by Jan Toms
‘Why don’t you try this on?’ they suggested or, ‘If you would like my opinion…’ Gradually he acquired a whole new range of trousers and shirts and jumpers, plus garments he’d never noticed before like fleeces and sweatshirts and gilets.
He sought advice in a rather up-market gentleman’s outfitters about something suitable to wear to an art preview. The young man who served him and who might well have doubled for one of the Pre-Raphaelite boys, kitted him out in some very tight-fitting trousers, a purple shirt and a sparkly waistcoat.
‘I can’t possibly wear these,’ Victor started, but the young Rosetti led him to the mirror. ‘Just take a look, Sir. If you want my opinion…’ Thus attired, Victor set off for the Queen’s Gallery.
He had never been to an art preview before and had no idea what to expect. From the street he could hear the hum of voices and as he approached the door a positive crescendo of noise assailed him. Clutching his invitation he ventured inside.
The room was crowded with people but before he had taken two awkward steps, someone pushed a programme into his hand. On the front cover was a very swirly black and white drawing and the words ‘Crossing the Bar’. On the back there was a photo of Dolores with details of her artistic career. Victor thought how sultry and exciting she looked. With slightly blurry eyes he began to read about her art schools, her exhibitions and prizes. Inside the programme was a list of the paintings on display, the medium in which they had been executed and their rather obscure titles. He stopped short as he saw the prices, for, with only one or two exceptions, they all ran into four or five figures. Clearly Dolores was an artist of note.
A waiter in a black bow tie came up to him, balancing a tray of what looked like champagne. ‘If Sir would prefer something else?’ he asked, but Victor was happy to grab the nearest glass.
Now he turned to look between the heads of the animated guests at the paintings on the walls. At first glance they were simply splashes of colour, what Mother would have referred to as daubs, but knowing that they must be good he tried to concentrate and see what they reminded him of. The first looked rather like his washing-up bowl when he had just washed the gravy saucepan in it. Another reminded him of the time he had had food poisoning. Try as he might he failed to identify anything concrete. He remembered those books he had had as a child, where you had to find tiny objects hidden in a drawing, perhaps a cat peering out of a tree or a teapot cleverly disguised as a pair of dungarees.
‘I didn’t think you’d come.’ He swung round to find the star of the evening, Dolores, standing behind him. His face, of course, changed colour.
She smiled and took his arm, asking, ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I – they’re very nice.’
She laughed. ‘Not quite your cup of tea?’ Leading him over to a very large canvas she started to explain what it was all about. Victor hung on her every word, aware of the small hand tucked into the crook of his arm. He began to feel hot. ‘So, that represents greed – can you find the avarice?’ He looked closely and sure enough, the word Avarice was actually woven into the background greens and purples. So this was like those childhood books after all! There was more to this art than he’d imagined.
Dolores accosted a passing waiter and acquired two more glasses of champagne. ‘What are those red spots for?’ he asked, noticing the dots on some of the pictures.
‘Those are sold.’
Ever the tax inspector, he did a quick sum and realised that already a small fortune had changed hands. He felt a growing respect for Dolores, apart from a growing sense of schoolboy adoration.
At that point someone came to take her away. ‘It’s Sir Charles Wetherby, Dee, he’s interested in a commission, wants to talk to you.’
She gave Victor a regretful look. ‘Take your time and promise you won’t leave, will you? One or two of us are going out to eat afterwards. Say you’ll come?’
He nodded, a puppy offered a Doggybic.
All in all, the evening was wonderful. The copious amounts of champagne that seemed to drift past and through Victor gave him a rare ability to hold court and say witty things. People actually laughed at some of his comments although later, in the cooler light of sobriety, he wondered if they might have been laughing at him.
But it didn’t matter. Dolores had insisted that she should drop him off at home. He demurred but she said, ‘You are very wise not to have brought your car. I hate drinking and driving.’ She was being driven by someone she called her cousin, James, who also seemed to be a sort of minder. Victor wondered if he was also her lover. In his opinion, he didn’t look up to much. Perhaps indeed they were just friends and cousins.
Sitting in the back of the roomy vehicle with Dolores next to him, it crossed his mind that he should take driving lessons and get himself a run-around. Another thought was beginning to bear fruit.
In spite of the investigation into the nefarious affairs of the Blues Brothers and the Pretty Boys, no hint had come to light about the money nestling in Victor’s new bank account. Perhaps it would soon be safe to spend some of it?
At his side, Dolores tucked her arm through his again. It was a wonderful sensation. She gave a little sigh and said, ‘Well, tonight was quite a success.’
Victor wanted to ask her how much money she had made but that would have been rude. Instead he said, ‘Actually, I would like to buy one of your paintings.’
‘Would you? Which one?’ She sounded surprised.
‘Well, I was going to ask your advice.’ He couldn’t quite visualise where it might fit into his home, where prints of puppies and kittens mainly ruled supreme.
Dolores gave a little giggle and said, ‘Then you’d better pop along to the gallery, tomorrow?’
As he was about to say yes, thinking that he would take some flexi-time from work, she added, ‘Better still, how about we do some bartering? I’ll give you a painting in return for being a model?’
‘Really?’ He was too stunned to do more than gasp. Perhaps he had been too modest and that secretly he reminded people of Michelangelo’s David? He felt his shoulders expanding and glanced at the car window to check his profile, but the image was too shadowy.
Dolores settled back in the seat, saying, ‘Victor, you have a most interesting face and a – well, rather Aubrey Beardsley aura. I like that.’
‘Really?’ he said again. He had no idea who Aubrey Beardsley might be but perhaps he was another Greek God? Anyway, as long as he was someone who interested Dolores, he didn’t care.
At his door they dropped him off and Dolores kissed him on both cheeks, saying, ‘See you tomorrow.’
He let himself into the house, feeling light headed, light hearted. Inside it was blessedly peaceful until Fluffy came to yap a welcome.
Sitting down with his cocoa and the poodle on his lap, Victor thought that perhaps he should write Dolores a poem, show her his artistic side. For ages he let her name run over his tongue: Dolores, Dolores… but nothing else would come. It certainly didn’t seem to rhyme with anything. Tentatively, he tried: Dolores, Dolores, dark yet fair, What are you doing over there? No. Perhaps he would save that for another time.
Finishing his cocoa, he gave a contended sigh and tipped Fluffy onto the carpet, where he immediately threatened to pee. ‘Fluffy!’ The dog seemed to shrug and made instead for his little bed by the radiator.
Victor thought that really, things couldn’t be better. Tomorrow he would buy a painting and pose for the most beautiful girl in the world. Standing up he tried one or two poses, sticking out his chest, holding in his stomach and wondering how the rest of him would perform when he stood before her, with her studying him and transferring his image to canvas. Then he had a terrible thought – did she want him to pose naked? Perhaps he would be allowed to keep his pants on?
To calm himself, he thought, I must remember to tell her that I am a published poet. After all, that was his true nature and far more romantic than being a tax officer.
As he undress
ed, brushed his teeth and put on his pyjamas, he knew that he would sleep easily. Climbing into bed and cuddling up to his pillow, he thought: I’ve got enough money in the bank to do lots of things I’ve dreamed about, and a wonderful woman artist thinks I am a Greek God, or someone called Aubrey Beardsley. Who on earth could want for more?
THE END
COPYRIGHT
First published 2011
The History Press
The Mill, Brimscombe Port
Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG
www.thehistorypress.co.uk
This ebook edition first published in 2011
All rights reserved
© Jan Toms, 2011
The right of Jan Toms to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 6706 1
MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 6707 8
Original typesetting by The History Press
Ebook compilation by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk
