Picture Imperfect

by Nicola Yeager

  The waiter is insistent. He says that, like all the other guests, I’ve left my mobile behind the bar and I have to answer it as the ringtone is annoying the other customers. I can’t imagine why. It’s not as if it’s some irritating novelty ringtone. It’s just a light, electronic trilling sound. I insist that I’m not going to answer it, but he still goes on about it. Then the manager (the manager?) comes over. She’s a stern looking woman of about forty with a bad limp and says that they’ll have to let my room to someone else if I don’t answer it straight away.

  My eyes open and the dream fizzles away. My Blackberry is trilling away somewhere and it’s not going to stop. Maybe if I leave it long enough, the answer thingy will kick in. I look at my alarm clock and it says it’s six fifty-five. This is really annoying. My alarm is set for seven-thirty and I thought that was early enough.

  I retrieve the Blackberry from under a pile of clothes and click the answer button.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes? What d’you mean ‘yes?’’

  It’s Rhoda. I can’t imagine why she’s calling this early.

  ‘Oh. Hello. Hi.’

  ‘Just wanted to make sure you were getting up in time, sweetheart. Busy day today. Didn’t you tell me you had an appointment at the hairdressers this morning?’

  ‘That’s at ten. Plenty of time.’

  Wearing only knickers, I stroll into the kitchen and put some coffee on.

  ‘Well, I know you’ve been working hard. I just didn’t want you to oversleep, that’s all. Excited?’

  This afternoon is my big opening. After a year of making my name as the in-demand artist for big corporate abstracts, I finally have my own show at the Charles Haggett Gallery in Cork Street. It hasn’t been easy. Once Rhoda had decided that the time was right (about six months ago), she’d worked hard at getting some of the companies I’d worked for to allow the work I’d done for them to be displayed at my one woman extravaganza.

  This is harder than you might think. With private collectors, it often just means lending out a painting that’s been in their hallway or over the fireplace. It’s usually just for a few weeks or however long the show lasts for. Then they get the painting back and feel good about themselves.

  With corporate clients it’s different, however. My paintings are often a vital part of the decoration of their premises. Taking them down is something that many of them don’t like to do. Quite apart from the mark on the wall where the painting had been, it’s a major inconvenience for them and they don’t like leaving big empty spaces everywhere. It’s just the way they are.

  To counter this, Rhoda had insisted that I start work on some original, previously unseen canvases to bulk up the show, stuff that she can sell to people after they’ve been to the gallery and have been overawed by the brilliance, freshness and all-round niceness of my work.

  So I’ve spent the last six months working on commissions in the day and creating new works for the show in the night. It wasn’t as hard as I’d thought it would be and, to be honest, I quite enjoyed doing it. Living in the artist’s studio had meant that I could get up and start work whenever I like. Living alone means there are no time restrictions or interference with what has to be done. As a result, I’ve produced twenty-two canvases that are purely intended for the show. Just the other week, I was looking at them all, lined up against the studio wall and could hardly believe that it was me that had produced them. I actually laughed out loud.

  Rhoda’s plan paid off, too, as only two of my corporate clients would allow my work to be temporarily kidnapped for my show. That was seven canvases in all from them, the luvvies.

  ‘Yes. Yes I am excited. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you, Rhoda. For everything, not just for organising all of this. I…’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. Now we open at two-thirty this afternoon. I don’t want you to arrive until about four. Everyone’s going to want a piece of you and we don’t want to tire you out with all that Champagne drinking, canapé nibbling and socialising. Making a late entrance is part of the way it all works. Keep them wanting more of you. If I were you, I would stay there until about eight. After that, I’ll smuggle you home in a cab. This gives you all day to tart yourself up. You’re an attractive, sexy looking woman, which is a change in the art world, believe you me. Don’t forget to wear that dress. Black stockings. High heels. Kill them. That dress will be so tight on you that people will be able to see if you’re wearing a suspender belt, so wear a bloody suspender belt. See you later.’

  As the phone goes dead, I giggle. I really can’t see that what I’m wearing could make any difference in sales, but Rhoda insists it will. She bought me a fantastic Stella McCartney sleeveless black dress that must have cost a fortune. I’ve only tried it on once and it looked like it had been painted on. I know what she means about the suspender belt. With a dress like that, I’d actually think twice about wearing knickers with it. In fact, I tried on lots of pairs of my knicker collection, but you could always see the panty line. Eventually, the only thing that worked was a thong.

  She also bought me a pair of red patent leather Jimmy Choo shoes with four-inch ciggy heels and a matching red necklace. I’m glad I’ve got a long raincoat I can wear when I get a cab to the gallery. I don’t think I’d feel comfortable walking out of the door in that get-up!

  The remarkable thing was that Rhoda got my size exactly right in everything. That’s something I’d never be able to do if I was buying clothes for someone else. To make things even more difficult for her, I’ve lost a stone and a half in the last eight or nine months. I guess she’s just got the knack.

  After I’d left Mark a year ago, it had taken me quite a long time to get used to buying things for myself, especially clothes. When you’ve lived with someone who was that parsimonious and mean-spirited, it’s hard to get back into the swing of retail therapy and harder still to buy nice things without feeling guilty about it.

  It’s awful to say it, but I’m quite pleased with the fact that I hardly, if ever, think about Mark these days. I think if I’d ever had really strong feelings for him, I’d have been a little more upset, but after I’d been living on my own for a few weeks, it was as if he’d never existed. Maybe he felt the same way, as I’ve never heard from him and he’s made no attempt to get in touch, although that would be difficult as I left no forwarding address when I moved out of our flat.

  At ten-o-clock, I’m sitting in a chair at my hair stylists; water dripping down my back from the sensual head massage/wash I’ve just been given. Gavin, my hair stylist, is looking at my reflection in the mirror and scrunches my hair so hard that it feels like he’s trying to pull it out by its roots.

  ‘So, arty miss; what are we going to do for your big show?’

  I never know what to say to hairdressers. I’ve always found that it’s better just to let them get on with it and trust their judgment, particularly when they cost as much as this one does. Gavin has won prizes, too, so even though he always asks what I want, I always leave it to him in the end.

  I did, though, have something in mind this time. After trying on my posh dress and the heels, I decided that my general look was so sleek that I might go for something shorter than my usual medium length locks. As I perused myself in the mirror, everything seemed to blend in together, apart from my hair.

  What I actually have in mind is the kind of short style that Kristin, my New Zealander former colleague, was able to get away with. I describe her hair to Gavin, who stops me in mid description.

  ‘I know exactly what you mean. It’s what I’d have done to you months ago. I’m going to turn you into a severe, brutal, dominatrix. By the time I’ve finished with you, you’re going to have to take a black leather riding crop to this opening of yours. Don’t say another word.’

  Forty minutes later, I look at myself in the mirror and can hardly believe it’s me. It’s much shorter than I’ve ever had it in my life, but is cut and styled in such a way that it looks windblown and tousled; eve
n slightly punky. I turn my head from left to right and I’m amazed at how my features have changed. My cheekbones, which have always been there (obviously), are now a major feature of my face. It’s as if the hairstyle is pointing them out, accentuating them. Strangely, my mouth also looks fuller and my eyes look bigger. It’s obvious that Gavin is in league with the devil.

  ‘That’s fantastic, Gavin. It – it doesn’t look like me!’

  Gavin laughs as he watches me turn my head at different angles, admiring myself. He holds a mirror behind me so I can see the back of my head. The hair is very, very short there and has been savagely razored into submission, as Gavin would no doubt say. It’s something that I would never have asked a hair stylist to do in a million years, but it works beautifully.

  When I’ve paid, I reach into my handbag and pull out a couple of tickets for my show.

  ‘These are for you. I’ll only be there between four and eight, apparently, but you can pop in whenever you like.’

  Gavin looks shocked and takes the tickets. ‘I’ve never been to one of these before. Who knows – I may even buy something!’

  ‘There’ll be lots of Champagne and nibbles, so enjoy yourself.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it, darling. Thanks ever so much. Don’t forget to break a leg, or whatever it is you arty types do.’

  ‘I won’t. And thank you, Gavin. My hair looks fab.’

  He laughs. ‘You can whip me any day, dear.’

  I eat quite a big lunch; I make myself a huge bowl of pasta, with pancetta, porcini mushrooms and a delish cheese sauce, which I made myself. I don’t usually pig out for lunch like this, but I thought it was a good idea as I’m going to be drinking alcohol in a few hours and don’t want to get completely sloshed at my own debut show.

  After an hour or so posing in the mirror in my smart new clothes, I order a cab and slip into my raincoat when it finally arrives. I don’t want the cab driver having a free perve at my expense; it’s bad enough having to tip. No one ever tips me!

  When I arrive at the gallery, there are already about a dozen people milling around. The gallery looks about the size of a small shop from the outside, but there are two big spaces inside, one at the front and a bigger one at the back. There’s a placard in the window with my name on it, but nothing else. Things like this are often by word of mouth or personal invitation, so they don’t need to make a big promotional fuss.

  No one looks at me as I slip inside, which is hardly surprising as they don’t know what I look like. I pick up a glass of Champagne, and just as I’m about to take a sip, Rhoda appears out of nowhere and frog marches me into the ladies.

  ‘OK. Get that coat off. Let’s have a look at you.’

  I slip my raincoat off and hand it to Rhoda, who throws it into a nearby sink. She circles around me, looking me up and down, and then rummages in her handbag, producing a packet of wipes and one of her lipsticks.

  ‘I mean, have you no eye for colour whatsoever? Look at your shoes. Now look at that necklace and now…’ she pauses dramatically ‘…look at that shade of lipstick you’re wearing. It’s almost bloody orange!’

  She takes three of the wipes out of the pack and rubs my lipstick off. I feel like a silly schoolgirl who’s been caught wearing makeup by the headmistress. She holds my jaw steady and carefully applies some of her own lipstick to my mouth. It’s a deep red which is exactly the same colour as my shoes and necklace.

  ‘That’s better. Now you look more like a human being.’

  She steps back and takes a good look at my hair. She runs her hand through it and nods her head.

  ‘Whoever did that, they’re not paying them enough. You look absolutely beautiful, sweetheart. I had no idea you had cheekbones. Right. Now. We’re going to wait in Charlie’s office for half an hour or so, and when the place starts to fill up a little more, I’m going to walk into the front gallery with you and tell everyone who you are. Be nice, talk to people, make eye contact. It’s a terrible thing, but if some of these old farts who may buy this stuff see that they’re buying a piece of a sex bomb, then it often puts the price up. In their heads, it’s like they’ll be getting you as a free gift with one of your paintings. But remember; you owe them nothing, nothing at all. The new stuff is fantastic, by the way. Did I tell you that already?’

  After a nerve-racking wait, I’m finally walked into the gallery. It’s now pretty full, with roughly thirty people milling around, all walking into each other and spilling Champagne and canape crumbs onto the floor. I don’t know who any of them are. Rhoda claps her hands and does a little speech about who I am and what I’ve done. Most people there are aware of my work anyway, so her speech isn’t very long and the whole thing is a lot more painless than I’d imagined it would be.

  As I walk around the gallery, sipping my drink and grinning at people I don’t know, I feel a poke in my ribs. I turn around and it’s Kristin, grinning like an idiot and chain-eating sushi like there was no tomorrow. I give her a big hug. I sent her a couple of invites, but I wasn’t sure she’d want to come.

  ‘So, missy! You think you can steal my hair style now you’re a big famous artist!’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I hate to say this, but it really suits you. Have you lost weight? You look like some bloody supermodel!’

  ‘I’ve lost a bit, yes. Did you bring anybody?’

  I look around, expecting to see one of her adoring hunks trailing behind her like a lost puppy.

  ‘Na. Just split up with, um, Zlatan. He was becoming a pain. Talking about getting married and settling down. I told him he’s got the wrong girl! What about you? I should think you’d have been snapped up by now looking like bloody Helena Christensen in her short hair period.’

  ‘I’ve been too busy with work. I think that this is probably the first social thing I’ve been to since we went out and got hammered about four months ago.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember that night. Three bloody cabs in a row wouldn’t take us!’

  She laughs loudly. Some old guy looks at her disapprovingly and she sneers at him.

  ‘So how much are these paintings? Can I buy one or are you out of my range now?’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother. My agent will only rip you off.’

  I hear a small voice from behind me.

  ‘Hello, Chloe. Well done. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’

  It’s Clementine from Rhoda’s office. She looks absolutely stunning, in a tight yellow top and very short black skirt. She has great legs, I realise.

  ‘Sure. This is Kristin, who I use to work with. She’s not South African. Kristin, this is Clementine who works in my agent’s place.’

  They shake hands. Clementine’s eyes are out on stalks as she looks Kristin up and down. I decide it’s time to mingle.

  After a while, I get stuck talking to some Finnish art collector and his wife. They both look like they’re about ninety and are drinking like fishes. They ask me lots of questions about the paintings and eventually start talking about where they would hang some of them. As if she’s got some sort of money antennae, Rhoda appears and starts to give them the hard sell. Just as I start to drift off elsewhere, Rhoda grabs my arm and pulls me toward her.

  ‘Sorry, sweetie. Before you go off on your travels again, there’s a guy at the entrance asked me where you were. Said he’s a friend of yours. Didn’t want to come in. Obviously not a freeloader.’

  I can’t imagine who it is. Is it Gavin, I wonder? I run a hand through my hair to spruce up his creation and head towards the front of the gallery.

  My heart almost stops when I see who it is.

  ‘Hi, Chloe.’

  It’s Mark. I can feel my heart thumping in my chest, but it’s not a pleasurable thumping, it’s an angry thumping.

  ‘Mark. What are you doing here? I mean, how did you…?’

  ‘I happened to see an ad in the paper. There can’t be that many Chloe Dixons who are abstract artists, can there.’

  He
looks uneasy and out of place. He stares at the people milling around us and a suspicious expression flits across his face.

  ‘What do you want, Mark?’

  ‘Who are all these people? Are they your friends?’

  ‘No, they’re not. Again – what do you want?’

  ‘You didn’t have to leave me like that, did you? That was mean. I had to get the tube back from the airport and then a cab.’

  This feels rather unreal. He’s complaining about the expense I caused him? After all this time? Well, at least I’m glad to see he hasn’t changed. I decide I’m not going to take this lying down.

  ‘Mean? If that was mean, what would you call going on a foreign holiday with a mate and a couple of girls? Leaving me on my own because I didn’t have the money for a holiday.’

  I really don’t want to get into this. I’ve been fairly successful about putting the whole thing out of my mind. All the work I’ve been doing helped, but now it looks as if all that effort might be unravelling. I clench my teeth together to supress the tears of rage that threaten to fill my eyes. Mark looks me up and down like he’s seeing me for the first time. It’s a leering look and I don’t think I like it very much. I think he spotted the suspenders through the dress.

  ‘It was only a week. Five days, really. I didn’t think you’d be so upset.’

  I try to think of all the things that my friends had said about Mark at the time. I can’t remember many of the arguments against him now, though I do remember that there were quite a lot of them.

  ‘Can you imagine how you would have felt if I’d gone on holiday with a girl and a couple of men? You’d have been livid. You’d have gone on about it for the rest of time.’

  I glance behind me. I can see Rhoda giving me a curious stare. Of course, she has no idea what Mark looks like, so she wouldn’t know who it was I was talking to.

  ‘That’s a nice dress you’ve got on. Expensive, was it?’