. He reached into his pocket and
retrieved Polly's card, now crumpled and damp with nervous palm sweat. Seymour
looked at the smart terraced houses. No. 53 was by far the scruffiest, with
paint peeling from its weathered wooden window frames, its rendered walls faded
and cracked from years of salty sea winds and baking sun. He was disappointed:
he had built up an image of some sort of mansion in his head, maybe a smart Jag
in the wide, crunching gravel driveway. Polly had seemed classy, expensive and
deserving of something more opulent. The houses in the rest of the street
looked far more appropriate. He checked the card again. Maybe this is her
second home. A weekender, or something.

Struggling with
his paintings up the crumbling steps to the dilapidated but grand front door,
Seymour pressed the loose bell push with his only available elbow. Cocking his
ear, he heard nothing from inside, no deep ding-dong, no buzz - nothing. Just
as he was about to put his scruffily wrapped package down, the door suddenly
opened and there she was, freshly showered, dressed
in a
minute black cocktail dress. Her hair was gathered up in combs with random
strands dancing around her neck; her deep red lips beamed a smile exposing her
perfect white teeth.

‘Hi Seymour! Come
in. My, you look smart, who's the lucky lady?’

Seymour's day-old
cocky confidence crashed into a heap.

He wanted to say
something clever and flirty like ‘you,’ but instead muttered some alien word
that tailed off with a stupid boyish giggle. Struggling into the hallway,
grazing his knuckles on the doorframe and tripping on the step, Seymour
attempted to look as cool as he could.

‘Here, let me
help,’ said Polly bending down displaying her peachy cleavage.

Seymour coughed
nervously.

‘Blimey, they're
heavier than I thought,’ said Polly.

Somehow they
managed to get the paintings into the hallway without actually touching each
other. If he had so much as brushed against her body, God knows what would have
happened to him.