‘Just as long as it’s not twenty metres wide and made of bullock’s blood and emu feathers,’ I grudgingly allowed. ‘Angelo’s in the hot seat now.’
‘Believe me.’ Eastlake snaffled a couple of fresh glasses off a passing tray and thrust one into my hand. ‘Agnelli will love it. He’ll think he’s Lorenzo bloody Medici. And the public will lap it up.’
Eastlake could afford to be optimistic about the judgment of the people. He’d never have to face it. I didn’t tell him that, though. Instead I let him wheel me around the room and introduce me to more names than I could hope to remember and more glasses of Veuve Clicquot than I could reasonably be expected to digest on an empty stomach.
In due course, I found myself standing alone, contemplating one of the pictures. It was a portrait of the Queen constructed entirely out of different varieties of breakfast cereal. Corn Flake lips, Nutri-Grain ears, Coco Pops hair. I had, I decided, done my duty for the day. It was getting on for 8.30. Time to scout for an out.
I sidled through the nearest door and found myself in an enclosed garden, a green rectangle of lawn bordered by high shrubs, a cool refuge from the clamour inside. A lavender-hued dusk was beginning its descent. The slightly overgrown grass was littered with dead marines and ravaged canape trays. Little clusters of people sprawled about languidly with their shoes kicked off. At the far end of the lawn, near a pile of rusty ironwork from the Turd of a Dog with a Square Arsehole school of sculpture, stood Salina Fleet, Veneer magazine’s spunky visual arts editor.
The palm trees on her mu-mu swayed. Pom-poms brushed her bare thighs. A lipstick-smeared wineglass sat athwart her bosom. All up, she looked a damned sight more edible than the wilting sushi circulating inside. Unfortunately, she was not alone.
Her companion was a male. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, with lank unkempt hair, heavy-rimmed Roy Orbison glasses and an attempt at sideburns. The sleeves were sheared off his western shirt and he was wearing grimy, paint-speckled jeans. A creative type, no doubt about it. And judging by the intense way he leaned into Selina when he talked—he was doing all the talking—more than a casual acquaintance. He was reading expressively from a tatty piece of paper, as though reciting a poem.
Salina, I noted with some pleasure, didn’t appear to be buying it, whatever it was. My hopes soared. The guy was probably some mendicant artist, putting the hard word on her for a grant or a favourable review. But then she stepped closer and put her hand on his forearm. The gesture was so intimate, her demeanour so affectionate, that I mentally reached for the chalk to scratch myself from the race.
The guy jerked his arm away as if stung. No soft soap for him. He spun on his heels and strode towards the doorway where I was standing. Salina watched his progress across the lawn, less than impressed. She shook her head ruefully and drained her drink.
Here was my chance. The bar table was just through the door. I dived back inside and hit the waiter for a quick two glasses of shampoo. As he wrestled the wire off a fresh bottle, the artist-type came bustling up beside me, his eyes glinting through his spectacles with madcap determination. He slapped his hand down on my shoulder. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, his voice piping with emotion.
Before I could respond, he pushed downwards. Using me for support, he hoicked himself up onto the bar. His tooled leather boots skidded on the wet surface. A loaded tray of empty glasses careened over the edge and hit the floor. They shattered with an almighty crash. Every head in the room turned our way.
‘Shut up, everybody,’ declaimed the weedy cowboy. He brandished his piece of paper at the upturned faces like he was Lenin addressing the Congress of People’s Deputies. ‘And listen. You’re all being conned. This whole edifice is built on a lie.’
He made a gesture so expansive he had trouble arresting its momentum. And when he took a steadying sideways step, it was immediately obvious that he was drunk. Not legless perhaps, but a good three sheets to the wind at the very minimum. His voice was pitched high with nervous exultation at his own boldness. ‘The people behind this place don’t care about art.’
Backs turned dismissively, and the hubbub of conversation resumed. There’s one in every crowd, the murmur said. Just ignore him.
Seeing his audience’s attention begin to slip away, the would-be Demosthenes raised his voice against the resumption of normality. He succeeded only in sounding hysterical. ‘Listen, everybody,’ he pleaded. ‘This is important.’
I almost felt sorry for him, standing there in all his horrible vulnerability, flapping his skinny arms about, his pearls cast before swine, a teenage barman in a clip-on bow tie tugging at his trouser leg. Not sorry enough to forget my mission, though.
Salina Fleet, drawn by the ruckus, was standing in the doorway observing the spectacle with wide-eyed alarm.
Taking advantage of the waiter’s distraction, I filched the still-unopened champagne bottle, grabbed a couple of glasses and began in her direction. ‘You’ll see,’ the cowboy warned. ‘You can’t dismiss me so easily.’
And, as if to prove his point, and to me in particular, he promptly staggered forward and toppled off the table. He landed on top of me.
It isn’t every day I get strafed. I folded like a cheap banana lounge, flat on my backside, glassware skittering, dignity out the window. The demented speech-maker’s face pushed into mine, flushed with humiliation and too much to drink. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he mumbled, scrambling to his feet and rushing for the door. Salina Fleet, seeing him coming, pursed her mouth into a furious slit and folded her arms in an emphatic gesture of disavowal.
The hands of solicitous strangers dragged me to my feet. ‘Watch out!’ squealed someone. ‘Blood!’
My new-found friends all jumped backwards as if jet-propelled. The offending bodily fluid was mine. The stem of a broken wineglass had nicked my forefinger. The cut was small and there wasn’t a lot of blood, but that wasn’t the point. Who knows what fatal contagion I may have been harbouring?
Whipping a cocktail napkin from my pocket, I hermetically sealed the offending digit. The traumatised bystanders cast me nervously apologetic looks. Fiona Lambert arrived, the scandalised hostess. ‘How ghastly,’ she clucked. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine,’ I said, bravely displaying my ruby-tinged bandage. ‘Who was that guy, anyway?’
‘Nobody important,’ sniffed Fiona, dismissively. ‘These would-be artists, they’re always complaining about something. Are you sure you’re all right?’
Lloyd Eastlake closed from the other side, trapping me in a social pincer. ‘You okay?’
Nothing was damaged but my prospects. Salina Fleet was nowhere in sight.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Eastlake keenly, clamping my biceps. He was quite shaken, a lot more disturbed by the amateur dramatics than I was. He scanned the room as though my inadvertent assailant might be about to launch another attack from the cover of the crowd. ‘People are going across to the Botanical,’ he said.
I’d read about the Botanical Hotel. It was a chichi watering hole and noshery on Domain Road, not far away. Before Fiona Lambert could object, he clamped her arm, too, and marched us out the front door.
Night had fallen over the parkland, filling it with the drone of cicadas and the heady fragrance of damp lawn. A straggling gaggle of exhibition-goers meandered through the trees ahead of us, blending into the twilight in the general direction of Domain Road. To my relief, I could make out the bird-like silhouette of Salina Fleet among them. The tormented artist was nowhere in sight. Perhaps my prospects were salvageable.
Eastlake noticed the way I was gripping my forefinger in the roll of my fist. ‘Wounded in action,’ he said. ‘You need a Band-aid on that. Doesn’t he, Fiona?’
A Band-aid would be useful, I admitted. The cut was small but it was bleeding profusely. I couldn’t walk around all night clutching a bloody cocktail napkin. ‘Fiona’s place is practically on the way,’ insisted Eastlake. ‘You’ve got a first-aid kit, haven’t you, Fiona?’
Domain Road delineated Melbourne’s social divide. It was the point where the public parkland ran out and the private money began. Marking the border were the playing fields of Melbourne Grammar, a school for children with problem parents. Beyond, were the high-rent suburbs of Toorak and South Yarra. Toffsville.
We crossed the road and walked half a block, turning into the entrance of a pink stucco block of flats. A dog-faced dowager with a miniature schnauzer under her arm was coming out. Eastlake held the door open for her, and the old duck nodded regally but didn’t say thanks. It was that sort of a neighbourhood, I guessed.
We climbed a flight of steps to the second floor, where two doors with little brass knockers faced each other across a small landing. One of them had a Chinese ceramic planter beside it, sprouting miniature bamboo. Fiona began to rummage in her handbag, searching for her keys. The bag was an elaborate leather thing with more pockets than a three-piece suit. After she’d been rummaging for what seemed like an eternity, Eastlake said something about dying of thirst, tilted the Chinese pot, slid a key from beneath it and unlocked the door.
Irritation flickered briefly across Fiona Lambert’s face, whether at Eastlake’s presumption, his casual breach of her security, or merely at the time she’d wasted searching her bag, I couldn’t tell.
Fiona’s domestic style was tastefully relaxed—what Vogue Living would describe as ‘a professional woman’s inner-city pied-à-terre’. The building dated from sometime in the forties and the best of the original features had been retained—the ornately stepped cornices, the matching plasterwork chevron in the centre of the ceiling, the onyx-tinted smoked-glass light-fitting, the severely square fireplace, the rugs—well-worn but far from threadbare, geometric patterns in black, turquoise and dusty ivory. Aztec jazz.
To these had been added a huge box-shaped sofa, heavily cushioned and covered in cream cotton duck, plain and inviting, a dining-table of honey-coloured wood with matching bentwood chairs, and a marble-topped coffee table piled with art books. The only lapse into period was a pair of low-slung tubular-steel armchairs, the kind that look like they’re too busy being design classics to offer much comfort.
‘Make yourself at home,’ she said, her hospitality perfunctory at best. ‘I’ll get your Band-aid.’ Eastlake had charged ahead into the kitchen where he was making ice-cube and bottle-top noises. I crossed to the window. The view was of the darkening expanse of the park, and the lit-up towers of the city centre beyond. A tram clattered by, its wheels chanting a mantra. Location, location, location. Eastlake’s car stood at the far kerb, Spider beside it, his jaw working mechanically.
Eastlake reappeared, bearing iced drinks. ‘Gin and tonic,’ he said. ‘Nature’s disinfectant.’ Fiona handed me a Band-aid. ‘Bathroom’s down there.’ It was perfectly preserved, all green and cream tiles and curved edges, the bathtub big enough to float the Queen Mary. I unwrapped my finger and found the bleeding already stopped.
When I wandered back, Fiona was sprawled on the sofa, almost horizontal. A monochromatic odalisque, bare legs stretched out before her, feet on the coffee table. ‘What a week,’ she groaned. ‘Cheers.’ Ah, the gruelling lot of a gallery director.
The heat of the day had permeated the flat, and an air of lassitude filled the room. We sipped without conversation. Lowering myself into the design-benchmark chair, I faced Fiona across the coffee table. The seat was very low and her toes nearly touched my knees. I couldn’t help but see her knickers. White cotton. She yawned and ran the bottom of her glass over her forehead. Maybe that’s how it works around here, I thought. Averting my eyes, I scanned the title on the spine of one of the art books. A Fierce Vision: The Genius of Victor Szabo 1911–77 by Fiona Lambert.
On the wall behind her, lit to good effect, hung a large painting in an understated frame. A highly realistic bush scene, pared down to the most basic elements of sky, earth, trees. The work of someone who knew his subject and hated it with a vengeance. Above the mantelpiece hung a smaller painting, clearly by the same hand. A reclining nude.
Lloyd and Fiona exchanged knowing glances, expecting me to say something. Let someone else make an idiot of themselves, I thought. Besides which, I’d already seen enough pictures that day to last me quite a while. Art would keep. My appetites at that point were more basic. ‘If I don’t eat soon,’ I said, sociably, ‘I won’t be answerable.’
The phone rang. Fiona went into a little study opening off the living room. ‘Hello.’ She listened for a moment, then reached back with her foot and hooked the door shut. I stood up and sucked my piece of lemon, beginning to get impatient, not sure why we were still here. Pacing to the window, I saw Spider leaning against a tree, a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Wanker.
Lined up on the mantelpiece was a row of framed photographs. Family snaps. Incidental mileposts in life’s little journey. Me, Mummy and Toby the pony. Provence on a hundred dollars a day. I took my drink over and picked one up, a five by eight colour print. This Fiona was a good ten years younger. A real little chubby-bubby. Her hair was longer, still brown, her dress a shapeless shift. She was smiling at the camera, close-lipped as though hiding braces. An old man had his arm around her shoulder. He was maybe sixty-five, barrel-chested, with a round face and a bare scalp, tufts of grey hair sticking out above his ears, grinning like a wicked old koala. The background was blurred, providing no clues to the setting.
I held the frame up. ‘Her father?’
Eastlake nearly choked on his G & T. ‘Christ no!’ he spluttered, glancing furtively back at the closed door of the study. ‘That’s Victor Szabo.’ He took the photograph out of my hand, regarded it with ill-concealed amazement and returned it to its place on the mantel. His eyes swivelled upwards, to the nude, and his mouth opened to say something. The study door opened and Fiona reappeared, frowning.
‘Bad news?’ said Eastlake, turning quickly to face her.
She made a dismissive gesture and shook her head. ‘Nothing.’ She yawned—it looked forced—and tugged off her earrings, plain pearl studs, one black, one white. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really am, but I’m exhausted.’ She was trying hard to sound tired, but there was a tight brittleness in her voice. ‘Would you think I was terribly rude if I begged off dinner?’
Frankly, it suited me fine. Eastlake made some dissuading noises, thankfully to no avail, I expressed more gratitude for the first aid than was warranted and two minutes later we were back in the street. ‘Think I’ll give it a miss, too,’ said Eastlake, looking at his watch.
The night was young and I was half-cut and fancy-free. A hundred metres up the road women with backsides by Henry Moore were entering the most fashionable wet-throat emporium in town. As soon as Eastlake began across the street towards the Mercedes, I hastened to join them.
Shuffling down the footpath towards me was my nemesis, the flying cowboy. All the stuffing had gone out of him. He was lost in thought, mumbling to himself. ‘Jus you wait,’ he was saying, repeating it under his breath. As poignant a solitary drunk as ever I had seen. I gave him a wide berth and went into the pub.
So much fashionable architecture had been inflicted on the Botanical Hotel that it could have passed for the engine room of an aircraft carrier, all distressed boiler-plate and industrial rubber. Business was booming. Salina Fleet was in the far corner of the bistro section, at a raucous table crowded with faces from the CMA back lawn. Down boy, I told myself. Read the mood. Take it slowly.
I ordered a beer, examining myself in the bar mirror. Uglier men were stalking the earth. The barman was one of them. ‘Grolsch?’ he said. I thought he was clearing his throat. He handed me a tomato sauce bottle of pale brown liquid. Grolsch Premium Lager, read the label. Brewed in Holland. ‘That’ll be four eighty,’ he said.
That explained the balance of payments deficit. Time was when you could get paralytic for four dolla
rs eighty. On Australian beer, at that. I put my hand on my hip pocket and discovered my wallet was gone.
There was a limited number of places I might have mislaid it. Mentally retracing my steps, I got as far back as that low-slung designer chair in Fiona Lambert’s apartment. I went back down the street, took the stairs two at a time, and rapped on Fiona’s little brass knocker. Five minutes, ten at the most, had elapsed since Eastlake and I had left, so it wasn’t like I’d be waking her up. There was no answer. I rapped again, the sound reverberating down the stairwell. Either Fiona Lambert was a very sound sleeper or there was no-one home. Somewhere inside, the phone began to bleat. When it finally rang out, I raised the edge of the Ming Dynasty shrub tub. The key was back in its hiding place. I let myself in.
Streetlight lit the living room. The remains of our drinks sat on the coffee table condensing dribbles of water. My wallet was on the floor, just where I hoped it would be. As I bent to pick it up, my eye was caught by the picture hanging above the mantel, the nude. I stood and studied it.
Its subject was the younger, plumper Fiona Lambert, the one in the photograph. The artist’s approach was clinical, lurid and without a shred of sentimentality. Superbly confident, the picture captured not just Fiona’s likeness but her narcissism as well. The pose was blush-makingly provocative, anatomically explicit. The artist just had to be bonking her teenage ears off.
I did some quick mental arithmetic. At the time he painted the picture, Victor Szabo must have been at least sixty-five. The old goat.
Five minutes later I was back at the Botanical with four dollars eighty worth of Dutch courage in my hand, making eye contact with Salina Fleet.
She waved me over, making space at the table. ‘What did you say your name was, again?’ she demanded, her way of being smart. I didn’t doubt I was already tucked away in Sal’s mental Filofax, cross-referenced against future contingency. Everyone was talking at once, bellowing into the general din. Art scene party time. ‘Saw you at the CMA,’ she half-shouted. ‘Thought you were gone.’
The Brush-Off Page 7
