by Tom Davies
Chloe soon clarified the invitation by adding, “Just a final condition, Simon. If you really want to please me, I suggest you book our double room in the names of Dr and Mrs Stuart Mison!”
At that, Simon threw himself backward in his tilting chair, gave a huge guffaw and overbalanced onto his rubbish bin, bringing down his in-tray and a pile of unmarked essays with him.
*************
“Fancy having to queue, despite having tickets,” moaned Simon.
“Probably because it’s Saturday, Simon. The queue’s moving quite fast anyway.”
The reality was that he would have been glad to stand there all afternoon with her, so long as they were back at the hotel by bedtime. His luck had turned again. Things had seemed a bit bleak. Now, not only had Chloe promised him Shangri-La, he’d received that morning confirmation of another £10,000 in his St. Helier bank account. As a bonus, he was about to spend time viewing acres of paintings – soul food! And in her company, too!
“Well, we’re in. That didn’t take long really. Shall we share a catalogue, Simon?”
“Fine! I don’t want to listen to a cassette. I’d rather we talked about the paintings ourselves, Chloe.” She gave him an affectionate squeeze and kiss.
“My knowledge of painting and painters is very limited, Simon. All I know is that it’s pleasurable to just feast my eyes on some canvasses. I’m more influenced by colour and patterns than any particular form.”
“I think that’s absolutely OK, Chloe. My introduction to painting was by a cousin who admired the work of Jackson Pollock and others. I think he referred to them all as abstract expressionists. It never seemed to me to be necessary to make philosophical sense of any of it, in order to enjoy it. After all, you don’t have to understand the technical structure of a symphony to appreciate beautiful combinations and sequences of sounds, do you?”
In the second room, a matronly American woman was holding forth to a glum looking man in tow. “Yeah, honey, that wonderful picture shrieks out Venice. You can feel the Adriatic ambience.” (It was a sunset in London). She continued, “I could stay here forever, honey. Manet was a genius (Honey mouthed the word Monet in her ear and received a rewarding scowl). Simon and Chloe struggled to keep straight faces and returned to the refuge of the previous picture, allowing Mrs America and Honey to perforate everyone else’s eardrums.
“Chloe, that painting, ‘Impression: Sunrise’, is said to have been the origin of the title for the ‘Impressionist’ movement in French painting. Renoir and Manet were other artists involved.”
“Thanks, Simon. If ever Magnus Magnusson asks me that, I shall recall this moment! Perhaps we’d better catch up with Mrs America. You could give Honey a rest!”
He gave her a little dig in the ribs, muttering, “You’ll pay for that later, Chloe!”
“Promises, promises. You’d better be a man of your word!”
There was a continuing flow of viewers through the gallery; it wasn’t too fast, but people mostly kept moving. The exceptions were art students, dotted here and there, doing mini-copies.
“He certainly had a thing about Water Lilies for a time, Simon. I’d quite like to visit Giverny, look around the house, and see the real thing.”
“I’ll take you. Chloe. We could make it a weekend in Paris. Take Le Shuttle. Make it a special occasion. What do you say?”
“It’s a lovely offer, Simon. See if you feel the same tomorrow morning.”
They stayed an hour and a quarter, picked up their overnight bags from the cloakroom, and flagged down a cab.
At the hotel, Simon picked up the bags and, with Chloe on his arm, strode into the building. They’d almost reached Reception when he stopped abruptly at the Porter’s Counter for a Financial Times. Without thinking, Chloe kept moving.
“Good afternoon, madam. May I help you?”
“Thank you. We have a reservation.”
“Right, Madam. What is your name please?”
She was completely caught out, opened her mouth and shut it and then pretended to cough. What name had Simon given? Oh my God, please help!
Her prayer went unanswered. The earth did not open and swallow her. Instead, Simon said over her shoulder, “Double room, Mr and Mrs McGuire.”
Five minutes later the porter put their bags on the suitcase stand, urged them to call him if they needed the slightest assistance, and took his leave a few pounds richer.
“Oh my God, that was so embarrassing, Simon! I didn’t know if you’d taken me at my word and called us Mison?” She felt very odd. It was the heightened sensitivity from the incident, the excitement of being here, and just straightforward good old hormones having their play.
Simon stepped close and put his arms around her ready to console. Before he could utter a word, she sat down, kicked off her shoes and stretched across the bed.
“I don’t want to wait, Simon!”
