Picture Imperfect

by Nicola Yeager

  She looks at the two canvases again, tilting her head to one side. ‘Look at the anger! The energy!’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I can feel tears in my eyes and suddenly I’ve got my hands over my face and I’m crying my eyes out. It’s such a cliché, but my whole body is racked by huge sobs and I can’t stop it no matter how much I concentrate. It’s loud, it’s wet and it’s beyond embarrassing.

  Rhoda comes over and puts her arms around me. I bury my head in her shoulder and create a big damp patch. I’m shaking as if I’ve got the flu or something. She rubs her hands up and down my back and probably wants to get out of here as fast as possible. I wouldn’t be that surprised if I heard her calling a minicab on her mobile as I sobbed. After a couple of minutes, I manage a recovery of sorts and am actually able to speak.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rhoda. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’

  ‘It’s just shock, my dear. Many of my clients have had an emotional response to their first bigtime sale. It’s relief, as well. I don’t like to count chickens, as you know, but these bitches may just push you into a different league altogether.’

  To be honest, I’m not really sure which league I’m in at the moment. I didn’t even know that there was a league. I start to cry again, tears streaming down my face. I wonder if I’ve suddenly become one of those weepy types, who are forever bursting into tears for no discernible reason. Rhoda must think I’m insane. Then I realise that it’s not the news about the paintings, at least not entirely. It’s Mark. All the stress, hurt, bafflement and feelings of betrayal from the past five days have suddenly erupted to the surface and Rhoda’s excited reaction to the canvases was the trigger.

  Part of it is self-pity, too. All of Mark’s snidey, philistine comments about what I do will be proved wrong. I don’t want to ask Rhoda how much she’ll sell these paintings for, as I don’t think it’ll be polite. Moreover, she probably doesn’t know the exact figure herself yet. But I know the market for big abstracts like mine and I know the sort of people who buy them.

  ‘Come on, darling. Don’t have a nervous breakdown on me now. If things go as I plan, you’re going to really have to knuckle down and do a lot more work before you can afford to have a complete mental collapse. Not that there’s anything wrong with complete mental collapses. I’ve had two of them myself. They’re like a holiday, really. Cheaper, as well.’

  We sit in the kitchen and drink coffee. I have a ciggy. Rhoda is starting to yawn quite a bit. I suppose she’ll go home and have a few hours’ sleep after she’s left here.

  I didn’t plan to tell anyone else about Mark, particularly as I’m still reeling from the reactions of Kristin and Mrs Goddard, but Rhoda is smart enough to realise that there must be something else bothering me. At first, she thinks that Mark (she didn’t actually know his name, but knew I lived with someone) had left me or been having an affair. After a bit of prodding, I finally spill the beans. I tell her about the holiday and everything else. I tell her about Mark’s attitude to money, to my painting, to everything.

  ‘Can I have one of those?’

  She pinches one of my cigarettes and lights it from mine. She stares into space for a few moments and doesn’t say anything. Maybe she’s thinking of something else entirely. She might be thinking about Selfridge’s Food Hall.

  ‘It’s a weird one, isn’t it. I’ve never heard of anything quite like this before.’

  I nod. ‘Me neither.’

  ‘It’s almost as if he’s single. That’s the sort of thing that a single man would do. Someone with no attachments of any sort. Remarkable.’

  ‘Everyone I’ve mentioned it to has…’

  ‘As for just doing it to help his friend out, well that’s about as tenuous a reason as you could hope for. It’s an excuse not even worthy of a two year old. Hmm.’

  She rests her chin on the back of one of her hands and yawns again.

  ‘Shall I tell what I would do? If I was you? You may not like it.’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘I would walk out of that front door right this minute and I would never return. I would never see him again. I would cut him out of my life completely and give no reason as he doesn’t deserve one. I wouldn’t even bother to pack my stuff. I’d just leave it here to make him feel shitty. Let him spend a miserable day picking though it all and deciding what’s his and what’s yours.’

  ‘But you can’t do something like that, can you. There’re all sorts of things that make it too complicated.’

  ‘Tell me one of them.’

  ‘Well. Just for starters, there’re the bills. He’d want me to pay my share of the next electricity bill when it arrived. Things like that.’

  ‘Forget all of that. You’re thinking like him. What’s he going to do? Report you to the police over a couple of hundred piddling pounds, if indeed it’s that much? He’d look like an idiot and a cheapskate. Is he going to report you to BT’s legal department? His ego wouldn’t be able to stand it. I’ll bet you any money that everything’s under his name. It’d be part of his control freakery. Forget all that. This will have done irreparable damage to your relationship. Things will never be the same now, but I’m sure you’ve realised that deep down.’

  ‘I haven’t to anywhere to go. And I haven’t got any money to speak of. I can’t afford to do a big life-changing shift like the one you’re describing. That’s you talking. That’s something that someone like you would do, Rhoda. I just can’t walk out of the door like that. It isn’t as easy for me for lots of reasons.’

  ‘When does he get back from Spain?’

  ‘Greece. On Saturday. His plane gets in a half past five or five thirty-five or something like that.’

  ‘In the morning?’

  ‘Tea time.’

  Rhoda yawns and stretches.

  ‘Listen, Chloe. I’ve got to get a few hours’ sleep.’

  ‘You can stay here, if you like.’

  ‘No. Jake could be here at any time in the next couple of hours and I hate being woken up by any sort of noise. Remember – stay here until twelve midday.’

  ‘I will. Oh. Rhoda. Why did you come ‘round here in the first place?’

  ‘I was going to dump you from the agency, sweetheart. Don’t worry. I don’t think that will be happening now.’

  She gets up and heads for the front door, air kisses me from about three feet away and disappears, leaving only the odour of truffle sauce and Tom Ford Jasmin Rouge behind her. This place smells like a Parisian brothel.

  I saunter back into the kitchen and open the window to get rid of the smell of cigarette smoke. I feel like I just want to go to sleep and wake whenever whatever it is that’s going to happen, good or bad, is over. It’s as if time is this big cloud of treacle that I have to swim through to get to the next good or bad bit.

  I try not to anticipate what’s going to happen with the paintings. Just because Rhoda likes them – or, should I say, thinks she can match a buyer to them – doesn’t necessarily mean that anything will happen. I’ve heard of lots of instances where artists think they’re on the verge of some big sale, just to have it collapse at the last moment because of some stupid last-minute decision by someone.

  I try to put the whole thing out of my mind. I try to put everything out of my mind.

  Thursday 19th

  I’ve only been in the office for about five minutes when my mobile goes off. For a second, my heart leaps. Is it Rhoda with some news already? But it isn’t Rhoda, it’s Alexis, an old school friend of mine.

  I was very close to Alexis between the ages of fourteen to seventeen, but after that, our paths diverged and we didn’t really see each other very much, until about three years ago when, by coincidence, we were both with respective bunches of friends at the same pub. We started chatting about all sorts of rubbish and got to know each other all over again. I last saw her about six months ago.

  She’d been married at the age of twenty to some guy called Robyn, who she was
madly in love with until she found him in bed with a girl who’d come to their house selling solar panel deals. I think that’s what it was, anyway. This was a little over six months after they’d got hitched, so as you can imagine, it rather put Alexis off the idea of marriage and she’s never done it again. I often wonder, though, what the sexual chemistry must have been like between Robyn and the solar panel girl. Sparks must have been flying!

  ‘Are you busy, Chloe?’

  ‘I’m at my bloody office job. I’m never busy here. You know that.’

  Kristin looks up and grins. She hasn’t asked me about the Mark situation so far today and I don’t think she will unless I happen to bring it up. Mrs Goddard is, as usual, silently ensconced in her office, looking, no doubt, out of the window and thinking about the past.

  ‘D’you fancy going out for dinner tonight?’

  ‘Sure. Have you got anywhere in mind?’

  This is a relief. I don’t fancy another evening on my own at home. I need distractions, particularly as I haven’t any more painting to do.

  ‘Well I found this great Japanese place in Baker Street. That’s not too far away for you, is it? I thought we could meet in a pub first and have a couple of drinks if you like.’

  ‘It’s not one of those places where you have to sit on the floor in an awkward position, is it?’

  She laughs. It’s like a bell tinkling.

  ‘No! It’s got seats just like a normal restaurant. What time do you finish there?’

  ‘Five-thirty.’

  ‘OK. You know the Waggoner’s, don’t you. I’ll see you in there at six?’

  ‘Fine.

  Kristin smiles as I put the phone down. ‘Going out to get hammered?’

  ‘Just seeing an old friend’

  She nods sagely. ‘Going out to get hammered.’

  I print out the letter I’ve just typed and stick it in an envelope. Mrs Goddard likes to email and send a hard copy at the same time. She thinks it’s more polite. She used to send a fax, too, before Kristin talked her out of it. Probably with the intention of keeping the chat away from Mark (I think we both had enough of that yesterday), she asks me about my painting. I tell her that I’ve just finished two and my agent seems to think she might be able to sell them.

  Kristin was obviously surprised when I told her how big they were. I think she’d imagined they were A1 size at the most, and probably nice watercolours of kittens or similar.

  ‘Wow! I’ve like to have a couple of huge, fuck-off paintings in my place. Something like when a friend comes in, it’s like ‘BANG! Look at us!’’

  I smile when I remember Jake calling ‘round to get them yesterday. Jake must be about seventy if he’s a day. As soon as I opened the front door to him, he raised a hand as if to indicate that not only should I not help him carry the canvases, or touch them in any way, I should also go into another room, not speak to him and keep out of his way. All of that in one gesture!

  I suspect he’s had years of experience carrying large, partially-dried canvases and has also had disasters when some dumb artist decided to help him out. I watched him from the kitchen as he hooked his fingers under the frames at the back and lifted them up like they were nothing, then carried them down the stairs with a weird sideways walk, like a crab.

  I looked out of the window and watched him place them in his van. It looked like he was attaching something to the frames so they wouldn’t fall over while he drove along, though I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing. As he drove off, I silently wished both paintings good luck.

  When I meet Alexis in the pub, the first thing I notice is that she’s dyed her hair blonde. It suits her. The second thing I notice is that she’s about four months pregnant. I’m not the most observant person in the world.

  We order drinks. I have a G&T; she has a Badoit with ice and lime. Despite myself, I’m mildly annoyed at this. When I go for a drink in a pub, I expect whoever I’m with to be drinking alcohol as well, even if they’re pregnant or on medication or have a serious allergy to alcohol.

  We find a table near the window and look at each other. I smile at her.

  ‘So! You’re blonde now, then!’

  She rubs her belly and takes a sip of her alcohol-free water. ‘Martin likes me to have blonde hair. He says it looks good on me.’

  ‘And Martin is…?’

  ‘Oh, of course. You wouldn’t know about him, would you. We must have met about six or seven months ago. It was all a bit sudden, but I knew that I wanted to get pregnant by him straight away. It was what he wanted, as well. He likes the way my body has been changing, too, so lots of bonking at the moment!’

  Did she just say ‘I knew that I wanted to get pregnant by him straight away’? Can you imagine inflicting that on a man during your first date? ‘I know we’ve only just met, but I’d like to have your baby, if that’s OK with you.’ They’d run a mile.

  ‘So what does he do, this Martin?’

  Apart from say ‘I like the way your body is changing.’ I don’t know why I’m asking about Martin’s job. I know it’s going to be something tedious. Alexis crosses and uncrosses her legs. She looks like she’s a little uncomfortable on the pub stool.

  ‘He’s a physiotherapist. He works for a couple of different health centres. He specialises in sport injuries.’

  ‘How did you…?’

  ‘I had a really bad sprain on my shoulder that didn’t want to go away.’

  ‘So you were one of his patients! How romantic!’

  She laughs that tinkly laugh. ‘It’s lovely to be pregnant, Chloe. We’re so happy about it. I was getting that old biological clock anxiety. You know what it’s like at our age.’

  She’s smiling all the time and it’s slightly unsettling. It’s as if she’s joined some religious cult and is extolling the virtues of abstaining from peanut butter and oral sex.

  ‘So when’s it due?’

  ‘The end of June, if everything goes to plan.’

  A couple of guys stroll past us, giving sly glances at Alexis. I think it was the blonde hair that got their attention. When they see she’s pregnant they keep on strolling. How unadventurous of them!

  ‘So, er, you’re not getting married or anything like that?’

  ‘No. We haven’t discussed it at all. You know me. It doesn’t have much of an appeal.’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘What about you and Mark? Any plans for kids yet? You’ve been living together for god knows how long.’

  ‘Two years. No. No plans like that.’

  She stares at me for a couple of seconds. ‘You don’t have to love someone to build a good life with them, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, you know, it’s enough that you get on with someone. You like them, you sleep with them, you have similar interests, you run your lives together, you have kids and so on. I don’t think there has to be this mystical ‘love’ thing on top of it all, do you?’

  ‘Um – yes. Yes I do.’

  ‘But you don’t love Mark, do you. You never have. The only time I’ve ever seen you in love was when you were seeing that guy – what was his name? – the one who designed credit cards. It was some bizarre job like that wasn’t it?’

  God almighty – I’d forgotten how blunt she could be.

  ‘You mean Hamish?’

  ‘Yes. That’s him. There was a magic in the air when you were with him, for want of a better phrase. On the few occasions that I saw you with Mark, that was never there. What happened with Hamish? I’m sure you told me.’

  ‘Oh, you know. Fizzled out.’

  ‘Shame. But you’ve got Mark now. You can’t always have the fairy dust. No one can. It’s just not realistic. Two years living in the same place, a year and a half going out before that. It’s not to be sniffed at. And neither of us is getting any younger. I mean, it’s still all going OK, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so. So you love Martin, then, do you?’

  ‘He’s wonderf
ul.’

  I’m not sure, but I think a simple ‘yes’ might have been the appropriate answer to that question. I think I’ll keep the Mark holiday stuff to myself. This is becoming a disturbing conversation and I don’t want to stick anything else into the bubbling cauldron that we’re stirring here.

  ‘The thing is, Alexis, things are not going badly with Mark or anything, but he’s done this thing that has made me think…’

  And like an idiot, I spill the whole thing to her. No matter who I’m talking to, I just cannot keep my mouth shut about it. What is wrong with me? She gives me a ‘pregnant woman sympathetic look’ as I will later come to think of it.

  ‘It’s just men, dear. He’s still young. He’s going to do things like this.’

  OMG – she sounds just like my mother! I have to respond to that one.

  ‘He’s a year and a half older than me, and I don’t do things like this!’

  ‘Just let him get it out of his system. Once he’s back, you’ll settle into your routine again and it’ll be as if it never happened. Try and imagine if it was me that asked you to go on a holiday with me…’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been through that one. And we took a couple of guys with us who were friends of yours. And Mark couldn’t come. In fact, he hadn’t actually had a foreign holiday for six years. I’d feel bloody awful about it. I’d feel like a real cow. I’d tell you that under no circumstances would I go with you. I’d tell you that I couldn’t do that to Mark. I’d tell you that I’d be afraid he’d leave me or something. I’d suggest that you found someone else to go with you, or just the three of you went. It wouldn’t kill you, would it? Just the three of you?’

  I’m going crazy. I’m talking about this fictitious scenario like it’s real.

  ‘Really, Chloe, Forget it. You’ve got a nice, stable guy there. He’ll look after you. You’ve been with him too long to let it all fall apart now. Two years; something must be going right. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’

  I nod. I’m starting to feel beaten. I feel that maybe I’m crazy and what Mark has done is just a ‘guy thing’, to be classified alongside his computer games and Autocar collection.