Picture Imperfect

Friday 20th



As I wake up and stretch, I realise that I’m starting to get used to this getting up late routine. I don’t feel so tired during the day any more. I’ve got more mental space to think about what I’m doing with my painting, for a start. It’s as if the real me had been locked in a box for a couple of years and now it’s been allowed to breathe again.

Now I’ve finished both canvases, I’m at a bit of a loose end. I think about what I’m going to do today and nothing really comes to mind. I might have a look at a few art books. It’s always useful to see what other people have done in the past and to read about how they got there, what they were thinking, what they liked.

Mark is back tomorrow. It was a week ago that he told me about his trip to Greece. I haven’t had a postcard from him yet, but that’s not so unusual; cards from foreign holidays always arrive well after the person has been back for a few days, or even longer in some cases.

I go out and do a bit of shopping. As I wander around the supermarket aisles in a dream, I realise that I’m still buying things that Mark will eat. I go and fill the car up with petrol. It’s nearly empty and I’ve got the trip out to Heathrow and back tomorrow. I wonder if Mark will have a tan? I wonder what he and the others will have got up to? I’ll stand at the arrivals gate and watch them all appear, sparkling with that holiday buzz and all wearing different, lighter clothes. They’ll have a lot to talk about and, naturally, I’ll be out of the conversational loop. I’ll be looking in all of their eyes for signs of what? Pity? Collusion over what went on during their holiday, if anything?

Maybe Alexis was right. Maybe I should take the line of least resistance and just get on with things. Maybe we’ll have forgotten all about this in a couple of years. It’s nothing, really, is it? I’m blowing it all out of proportion.

After I’ve put all the shopping away, I make a coffee and slump down on the sofa with a book about Mark Rothko that I bought second hand on Amazon a few months ago but haven’t had time to read yet. Just as I’m flicking through the intro, my mobile sings out its text bleep. It’s from Rhoda.

Plschck emls – cant cht now – bnking.Spkltr.

I can’t think of anyone else who would send me a text to tell me they were having sex. I wonder if it’s the same guy as the one on Wednesday? Or was it Tuesday? I think it must have been Tuesday and Wednesday. Obviously a long-term relationship this time. Well, it can wait for a few minutes. Perhaps I’ve misunderstood her text and she’s actually banking. I finish my coffee, take the mug out to the kitchen and turn the computer on. My own computer takes longer to start than the one in work. While it’s busy going through its mysterious, slo-mo computer tasks, I think about what Rhoda said to me.

I would walk out of that front door right this minute and I would never return. I would never see him again. I wouldn’t even bother to pack my stuff.

I get an odd feeling of elation in the pit of my stomach when I think of that possibility. The freedom of doing just that would be intoxicating. And frightening. And risky.

When the computer is finally ready (I must get a new one or at least get this one serviced), I bring my emails up. There’s one from Waitrose, another from a Canadian pharmacy and then, at the bottom, one from Clementine, Rhoda’s PA or whatever she is.

I open it and stare at the content without blinking.

Hi Chloe. Canvases now called Disorder #1 and Disorder #2. Hope this is ok wth you. Rhoda had to name them at v.short notice. Now owned by Arbiter Minerals. Sorry, but they want three more, same size same theme. Will get commission details sorted by midd of next week. £30,000 wired to yr banks Account. Congrats. Clementine.

I read it again six times. My mouth is dry and my whole body feels cold, even though the heating’s on.

I need to speak to Rhoda and quickly. Part of my mind thinks that this is a joke, but if it was, it would have probably come from Rhoda, not Clementine. Someone like Clementine would be fired for a joke like that. And who would have known my email address to send a message like this? And who would have known about the paintings? No – this is real. I read it again, twice, just to make sure I haven’t made some terrible mistake. Like an idiot, I start to snigger. After a few seconds I’m laughing out loud. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. Whether these are tears of misery, joy or relief I can’t really say. Maybe all three. I place my head in my hands and rock forward and backward.

When I’ve recovered, I check the time of Rhoda’s text. It was sent at 10.17, and I start to wonder if her bonking session has finished yet so I can give her a call. Probably not a good idea, I decide. Instead, I just text her back, a simple ‘thanks’, which is all I can think of to say at the moment. I lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling.

Three hours later, I’m in Rhoda’s car and we’re driving out to west London. I say driving, we’re actually in a traffic jam on the A40, but it’s driving of a sort. Just rather slow.

She finally rang me just as I was making something for lunch and I met her on the corner of the big car park underneath Cavendish Square. When I arrived, she was arguing with a traffic warden. I guess ‘arguing’ isn’t the correct word here. She was telling him off, while he stared at her cleavage, his jaw on the pavement. When I got in the car, she threw a five pound note at him. I’ll never know whether he picked it up. Would that have been bribery? Maybe her phone number was written on it. That wouldn’t have surprised me in the slightest.

The car smells of perfume, but not the gorgeous one she had on the other day, and as we speed along at a little over seven miles per hour, she gives me a little more detail about what happened to my paintings. I’m still in a little bit of a daze and have to force myself to concentrate on what she’s saying.

‘So I heard through the grapevine that Arbiter Minerals – god alone knows what they do – were starting the decorating of their grim, neomodern, brutalist new premises in a month from now. I’ve known Kaspar for ages, so he gave me the tip-off. There was only one sort of art that would go in the entrance hall of a place like that and your canvases fitted the bill perfectly, in my opinion. Which I forced upon them.’

I don’t bother to ask who Kaspar is.

‘Only problem is that like all these modern office spaces, receptions or atriums or whatever they like to call them, there was a lot of wall space to fill up and even though your two were big, they still needed something else. I managed to convince their man there – no idea who he was or what he did – that another three similar would just about make the place seem vaguely human and not look like some gruesome futuristic prison camp or an abattoir or something. Contracts are already written up. How long do you think it will take you?’

‘Um – I don’t know. It depends on…’

‘Mm. Well let’s not worry about that today, shall we? When your canvases have finally dried off, we’ll go and have a look at this place and you can help their man decide where they should go, even though I already know what to do with them. It’s just that they like to feel that they’re involved in some way and for some reason like to meet the artists as well. I can’t imagine why.’

‘Where are we going now, then?’

The traffic has got rather better and we speed up to a reasonable thirty-eight.

‘Hammersmith. Very trendy compared to when I used to live there, I can tell you that for nothing. You can’t be expected to produce the sort of large works that you’ll soon be in demand for in that damn hallway of yours. It’s a miracle you managed to produce anything. Have you heard of Amy Hunter? Big fluorescent bulb neon strip things? All different colours? Political…stuff? The Neon Blasphemy Exhibition? No? She was working out of this tiny bedsit in the middle of nowhere. Ridiculous. As soon as she started selling I got her out of there and installed…’

She suddenly stops talking and turns into a small, leafy road. After a couple of minutes, she parks in the driveway of a large Edwardian house and we get out.

She gets out a large bunch of keys and after tapping a couple of numbers into a security pad, unlocks the large front door.

‘Where is this?’

‘Don’t ask questions. Follow me.’

‘The place feels empty, like no one has lived here for a while. There’s a smell of pine from the bare floorboards. We walk up three flights of stairs and stop at what seems to be the top of the house. She fiddles with her key ring again, opening a big door and when I look inside, it takes my breath away.

It’s an enormous artist’s studio. By enormous, I mean huge. By huge, I mean very big and by very big I mean enormous. There are huge skylights, half covered with blinds. In one corner, a big sink and next to the sink two huge easels, one of which looks broken. At first, I think that the floor is tiled, but it’s actually wood. Rhoda looks at me and smiles and I wonder if my mouth is hanging open. I also wonder if I’m salivating. Probably both.

‘This is yours, Chloe. It isn’t free. You’ll pay me a small rent every month and you’ll take care of the bills.’

‘But…’

‘What are you going to say? That you can’t afford it? Didn’t you read Clementine’s email? You’ll need to get supplies, of course. Clementine will go shopping with you. She knows where to get the best stuff and the cheapest stuff. Did you know she’s lesbian? Now come over here.’

We walk to the far side of the studio and Rhoda opens a side door, which I hadn’t noticed when we came in. To my amazement, the door reveals what can only be described as a small flat. There’s a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom and a small living area.

‘Now obviously, you can use this as a chill-out area, but it hasn’t escaped my notice that you might be looking for somewhere else to live. Of course, you may not want to live here or anywhere else. I’m not going to pressurise. It’s up to you. I thought I’d give you the option because I’m a very nice, caring person as I’m sure you’ve surmised.’

I’m afraid I’ve been struck dumb. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes and breathe through my mouth to stop them rolling down my cheeks.

‘There’s no one else living here. This is a big house and it’s been doing nothing for a year. It does, however, have a state-of-the-art security system which’ll take you about a day to master. I don’t want expensive works of art to be produced here only for them to be stolen or vandalised or whatever. I’ve got some stuff stored in the other rooms here, as well. And art materials are not cheap as you well know.’

She reaches in her bag and pulls out a big bunch of keys.

‘These are your keys. Clementine has stuck little labels on each key telling you what it’s for. The ones with the red plastic bits are to do with the security. Good luck with that. I certainly didn’t understand it.’

‘I – I…’

‘So. You can either commute here every day, using this purely as your studio, or you can live here. I’d prefer it if you lived here, of course. Deters burglars and all that. Lights going on and off. Loud music and all the rest of it. It’s entirely up to you. These living quarters are a bit dowdy. If I was you I’d do a bit of cleaning and a bit of decorating. I’d also get a telly and all the rest of it. This could be a nice little place. I think you can get satellite here, but don’t ask me what to do about that. I haven’t got a clue. There are sockets in the wall over there. If you need help getting canvases and so on in here you can always give Jake a bell. Clementine has his number. I’ve told Jake that you may need some help quite soon to remove your, er, art materials out of your flat. I hope you don’t mind. He’s free this afternoon if you need him. Up to you, of course. You could buy all new stuff, couldn’t you.’

‘I don’t know what to say, Rhoda.’

‘Something like: I will work my ovaries off in this place and get Rhoda so much money from her commission that she can buy an island off the coast of Spain and be serviced by bullfighters until her teeth fall out.’

‘OK. That.’

‘And I have to warn you now that if you start to blub I will slap your face. Now, I have to get along. I’ll be in touch. What day is it? You can stay here and have a look around. Get used to it. Look around. Get used to the vibes. See if the taps work. Open the windows. Things like that. Whatever you decide to do, give me a ring or if I’m not around, talk to Clementine. She’s not as dim as she sounds. Oh, and I almost forgot. I’ve got a little present for you.’

She fishes a Harrods carrier out of her handbag and hands it to me. It’s a 250ml bottle of Tom Ford Jasmin Rouge eau de parfum. Must have cost a fortune.

‘Congratulations, sweetie.’

‘Thanks, Rhoda. Thanks for everything.’ We embrace and kiss each other’s cheeks and she’s gone.

As I walk around the studio holding my posh perfume, I feel slightly dizzy. I take the top off the bottle and put some on my wrists and on my neck. It’s got a heady, rich, decadent smell. It’s sexy on Rhoda so I guess it must be sexy on me. Terribly, I can hear Mark’s voice: ‘What’s that awful smell?’

I want a ciggy, but I realise I haven’t got any on me.

There’s no furniture here, so I sit on the floor and stare into space.

I think of Mark arriving at Heathrow and I’m not there to greet him. All his friends joke about it and he has a laugh about it, too. He’s irritated by the fact he has to get the tube and a taxi home. It’s the waste of money that bugs him the most.

By the time he gets home to the flat, he’s getting annoyed. This state of affairs is made worse by the fact that no one answers the door when he rings the bell. The car is parked outside, so he’s pretty sure I must be home. I’m probably in the bath or something. How annoying.

He uses his keys to get in and immediately knows that something’s not right. At the moment it’s just a feeling. He’s tried to call me on my mobile several times and there’s been no response. He’s left a few irritated messages and a handful of angry texts. He doesn’t notice that my flat keys and the car keys are on the floor, having been pushed through the letterbox.

He dumps his suitcase and new carry-on bag on the floor and calls out for me, but there’s no reply. He goes into the kitchen to make himself a coffee and looks around. Something’s different in here. Something’s not right. Then he notices that my mini stereo has gone, as has the CD rack that’s always next to it. Maybe I’ve put them in another room.

He frowns. He’s unsure. It still hasn’t hit him yet. He takes a stroll around the flat. For a brief second he wonders if we’ve been burglarised. He goes into the living room. The television is still there. That would have been the first thing any burglars took and there’s no evidence of any disturbance.

Next stop is the bedroom. All looks normal. On a whim, he opens my side of the wardrobe. The second he sees that it’s been cleared out, he realises what has happened. He sits down on the bed.

I think about what Alexis said. I’ll take her advice, but not quite in the way she’d planned, I think.

You have to listen to your heart on this, Chloe. It’ll tell you what to do and I know you’ll do the right thing.

I get my mobile out of my bag and check my watch. It’s ten past one. I’ll ring Clementine. She’ll be able to put me in touch with Jake. Rhoda said he was free this afternoon and I’m going to need him and his van.