Picture Imperfect (5 page)

Oh. My.
God.

Danny is – and there’s no kind way to say this – a
prick.

He’s short, sweaty and overweight, and as he talks to
Mark, he looks me up and down in a way that makes my skin crawl. He continues
to speak directly to Mark about me, his piggy little eyes darting over my boobs
every couple of seconds.

‘Shame she can’t come! I’ll bet she scrubs up lovely in
a bikini, eh?’

Pervert.

Mark laughs at Danny’s hilarious banter. It occurs to
me that this, this person couldn’t be called anything else but Danny Crump. I
almost feel sorry for Mark, having to spend five minutes in this man’s company,
let alone five days. It’s hard to believe that they’re about the same age.
Danny looks about fifteen years older and considerably more shagged out, though
not in a good way. I almost feel sorry for him, too, but not that much.

‘Yeah.
Yeah she does. This is
Chloe Dixon. Chloe, this is Danny Crump.’

Danny shakes my hand again. Either he likes the
physical contact or he’s so stupid he’s forgotten that out hands have already
shaken thirty seconds ago. I think it’s the former. He continues to clasp my
hand after the shaking has stopped.

‘Chloe, eh?’ says Danny.

The two girls, who have been silent and staring, look
from Danny to Mark and from Mark to Danny. I keep forgetting that they’ve never
met Mark before.
Or me, for that matter.
I’m wondering
if this has occurred to Danny. I extract my hand from Danny’s.

One of the girls is tall, pale and fairly pretty (is
that bitchy enough for you?). She has one of those complexions where you just
know she’s going to be the same colour when she comes back from five days of
intense Mediterranean sunbathing. She’s quite busty and I can see her nipples
through the top she’s wearing. I imagine she’d get a lot of attention on the
beach. She’s grinning at me. I don’t know why.

The other girl has a permanent smile on her face and
cute dimples in her cheeks. She’s got blonde hair which has been cut short.
Ear piercing on the right ear.
Good cheekbones. She’s
shorter than the other one.
Wide hips, small breasts.
She keeps fiddling with her hair and nervously tapping her foot against her
suitcase, as if checking it’s still there without having to look down. She’s a
little overweight. She could be Danny’s younger sister, if he has one.

Danny nudges the tall one and points to me. ‘This is
Chloe, Mark’s main squeeze. Chloe, this is Margot.’

I shake hands with Margot. We smile at each other. Did
Danny just say ‘main squeeze’?

‘It’s such a shame you can’t come, Chloe.’ says Margot,
looking at the floor.

I don’t know how to respond to this.

‘Well, I’m very busy with work. You know how it is.’

Margot looks up and smiles vacantly. She doesn’t know
how it is.

‘And this beauty,’ says Danny, indicating the shorter
one, ‘is Ruth.’

Ruth and I shake hands. Danny doesn’t take his eyes off
Ruth. Either they’re already bonking or it’s something Danny has in mind for
the future. Does that mean that Mark gets to have busty Margot? I must kill
these thoughts before they start roosting in my brain.

There’s an awkward silence. I decide to break it. I
look from Margot to Ruth, grinning like an idiot. ‘Do you both
work
with Danny?’

‘I work with Danny.’ Replies Ruth. ‘Margot is a friend
of mine.’

That’s that out of the way, then.

‘I don’t work with Danny.’ adds Margot, helpfully.

I watch as the four of them exchange brief holiday chat
and fiddle with their bags. Mark shows Danny a couple of the books he’s bought.
Ruth asks Margot if she’s got any moisturiser. It’s as if I’m invisible. I feel
like a mega-gooseberry and want to get away as fast as possible.

‘OK. Good. Well I must dash. Don’t want to pay a
fortune to the car park people here!’

Mark smiles at me and takes my arm, moving me a few
feet from the others. ‘Thanks for letting me do this, baby. We’ll have a ball
when I come back, I promise. You are a star.’

‘You have a nice time. I’ll expect to see a fantastic
suntan when you return.’

‘I’ll be totally bronzed! I’ll send you a postcard.
Two postcards.’

‘If he’s ever sober enough to write one!’ shouts Danny,
who’s been listening from a distance.

Ruth picks her nose when she thinks no one is watching.

Mark kisses me on the cheek. We all say goodbye to each
other and I finally disengage myself from Mark and walk to the exit. I think
Danny wanted to give me a kiss, but I positioned myself so that couldn’t happen
and gave off bad vibe body language. I turn around to take a last look at them
all. They’re looking for seats at a nearby coffee place. Margot is laughing at
something. A fat chap with a moustache is looking at Margot’s boobs. Danny is
looking at Ruth’s boobs, then at Margot’s boobs, then at Ruth’s boobs again. As
I head towards the car park, two Italian-looking guys walk past and they both
look at my boobs. One of them makes eye contact with me and smiles sweetly.

On the way back in the car, I stick Yeah
Yeah
Yeahs
first CD on at high
volume and sing along, banging the steering wheel with both hands in
accompaniment. Five days. Not even a whole week. I’m sure it’ll go really
quickly. Tenerife is in The Canary Islands.

Monday 16
^th

I wake up feeling like I’ve had a really good night’s
sleep. I drank a whole bottle of white wine last night, but I don’t feel like
I’ve got a hangover. No Mark means
no
alarm going off
at 0650. I stretch like a cat under the sheets and, without opening my eyes,
scrabble around on the floor for my watch. Once it’s right in front of my face,
I open one eye and see that it’s nine fifteen. I think this is the latest that
I’ve woken up since I’ve lived with Mark. When he’s working he always gets up
at the same time and at the weekends I have to get up early to do the housework
and shopping. When Mark finally gets up, he tends to do ‘things’, instead of
helping around the flat.

These ‘things’ are usually browsing the
interweb
for flash sports cars which he’ll never be able to
buy and playing online games with people he doesn’t know, most of whom are
probably half his age, if that. All these games are usually called things like
Sword of Anguish, PlanetMaster3 or similar. Sometimes I wish he’d look at
something more suited to a man of his age, like lesbian porn. I mean, even
I’ve
looked at lesbian porn.

After nakedly squirming around in the warmth of the bed
for another fifteen minutes or so, I take the advanced step of opening my eyes and
staring at the ceiling for half an hour, thinking about what I’m going to do
today.
The painting.
I’ve got to try and finish that
bloody painting.

If I could somehow discipline myself to do a certain
amount of work a day instead of doing it when I felt like it, I’m sure I could
get both canvases finished by the end of the week.
Maybe even
sooner.
I’m OK once I’ve started;
it’s
motivation is the problem, or the lack of it.

The one I’ve already started on I call Canvas One. The
one that is jeering at me in all its blankness, well, I’ve decided to call that
Canvas Two. I guess being an artistic sort of person I could think up something
more interesting for both of them, but I’m afraid that would colour the
viewer’s perception when they’re hanging in The Tate Gallery next month I don’t
think.

After I’ve had a very long shower using far too much
Beautiful by
Ē
stee
Lauder shower gel, I make some breakfast then have a second cup of coffee
accompanied by a ciggy. Mark doesn’t like me smoking full stop, but he particularly
doesn’t like me smoking in the flat. As he’s not here, of course, I think ‘sod
it’ and light a second several minutes later.

I set up my art stuff and feel quite pleased that I can
just leave it where it is and come back to it whenever I feel inspired. No
tidying things up and clearing all away at five pm every day. This is what it
must be like to have a proper artist’s studio (my biggest dream). You just do
what you like. To celebrate my new found artistic freedom, I’m just wearing
knickers and a t-shirt (not particularly rebellious I know, but it’s a start).

Once I’ve got Canvas One up against the hall wall, I
step back (not very far, obviously) and have a look at it. I said they were
huge canvases and they are indeed huge, both being seven foot square. Mark
complained about them living permanently in the hall at first, but they soon
became part of the furniture and he forgot about them.

I can still see the work I have to paint over and start
dabbing it with a lovely red (called Alizarin Crimson, if you’re interested). I
use a wide brush to get on as much paint as possible. I wish there was a more
interesting reason, but there you are. The paint smell is getting me in the
mood, and I attack the canvas quite aggressively. I don’t know why, but it seems
the natural thing to do. I get into a good rhythm after a couple of minutes and
just as I’m smiling to myself in a self-congratulatory manner, the bloody phone
goes. This always, always happens.

I swear loudly and put the brush down, running into the
kitchen and picking the phone up with my left hand as it doesn’t have any paint
on it yet. I knew I should have put the
ansaphone
back on but I forgot.

‘I thought you weren’t in. You’re only in a flat. How
long can it take to answer the telephone?’

It’s my mother. If she calls and you don’t pick up
after two rings she takes it as a personal snub and gross insult.

‘Sorry. I was working.’

Why the hell am I saying sorry? It’s her that should be
saying sorry for interrupting me. She sighs disparagingly at the word
‘working’.

‘Oh. Well I won’t keep you for long. Just rang up to
see how you were. I haven’t been too good lately.’

Total made-up rubbish as usual.

‘Oh really?
What’s been the
matter?’

Wait for it…

‘Just feeling a bit down.
I
went to the doctor but he said there was nothing wrong. I think these younger
doctors don’t get trained as well.’

‘You’re right. I think they’ve got the course down to
six weeks now and they can do it online.’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic. It doesn’t suit you.
So anyway, I take it you’re working on your painting.’

She says the work ‘painting’ in the same way she might
say ‘extreme kitten torture’.

‘Yes. I’m really using this week to have a go at a
couple of paintings that haven’t been going so well. Mark’s gone on holiday for
five days, so…’

Damn!
You stupid, stupid cow.
That just slipped out without me noticing. Is there any way I can retract that
statement before it’s too late? Could it be some sort of work holiday, where you
still go to work but you do something different so they call it a holiday? I
don’t think that even my mother would fall for that one. Does anything rhyme
with ‘holiday’ or even just sound like it?

‘Mark? Mark’s gone on holiday, did you say?’

‘Yes. He’s was helping out a friend of his. It’s only
for five days. Someone dropped out at the last minute so Mark has taken his
place. It’s an old college friend of his. Danny.’

There’s a silence down the other end of the phone while
my mother works out how this information can be used to her advantage and, if
possible, how it can be used to manipulate me. I suddenly feel a bit silly that
I’m only in knickers and a t-shirt. I need to be fully dressed for a possible
demented psychodrama like this.

‘I see. Didn’t you want to go?’

‘It wasn’t that. The holiday was already booked. It
means I’ve got a whole week, five days to get some work done without having
to…’

‘Where is the holiday?’

Is there a chance to lie here? Would Greece sound too
exotic and wealthy to her? Perhaps I could say that he’s just gone to Middlesex
or something. He’s just gone on holiday down the road. Just around the corner.
He’s staying in the local launderette. He’s having five days in the flat
beneath us.

‘Greece. An island called
Zante
.’

‘I’ve never heard of it.
Greece, eh?
I’ve heard about the food there. And he didn’t want you to go with him? You and
he have never been on holiday to somewhere far away like that have you. It must
have cost a lot of money.’

‘It’s not that he didn’t want me to go with him. The
holiday was already booked, I keep telling you.’

‘You don’t keep telling me. You only mentioned it once
before. Danny did you say? Danny can be a girl’s name as well, can’t it?’

‘He’s not going on holiday with a girl!’

Well, actually he is.
Two girls.
But there’s no way on earth I’m giving her that little gem of information.

‘If you’d settled down into a proper career like
teaching, you’d be able to afford to go with him. Instead, you’re wasting your
time on painting ugly splodges that no one wants to buy. You’re not just
wasting your time, you’re wasting your youth and you’re frittering away your
life. You’ve already squandered your twenties messing around with this art
thing and now you’re going to squander your thirties. Before you know it, you’ll
be an old maid. No man wants a girl who sits around the house all day painting
rubbish that a six year old could do. Mark is a good catch. He’s got a good,
steady job. You could do a lot worse believe you me.’

I’m going to kill her. I swear I am.

‘
Him
going on holiday without
you is the beginning of the end, you mark my words. How long did you say? Five
days? It’ll be a fortnight next time and he’ll be taking some nice young girl
with him who wants to settle down and get married. That’s the sort of girl that
men want. Not David Hockley.’