Art Appreciation

13

Art Appreciation

    Anna spotted the film star coming up the road and shot into the sitting-dining room. “It’s him!”

    Molly replied sourly: “Probably coming to grab back his quinces. Or if Terri’s at Colin’s, to grab her back.”

    Before Anna could refute this theory there was a knock at the front door. “I could tell him you’re not feeling well.”

    “It wouldn’t altogether be a lie,” replied her cousin with a grimace.

    “Why don’t you go back to bed, if you’ve still got cramps?”

    She got up quickly, clutching her stomach. “It’s diarrhoea, as well.”

    “I’ll tell him that, that’ll put him off!” said Anna grimly as Molly dashed upstairs. She went to the door before she could lose her nerve.

    “Hullo, Anna,” said Euan, smiling nicely and wondering if she knew there was a smudge of orange paint on her nose.

    Anna was very red but she replied grimly: “Hullo. Molly’s got her period: she’s feeling really bad, she’s got cramps and diarrhoea.”

    “In that case I won’t pester her,” he said nicely. “Is she in bed?”

    “No, she insisted on getting up,” said Anna limply.

    “Then I’d better come in and see she goes back to it. With a hottie on her tummy, preferably,” he said with a lovely smile. “She had nasty cramps when we were in Queensland: what was it she took? Panadol, I think, and a herb tea.”

    “Um, Terri brought over some herb tea, but the label’s in Spanish,” said Anna feebly. “She had some this morning and it did make her feel better, only if you ask me, I think it might have brought on the diarrhoea.”

    “Aye? She had the runs in Queensland, too, but that was largely mangoes and pineapples. –Let me in, Anna, I am human, you know!”

    Limply Anna let him in. He looked more super-human, actually: his hair was brown, like it had been in the film, and he was wearing dark jeans that were sort of moulded to his thighs, and a beige jumper that just showed some brown tendrils of chest hair at the neck.

    “Have you got a kilt?” she said, as he sat down on their second-hand sofa.

    “Aye; it’s in mothballs. Haven’t worn it for ages. Why?”

    Scowling, Anna replied: “I know you’re a famous film star, but I’d really like to paint you: maybe in your kilt, if the colours are right. Showing your chest and thighs.”

    Euan grimaced. “I’m flattered. Unfortunately this,” he said, touching the base of his neck, “is dyed—ma hairdresser begged me to let him do it, almost in tears, so I gave in—but the rest of me, and I do include the thighs, is shaved. I had to be bleached for ma last stage part and I had the lot shaved in the hopes that I might get back to ma natural brown some time within the next century.”

    “The hair on your legs grows back quite fast, if you shave it,” said Anna thoughtfully. “I suppose it might work.”

    “Aye! Thanks!” he said with a sudden laugh. “Well, I’m not sure I could fit it in—and I’m no’ bein’ painted shaven, leave me the shreds of ma dignity, at least—but if you can do figures, and you want to, I suppose the answer’s yes. Can you show me something you’ve done?”

    “Yes. Come through.”

    Euan came through to the studio. She removed a sheet from an enormous painting against one wall.

    “Ma God,” he said, goggling at it.

    “It isn’t a portrait,” said Anna quickly.

    “No, I can see that.” He turned and smiled at her. “It’s magnificent, Anna!”

    “Um, thanks,” she said, awkwardly, going very red.

    Euan stared at the painting of the old man with a rake in silence for some time. Finally he said: “It’s the best thing I’ve seen for years. Och, look at the texture of the wrinkles!”

    “Um, his or his clothes?” replied the artist uneasily.

    He turned and grinned at her. “Both, isn’t that partly the point? But you won’t get the same sort of textures from me, Anna.”

    “No. I don’t just want to paint wrinkles, though. I see you as more brown. Not oily.”

    “Thanks!” said Euan with a laugh. He turned back to the painting. “How much do you want for it?”

    Anna’s jaw dropped.

    “Well?” said Euan, grinning.

    “I—I can’t! It’s promised to an awful man in Bond Street!” she gasped.

    “This wouldna be an awful man named James Allen, would it?” he said on a sour note.

    “Yuh-yes!” she gasped.

    “Aye; I know him,” he said wryly. “In that case I’ll sell the Beamer. –Not really!” he said, looking at the artist’s face. “It won’t be a penny less than ten thousand, though.”

    After a moment Anna said cautiously: “Dollars or pounds?”

    “Pounds sterling, of course.”

    She swallowed hard. “That can’t be right. That’s thirty thousand of our dollars.”

    “Aye, that’d be about right. I had to divide everything by three when we were in Australia. The pineapples were cheap even when I was reading their price as pounds!” he said with a laugh. He went up and peered at the painting. “Aye.” He sighed deeply, stepped back and just looked at it.

    Anna had finished with the painting of old Jim Parker. She was very pleased with it, and she was working with that general approach, but she’d moved on to other subjects. She stared hard at him…

    When Molly, aware of silence, came cautiously downstairs again on the assumption that Anna had got rid of him, it was to a view of her cousin with a sketching block on her easel and a chunk of charcoal in her fist and Euan on the table, naked except for a red-checked tea-towel that he was holding sort of as if he was going to wrap it round his hips only he hadn’t yet. His head was turned to one side and he was looking down, the muscles in his shoulders and upper-arms slightly flexed.

    “Tense your right buttock a bit,” said her cousin as she stood transfixed, her jaw dropping.

    “Anna!” gasped Molly.

    “He’s a very good model: he used to do a bit of it when he was out of work,” said her cousin in a vague voice.

    “What are you DOING?” shouted Molly.

    “Trying him out. That’ll be a kilt. We’ll probably use his own one. I won’t paint him until the hair’s grown back, though.”

    “Mercifully!” said Euan, grinning.

    “I was under the impression,” said Molly in an evil voice to the artist, “that you were painting old Mr Parker, with his clothes on!”

    “I’ve finished that,” she said placidly. “I’ve started on the one of Colin.”

    This was news to Molly. “What?”

    “With his clothes off!” explained Euan with a laugh. “She’s been working on the sketches and the colours, as the orange on the nose might have suggested to you! –Can I get down?”

    “Yes.”

    He jumped down, grinning at Molly. “Dinna look so shocked, wee Molly! It’ll be an honour to be her model—and you mind she doesna let bluidy James Allen get away wi’ a penny less than ten thoosand poonds for that study of the old man!”

    “No, I mean, Fiona said that if he takes it, Anna should expect a very good price… Ten thousand pounds?”

    “Yes,” he said, getting back into his clothes.

    “I see… Anna,” said Molly cautiously, “what about your cottages? Have you stopped doing those?”

    “Not really stopped. I need to work on my serious stuff for a bit.”

    “Aye, of course you do,” agreed Euan.

    “Ye-es. This is awfully big, though,” said Molly, looking dubiously up at the picture of old Jim. “Don’t you think that smaller ones like the cottage pictures might be more marketable?”

    “I dunno. Euan wants it,” said the artist simply.

    Molly gaped at him.

    “Can you no’ see it’s beautiful, Molly?”

    Molly went rather red. “Well, no. Not beautiful. It’s very good, of course. Um, well, it’s very grey, isn’t it?”

    “She doesn’t like it,” explained Anna calmly.

    “I suppose you’d claim The Blue Boy was verra blue!” said Euan rather loudly.

    “That’s different!” replied Molly crossly. “It’s a great work of art!”

    “Look, I’m no’ claiming your cousin is in that class, but this is certainly one of the great figure studies of the century!” he said heatedly.

    “It’s only 2003,” replied Molly grimly.

    “Och, of the last hundred years, are you blind, you daft wee hinny?” he cried.

    There was a ringing silence in the artist’s studio.

    “Obviously I must be,” said Molly in a much milder voice. “It’s all right, Anna, I’ve been a daft wee hinny before. At least he’s actually caring about something, for once. –I’ve got cramps, Euan, I’m going to bed.”

    “Aye. Sorry: I didna mean to shout. Of course you don’t have to like it, Molly. Chacun à son goût. You pop up to bed. Shall I make you a hottie?”

    “Um, well, yes, that’d be nice. Thanks,” said Molly weakly, vanishing.

    There was another silence.

    “She knows me a damn sight better than I thought,” said Euan wryly.

    “Yes. What was the other time?”

    “That I called her a daft wee hinny?” She nodded and he said: “Och, it was stupid. Derry was having a tantrum because the lighting boys couldn’t get the right effect of the light reflecting off the side of Rosie’s face on the bungalow’s verandah. Uh—in Queensland, Anna,” he said a trifle lamely. “It was supposed to be Singapore, you see.”

    “Yes. What was wrong with it?”

    “I can’t tell you the technical details, it’s not me that’s the artist with a camera. But even I could see he wasna getting much. He wanted a luminous effect: almost a pearly look. Molly couldn’t see what the fuss was about. She said that Rosie was saying the words exactly the right way and had the right expression on her face—well, she did. But that wasn’t Derry’s point.”

    She nodded. “I see. Molly hasn’t really got an eye. She likes pictures that tell a story. That’s why she likes my cottage pictures.”

    “Aye. I took her to the wrong gallery. Should’ve taken her to see some portraits,” he said, grimacing.

    “I tried that. She liked the very pretty ladies in lovely dresses, and the ones she’d heard of,” said Anna with the utmost tranquillity.

    “Heard of the artists?” he said feebly.

    “No, of course not: the sitters. I think the hottie’s in the bathroom; I’ll get it. Do you want to boil up the jug?” She vanished.

    Euan went very slowly through to the kitchen, his brow wrinkled.

    Anna wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d let her take the hottie upstairs, but he didn’t. She went into the studio and looked hard at her charcoal sketches, which she’d torn off the pad as she completed them and spread out on the floor. Ye-es. She’d better fix them just in case they smudged. It would depend how the picture of Colin went, but she might go straight on to Euan, or if his hair hadn’t grown back she might try another idea—but she’d definitely do him! He had excellent proportions. She got on with the fixing the sketches.

    Upstairs Molly thanked Euan rather feebly. He didn’t go away: he perched on the side of the bed and stared into space.

    “I’m not artistic,” said Molly awkwardly.

    “Aye, I know,” he said in an abstracted voice.

    “Um, Derry’s offered me a part in the new series.”

    “Aye, he said he thought you’d be ideal.” He took a deep breath. “Molly, you said something about me actually caring about something, for once.”

    Molly reddened. “Yes: I’m sorry: I—”

    “No, you hit the nail on the head. I’ve been working on a complete series outline for four series of the new Daughter for Derry this past week, and it’s just dawned that it’s the first work-related thing I have actually cared about for quite some time. Well, I was concerned to get ma parts right for Derry and Aubrey,” he said with a grimace. “But that isn’t quite the same thing.”

    “No,” agreed Molly flatly.

    He made a face. “No. And—uh— Look, Terri had a go at me for neglecting you this past week.”

    Molly gulped. “Did she?”

    “Yes. It’s all right, I havena sacked her, she’s a caring wee body. As well as a marvellous cook,” he added wryly. “But… well, the sex has been great, I think we both know that, mm?” he said, smiling a little.

    Molly pinkened and smiled in spite of herself, nodding hard.

    “Aye! he said, squeezing her toes. “Give us a kiss, wee Molly!”

    Weakly Molly let herself be kissed.

    “Ooh, verra nice,” he said, squeezing a breast. Molly gave a little squeak and he laughed and said: “Aye! No, well, mebbe that’s what it mainly is, between us.” He released her and sat back.

    Molly bit her lip. “Mm. I think maybe it is.”

    “So, um, could we mebbe agree to just carry on on the basis of good sex and not expecting anything more of each other? But if you think I’m being a selfish shit, for goodness’ sake tell me to take a running jump!” he added anxiously. “I don’t want you to think I’m just treating you as a convenience!”

    He was, of course. But then, it was actually almost a relief to hear him say so. Molly looked at him gratefully. “As a matter of fact, I’ve sort of come to the same conclusion. We haven't really got much in common, have we? I mean, it was very nice of you to take me to all those places, but, um, I really don’t see what you see in all that stuff, Euan! I mean, the historical costumes were quite interesting, I suppose… Well, I can’t see why you care so much. I couldn’t see that the costumes Derry had in Ilya, My Brother were better than the ones in Moulin Rouge: I thought it was lovely. And I tried reading that book that you said showed the real Paris, but I thought that girl was horrible. I can’t see why you said it was just like that lovely old film you took me to with that beautiful blonde actress.”

    Euan had been thrilled to discover a theatre screening Darling and thrilled when Molly enjoyed it. He gaped at her. “Molly, do you no’ see it? They’re the same kind o’ resourceless woman, with nothing to them but their looks!”

    “I thought she was a horrible floozy,” said Molly, glaring pugnaciously.

    “What, Nana? Well, yes, she’s the 19th-century version,” he said very feebly indeed.

    “See, we don’t really agree about that sort of stuff. We’ve got different tastes.”

    “Yes,” he said with relief.

    “Um, I think it was a mistake to assume that just because we had a lovely time in Queensland we could have a relationship.”

    Euan looked at her dubiously. “Aye… So what do you think? See each other for a meal and a cuddle, but skip the galleries and museums?”

    “That’d be best,” agreed Molly with a sigh. “And, um, not fancy restaurants.” She looked at him pleadingly.

    “Aye: no cuisine, that was a big mistake,” he said ruefully.

    “I’m just ordinary,” said Molly in a small voice.

    The hair, the skin and the figure were certainly not that; and she was bright and not uneducated—but yes, he was coming to the conclusion that she was ordinary. And why the devil he couldn’t settle for that—! He thought of what his old dad’d say, and winced. But he couldn’t, and it would be too cruel to let her think he could.

    “You’re not ordinary, and I’m an up-himself idiot who canna appreciate you as you deserve, Molly. But if we can manage just some good sex and simple meals, I’d be verra grateful for that.”

    “Yes,” said Molly in patent relief, smiling. “I think we can manage that!”

    “Good!” He put a hand under her rounded chin and kissed her very gently. Molly quivered all over, he was pleased to see. “How are those cramps?”

    “Pretty horrid,” she admitted, making a face. “But I could help you!”

    A gent might have refused, but Euan didn’t kid himself he’d ever been one of those—good though he was at kidding himself. He got up, locked the door, lay down beside her and let her do him by hand. Well, sucking the tip a bit, too, since she volunteered.

    “Better?” said Molly with a smile as he lay there panting.

    “Mm!”

   “That’s good!” she said with a laugh in her voice.

    “Aye. When you’re feeling a wee bit more the thing, you must come over and help me christen that big bed I’ve put in ma cottage,” said Euan, rolling onto his back and yawning.

    “Mm,” said Molly, looking at his limp penis and smiling. “Okay. –Ooh!” she gasped, bolt upright and staring at it.

    “You have seen it before,” he murmured. “And I know that the shaving looks damn’ peculiar—”

    “No! Help! Nip downstairs and make sure Anna puts those rude sketches away before Micky comes back!” she gasped.

    Euan collapsed in hysterics. He laughed so much that he had to roll over and muffle the noise in the bedclothes.

    Downstairs, Anna had gone back to working on the colours for her picture of Colin. “Laughing,” she said to herself. “I don’t think either of them know what they want. Well, let’s hope it lasts out till I’ve painted him.”

    Jack Powell reddened angrily. “I’m not biting!”

    “It’s true,” said Jim Parker flatly. “Me and me rake. I’m going down there now, thought she might like a cabbage. If you don’t believe me, come and see for yerself.” He proceeded slowly down Harriet Burleigh Street with his large cabbage.

    Jack gaped after him. The rake bit sounded so bloody weird that he was almost inclined to believe him… Except who’d want to paint a wrinkled old tortoise like him? He scratched his jaw dubiously, but let in the clutch and caught up with him. “Oy, Jim! Get in, for Pete’s sake!”

    The old man got in with his cabbage, though noting: “’S no distance.”

    “Yeah.”

    “You accept cash money from Pam Melly for that plumbing job?” he asked in an airy voice.

    “She is NOT my daughter!” shouted Jack, turning puce.

    “Glad we got that one straight,” he said, sucking his teeth a bit.

    “Look— Oh, forget it.”

    “’Er mum’s dumped ’im, she’d ’ave yer like a shot,” noted Jim detachedly.

    “I don’t want her, she’s a nagging bitch,” he said grimly.

    “Well, yes. Thought yer might not of noticed that, while you were doing ’er.”

    Jack sighed. “No, I didn’t, if ya wanna get technical, I noticed it afterwards, see?”

    “Yeah. Pauline Stout’d ’ave yer. Full-time, I mean.”

    “Did you accept this lift so as to sort out my sex life?” replied Jack heatedly. “That was a one-night stand, since regretted!”

    Jim sniffed. “Not by ’er.”

    They were there: Jack swerved across the road and drew up with a horrible screeching of brakes. Jim handed him the cabbage, got down and received it back, his face expressionless. Jack got out slowly. This could still be an immense leg-pull. The whole village remembered the time Jim had claimed to have a gigantic vegetable marrow that’d outdo any vegetable marrow ever grown in Bellingford and in particular old Hartley-Fynch’s prize marrow that he was cultivating for the fucking show organised by Ma Granville Thinnes and a few like-minded in-comers. It arrived at the show on a barrow, under a huge cloth, and wasn’t unveiled until the judging. When it proved to be a large green balloon. Hartley-Fynch just about had a stroke on the spot, and the villagers laughed themselves sick. He still risked tender enquiries after his marrows every time he appeared in public.

    “I’m coming, but I’ll believe it when I see it,” he warned.

    “It ain’t a balloon,” the old devil replied, trotting down Anna’s front path.

    Jack followed silently, trying not to laugh.

    Okay, it was true. He smiled weakly. Probably the fact that the only bits of wrinkled skin visible were his face, neck and forearms proved there was a God.

    “Yeah,” he said feebly. “Why’d ya paint him so big, Anna?”

    “His colours fitted the big board,” she replied seriously.

    Er—yeah. Well, you could call them colours, possibly. Wrinkled greyish skin, wrinkled grey overalls drooping off a wrinkled grey shirt with its sleeves rolled up. The background was a sort of greyish fawn, with a kind of all-over irregular hatching in, um, well, looked as if it had been scratched on. He had a closer look at it. “How’d ya do this?”

    “With bits of cardboard, when it’s wet. You cut them with pinking shears,” replied the artist.

    Quite. He ascertained Molly had gone back to London, and offered to get them all a cuppa.

    “See?” chirped old Jim, finding the rake and taking up the posish on the table.

    Jack paused in the doorway. “I’m convinced, don’t rub it in.”

     “She’s got biscuits!” Jim assured him.

    “What happened, the sky fall?”

    “No, Euan was over here last weekend. He brought them,” said Anna calmly.

    “Will I recognise them, in that case?” said Jack drily.

    “Yes, they’re only from the Superette.”

    The sky was a-falling. Jack went out to the kitchen, raising his eyebrows very high.

    The tea having been made, Jim sat on the chair that was apparently there for the purpose, Jack sat on a chair he’d brought in from the kitchen, and Anna sat on the floor, looking through a set of very rude drawings that, going by the one with the head, were possibly of Euan Keel, except that Jack had been under the impression that he was endowed with a normal amount of hair as well as the rest of it. He winced, and looked away, it was almost enough to put you off your biscuits. The nicest assortment: the one with the small round coconut ones as well as the shortbread ones and the chocolate ones.

    “The Shakespeare lot,” volunteered old Jim, “they made ’im bleach ’isself, see?”

    “Yeah, he told me,” said Jack shortly.

    “Couldn’t stand it. So ’e shaved it all orf. Risky job, eh?” He sniggered.

    “Probably got ’is gay London hairdresser to do it for ’im,” said Jack sourly. “Dare say at least one of them enjoyed it.”

    “No, the man almost cried, he wanted to tint it for him,” said Anna seriously.

    “Never thought of that,” admitted Jim feebly.

    “It’s not the sort of thing a normal bloke would think of,” croaked Jack. “Look, Anna, just tell me to shut up, if you like, but how serious is he about Molly?”

    “Shut up,” suggested Jim.

    Anna smiled slowly. “It’s all right, Jim. Well, it’s all a bit of a mystery to me: I mean, first she said she wasn’t gonna take up with him again and then she did, and then she seemed to want to break it off because he was ignoring her—but mind you, she didn’t like the things he took her to in London—only now she’s saying they’re not serious but they are, um, sort of together. On a casual basis, is what she said,” she reported dubiously.

    “’Aving a bit of the other,” translated Jim calmly.

    “Um, I think that is it, as a matter of fact.”

    “Yeah. Think of it like you and Pam’s mum, Jack,” he suggested nicely.

    “Shut up! Um, sorry, Anna, ancient history. Dead and gone history,” he said, giving Jim an evil look. “Well, that doesn’t sound too bad. I mean, he’s not all bad, but he’s not the sort you can rely on, really.”

    “She knows that,” said Anna, smiling at him. “I think it might be okay. She did seem more cheerful. Um, sort of calmer about it, really.”

    “Good,” concluded Jim. He winced, as there came a thunderous knock at the door. “If that’s Ma Mason, I’m not ’ere.”

    “Nor am I,” agreed Anna. “Keep low: she’ll go away..”

    Jack sighed. “Your front windows are open in the other room. I’ll go. What lie ya want me to tell ’er?”

    “Anything,” said Anna calmly.

    “In bed with ’er fancy man?” suggested Jim.

    “You’ve got sex on the brain,” retorted Jack, going out. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

    It wasn’t her, it was a bloke. A smooth, oily-looking bloke. Behind him was what looked suspiciously like an actual limo with a driver. The bloke did not look like any type Anna would want to know.

    “We don’t buy at the door,” he said blandly.

    “Very amusing. Tell Miss Peregrine-White it’s James Allen, please.”

    “Tell ’er yerself, I never ’eard of ’er,” replied Jack pleasedly.

    “Anna Peregrine-White, possibly known as Anna Leach.”

    “Oh,” he said lamely. “Well, who are yer?”

    “I’m the person who’s about to make her very rich,” the bloke replied with this real nasty look in his eye.

    “I just said, we don’t buy at the door, and PUSH ORF!” He was about to slam the door but the bastard stuck his foot in it.

    “I’m an art dealer, you cretin, I’m here to look at her work!”

    “She’s busy but I’ll tell ’er,” said Jack grudgingly, “if you’ll take yer foot out of the door.”

    He did, so Jack shut it and went and reported.

    “Ugh!” said Anna in dismay.

    “I’ll get rid of him!”

    “I’ll ’old yer coat!” chirped Jim.

    “No, don’t. He did say he wanted to see your picture, Jim. Only he never said when.”

    “Sure?” said Jack. She was sure, so he let the bugger in.

    “Ah!” he said, going over to the giant board with old Jim on it.

    “It’s me portrait,” said Jim smugly.

    “In your dreams, old man,” he returned.

    “If you’re only gonna be rude you can’t have it, or any of my paintings,” said Anna, going very red.

    “On the contrary: if you consult that agreement you signed, you’ll find I can have quite a number of your paintings. But I didn’t intend to be rude, I merely wished to imply that this is not a portrait.”

    “Could of said so,” noted Jim. He scrambled up on his chair and onto the table with his rake. “See?” he said, taking up the posish.

    “Incredible,” murmured James Allen.

    Jack looked dubiously from old Jim to the picture. He was right, by heck! “Must be art,” he ventured.

    “Mm,” he said, smiling at it. “Uh—what?” he said, looking at Jack uncertainly.

    “Like that over there, that’s Jim Parker, standing on a flaming kitchen table. This ’ere isn’t ’is portrait, like you said. And you’d never think, to look at ’im, that that could turn into this. So it’s art, see?”

    “Precisely,” he said, smiling. “Whatever your trade or profession might be, I’d say you’ve missed your vocation.”

    Cor, take a bow, Jack Powell! thought Jack. “Plumber, jobbing builder and general handyman,” he said laconically.

    James Allen winced. “So much for Merrie England.” He stared at the picture, eyes narrowed.

    “It is finished now,” said Anna uneasily.

    “Yes. –The bastard was right,” he muttered. “Please do not show it to anyone else, Miss Peregrine-White, no matter how much they may offer you. Do I have to remind you we have an agreement?”

    “Um, no. Do I have to have the cloth on it all the time?”

    He stared at her. “What?”

    “Well, um, sometimes people ask if they can see it,” said Anna miserably.

    His jaw sagged. “I’m talking about that skin-flint Scot, Euan Keel! Are you trying to claim he hasn’t offered you ten thousand for it behind my back?”

    “Um, he didn’t really offer to buy it. I told him it was promised to you. He did say something about ten thousand pounds, but I didn’t think he meant it,” said Anna feebly. “I thought he was just sucking up.”

    “Ya would,” noted Jim fairly.

    “Yeah,” agreed Jack fairly.

    James Allen ran his hand over his receded patent-leather hair. “The man left three messages on my machine over the weekend and rang me at crack of dawn on Monday!”

    “Nine-thirty, would of been,” said Jack to Jim.

    “Ten o’clock, ya mean,” said Jim to Jack.

    “Must this pair of stooges be in here?” said James Allen heavily.

    “Yes,” replied the artist flatly.

    Jim and Jack smirked.

    “Well, just shut up!” he said irritably. He turned back to the picture and stared at it silently.

    Jim and Jack were just beginning to roll their eyes at each other when he waved a hand irritably behind him and snapped: “Chair!”

    “You get it, ’cos I’m not a slave, I’m a model,” said Jim promptly.

    “Yeah. Wonder what the last one died of?” agreed Jack, nonetheless pre-empting Anna and grabbing a chair for the prick.

    He just waved him back irritably, so Jack backed off until he stopped waving. Then he sat on it. Jack shrugged and went to sit on Jim’s table. The old man clambered down and sat on his own chair, though advising: “Back orf, me good man, can’t yer see I’m a-waving at yer?”

    “SHUT UP!” roared the art dealer terribly.

    Jim and Jack shrugged, but shut up.

    James Allen just sat there, staring narrowly at the picture of old Jim with his rake.

    “You got any beer, Anna?” said Jack eventually.

    “No,” she said, eyeing James Allen uneasily. “There’s some Coke, though.”

    “Good. In that case I might see if the other slave ’e’s got out there in ’is ruddy limo is thirsty. ’Course, if ’e’s a robot, ’e won’t be.” He went out.

    Funnily enough the driver was real glad to get a Coke.

    “You bring ’im over from Portsmouth?” asked Jack, leaning on the limo.

    “No, London.”

    “Shit, don’t tell me ya work for ’im permanent!” he gasped in horror.

    “No. ’E always hires our firm. Don’t ask me why I’m the mug that always gets ’im, though. Got a fag?”

    “No. Given them up,” reported Jack sourly.

    He sighed. “Me, too. What the fuck’s ’e doin’ in there?”

    “Looking at pictures. I stand corrected. A picture.”

    The driver sighed. “All ’e ever does. That or stop for lunch somewhere real poncy what they don’t offer a ’amburger or a sandwich, my good fellow.”

    “Right: fair bit of it about these days: the village is full of them. Been up the pub?”

    “No.”

    “Well, don’t. ’E’d be welcome, but they never heard of a working bloke’s pint!” he said with feeling.

    “Gawd.”

    “Yeah,” said Jack glumly. “Anything ever been known to hurry ’im up?”

    “Nope.”

    “Goddit. Well, I’ll see if I can scrounge up a few biscuits for yer. Fancy another Coke?”

    “Yeah, but ’e does ’is nut if ya need to stop for a leak,” he replied mournfully.

    “Right, robots don’t piss,” agreed Jack with considerable satisfaction. “Well, come in, Anna won’t mind if you use her toilet, she’s a decent sort.”

    Gratefully the driver came in.

    Jim came out to the passage with Jack when he grabbed the tin of biscuits.

    “Still looking?” said the driver without hope, coming back downstairs.

    “You guessed it,” replied Jim. “It’s rude drawings, now.”

    By common consent they sat down on the stairs and attacked the biscuits.

    “Look out!” hissed the driver, bounding up as there came a sort of scraping noise from the studio and Anna’s voice said: “Over here. But they’re old.” He shot out like a rocket.

    Jim shrugged, and took the last, very plain biscuit. “Digestives are good,” he said ruminatively, having chewed and swallowed.

    “Ye-ah… Colin likes shortbread.”

    “Nope, stick in yer throat.”

    “The Scotch ones might be better. Think they need plenty of butter in ’em.”

    “Could be. Digestives don’t got the butter in ’em what they used to, neither,” said Jim sadly.

    “No, you’re right, it’s all marg these days. –That Froggy dame what’s always having Sylvia and Gareth over, she never has biscuits at all.”

    Jim stared. “She one of these daft dieters, then?”

    “No—well, she’s daft enough, but no, tisn’t that. The Frogs don’t have biscuits.”

    “Pull the other one!”

    “No, true. True’s I sit ’ere wondering what the fuck I’m doing.”

    “Nobody’s keeping yer. –Go on, tell us what they ’ave for elevenses if they don’t ’ave biscuits.”

    Jack scratched his chin. “I only went the once—can’t stand Abroad, added to which it dawned she ’ad ’er Froggy eye on yours truly. Well, ladies like her have a real small cup of coffee so strong it shrivels yer balls—I’m not joking,” he warned, “and if yer really lucky a piece of dry French bread—like tinder, it is—with a bit of jam. No butter or marg. But there is another option for us blokes.”

    “Yeah?” said Jim warily.

    Jack looked bland. “See, what the blokes do—see ’em sitting round all over the place in their overalls, bit like yours only more blue—what they do is nip out to a café and get round a real small cup of black coffee so strong it—”

    “Very funny.”

    “No, they do. Washed down with a glass of genuine Froggy firewater: phew!” He fanned his hand in front of his open mouth, and grinned.

    “Brandy?” said Jim cautiously.

    “Nope. Cal-ver-something. I forget, the waiter did tell me its name but ’e only spoke Frog. I just pointed and said ‘What them blokes are having,’ and he seemed to get me drift. –Not brown like brandy. Clear.” He winked. “Same clear like vodka.”

    Jim smiled weakly.  “For elevenses?”

    “Yep: makes you forget yer balls were ever shrivelled, I can tell yer!”

    “Fascinating,” drawled a sardonic voice from the studio doorway.

    Jack and Jim jumped: they’d completely forgotten their surroundings. They got up, looking sheepish.

    “Perhaps one of you vastly travelled gentlemen would care to carry this out to the car?”

    “The one of the Australian lady with the house?” said old Jim. “You sure he can have it, Anna?”

    “Yes. I did tell him it’s not really serious.”

    “Faux-naïf, but I like it,” said James Allen blandly. “Well?”

    Jack grabbed the painting. “Please, sir, you gonna give us a tip, sir?”

    He shrugged, but outed with the wallet and produced a fiver. Limply Jack took it and carted the painting out. It wasn’t heavy: what was wrong with— Oh, forget it. Probably afraid of ruining his suit. “Can this go in the boot?” he said to the driver.

    “Only if ya want to see ’im cry.”

    “Don’t tempt me! Well, back seat?”

    He shrugged, so Jack bunged it in there.

    “Thank you so much, my good man,” said James Allen’s voice evilly behind him.

    Jack backed off. “Yeah. Well, thanks for the tip. Bad back, is it?”

    “No, good suit. –I’ll be in touch very soon, Miss Peregrine-White, and of course, do speak to Mrs Kendall. But I’m sure she’ll see the point of getting that marvellous piece out of here as soon as possible.”

    “Um, yes, it is finished. I haven’t done enough in that style for a show.”

    “Not a one-woman show, no. But we may hang it with what we call our Autumn Collection,” he said, actually smiling. “I’ll keep in touch. ’Bye for now!” He got into the limo and, as nothing happened, snarled: “Are you paralysed?”

    The driver stumbled out, stumbled round to his side, and shut his door.

    “Um, sorry, I could of done that!” gasped Anna in dismay.

    Turning his back on the car, the driver winked once. Then he raised his peaked cap, bowed and said: “Not at all, madam. Good afternoon, madam.” And, going round to his side of the car, got in and drove away.

    “That’s the wrong way,” said Anna after quite some time.

    “No, he’ll turn up the top of the High Street—easier,” said Jim. “Was that a fiver?”

    “Eh? Oh! Yeah,” said Jack feebly. “Is it afternoon?”

    “Yeah. Just. Though ’e was getting at ’im—yeah.”

    They tottered back inside. In the studio Anna just looked round limply.

    Finally Jim said: “Is ’e gonna pay you thousands, Anna?”

    “Mm. If he can sell it. But I think he will, he was sure that Euan was quite serious about wanting it. But he said he was a good client but not a serious collector and he was quite sure he could get more for it.”

    They just stared at her.

    Eventually Jim croaked: “Ten thousand quid for one picture?”

    She nodded hard.

    “Sweet bleeding Jesus!”

    “Yes, but I might not sell any more for ages… I mean, up to now I’ve hardly sold any,” she said dazedly.

    “Yeah, I suppose that could be a whole year’s income,” allowed Jack.

    “’E took another one with ’im!” objected Jim.

    “Yeah; ’ow much’d ’e reckon ’e could get for that, Anna?” asked Jack.

    “Um, three thousand,” she said in a very small voice.

    Jack swallowed. He and Jim exchanged limp glances. Finally Jack said feebly: “Hang on: how long were you working on the one of Jim, though, Anna?”

    “Um, well, since I started thinking about it and did the preliminary sketches… Um, before I asked you if you’d sit, Jim,” she said, blushing. “Well, I suppose… Three months?”

    “That works out at seven hundred-odd a week,” said Jack. “That’s not extraordinary, Jim.”

    “No, when you put it like that.“

    “But you see, Jim? I should be paying you a modelling fee!” urged Anna.

    “Listen, when you’ve bought yer mansion in Majorca with yer income from yer ruddy paintings you can pay me, and not before!”

    She smiled at him, but tottered over to a chair and sank onto it. “I feel rather peculiar.”

    Jack and Jim exchanged glances. No wonder! Mr James Allen all on his own’d be enough to make most people feel peculiar, let alone the lolly he proposed throwing in her direction.

    “Come on, chips for lunch,” said the old man firmly.

    “I haven’t got any,” said Anna weakly.

    “I ’ave, though. Upsy-daisy! Grab ’er arm, Jack.”

    “It’s green,” said Anna dazedly as they approached the truck. “Faded green, it’s lovely. And you’re red and black, Jack.”

    Jack released her arm and opened the door. “Well, this jumper started off red, yeah. You wanna paint me? Aren’t I too colourful?”

    “No. Um, a big one, I think, but not the truck, just the green… Maybe a bit of the chipped lettering, too, I like that dull gold. Um, sorry,” she said, reddening.

    “Shit, you can paint me if ya like.”

    “What about without your shirt?” she said cautiously.

    “I might stretch a point. You’d lose the red, though.”

    “You could hold the jumper. But there’s red in your face.”

    Jim coughed.

    “Hah, hah,” said Jack feebly. “You gonna stand there all day, or help her in?”

    “It’s very high,” said Anna, smiling. “I’ve only been in one truck before—that was when I was a student.” They helped her in. “Thanks! Is a Bedford van a truck?” she asked.

    They smiled. “It’s the truck!” Jim assured her.

    Jack went round to the driver’s side and got in. “Yeah. When I was young, all right-thinking young blokes aspired to a trusty Bedford van. –Must you bring that fucking rake?”

    “No,” said Jim sheepishly. “Don’t use it much.” He chucked it over Number 9’s fence, and got in, squashing Anna considerably.

    Up in Harriet Burleigh Street Jim led the way into his front room and headed for his fancy sideboard. “Tell ya what, we’ll ’ave a snort! I got that duty-free bottle Norm and Jeannie gimme!”

    “What’s the toast?” asked Jack. “To taking ’is cash orf Mr Allen? I’ll drink to that!”

    “Yeah, me, too. –No, I was thinking of something different.” He got out a set of small glasses and a dangerous-looking bottle.

    Jack gave him a wary look: he just hoped it wasn’t something dirtier. “Yeah?”

    Jim poured.—Christ, it was sort of yellow and oily!—“Raise your glasses!” he urged.

    They raised their glasses, and Jim gave the toast: “To Bellingford’s resident artist! Ten thousand quid a pop! Cheers!”

    Anna just smiled weakly and said: “Cheers,” but Jack was game.

    “To Bellingford’s resident artist!” Bravely he downed it. Christ!

    “Ten thousand quid a pop. Cheers,” said Jim in a very, very weak voice.

    “Yeah.” Jack wrenched the bottle off him. Foreign writing. Nothing that even looked like a word.

    “I’ll put the chips on,” said Jim lamely.

    “I would,” agreed Jack.

    Jim went out.

    Anna sat down rather suddenly on the sofa. “What was it?” she croaked, licking her lips.

    Jack shoved it in the cupboard. “Dunno. Well, it was sweet, it must be meant to be consumed, it’s not actual paint stripper. Uh—my guess’d be one of those drinks you only drink watered down. What’s that yellow stuff the Frogs drink? Revolting. Tastes like aniseed balls. Wait on… Pernod!”

    “Oh, yes, there was a girl at Art School that used to drink that. It was more of a lemon colour, though.”

    Jim came back, looking sheepish, with three glasses of beer on a tray. “Here; wash the taste away,” he said feebly.

    This time no-one tried to be clever, they just raised their glasses and drank: “To Anna!”

    The opening of Anna’s showing at The Green Apple was in full swing. Full and ’orrible swing. Colin had only come because Anna was his neighbour, he liked her, and if he didn’t ask Terri, who would? Well, Rosie and John, yes, but he rather thought that to a girl of that age even going with an old crock as your partner would be preferable to going with a married couple. He wasn’t kidding himself that the leg would be up for much standing about but at the moment he was firmly practising mind over matter.

    Terri had shrunk into his side. No wonder! Colin felt a bit like shrinking himself. He couldn’t even see Anna, or anybody they knew: who were all these people? Uh—Fiona’s select Wimbledonite neighbours? A waitress in an abbreviated black skirt was circulating with a tray of drinks, so he grabbed a couple for them. Choice of white or red. They had the red.

    “You must not have too much!” she said severely and perforce loudly.

    He had his car at last, so they’d driven into Portsmouth and taken the train up. He didn’t think that a couple of glasses of red would last until they got back. And in any case— He bent down to her and admitted: “Not tempted!”

    Terri had tasted the wine and was attempting to conceal a grimace. She nodded hard.

    “See anybody we know?”

    “I can see Euan’s fat man,” she admitted. “Is that Molly with him?”

    Colin peered. There was more than one fat man present… Ugh! He saw what she meant. “Uh—no, it’s Georgia. ’Tis hard to recognise her without the little dog, mm?”

    She nodded hard, smiling, but didn’t attempt to speak. Very wise: the decibel level was overpowering. Colin bent down, took her elbow very firmly and said in her ear: “Let’s just look at the pictures.”

    Gratefully Terri let herself be led off to look at Anna’s Open Window series. There was very little competition, they were able to view at their leisure.

    “Like ’em?” he asked.

    “Yes,” said Terri, smiling. “They are very different from her recent work, but one can see from the way she handles outlines and balances spaces that it is the same artist. Also the way she handles paint, of course.”

    Colin raised his eyebrows, and whistled.

    “What?” she said, reddening. “Didn’t I use the right English expressions?”

    “Far from it. Sounded like a real expert. I only understood one word in three.”

    “Hah, hah!” she replied, beaming all over her face.

    Molly had agreed to let Euan take her to Anna’s opening, since it wasn’t as cultural as all that! Euan hadn't argued the point: he’d just been, frankly, very relieved that he wouldn’t have to turn up to it on his own, and that he would be able to turn up to it with something as pretty as that on his arm. She had had her screen test and both Brian and Derry were in raptures over her. So, surprisingly, was Varley. Euan had a strong suspicion it had nothing whatsoever to do with her abilities; he had warned her grimly against the man but Molly had just said placidly: “I did meet him in Queensland, you know; I’m not blind or deaf.” She was looking delightful tonight in apricot silk—she wore those shades a lot, they really suited her. Had she been his he would have provided a brown mink coat to go with it, and to Hell with the Animal Righters: the dress screamed out for a dark brown mink. Molly had just worn a plain heavy camel-hair coat with it. Certainly that complexion could get away with it, but it was not particularly smart and certainly not this year’s style. On enquiry, she revealed that it was really warm and she’d got it from a shop near Susan Walsingham’s, that Susan had recommended. Euan had swallowed a sigh and reflected that it was probably just as well that she wasn’t his.

    “There’s Derry!” he said pleasedly.

    Molly wasn’t tall enough to see over the crowd. “Is Georgia with him?”

    “Aye. They seem to be getting on really well: I wouldn’t worry, Molly.”

    You couldn’t help worrying when the party of the first part was your little sister and the party of the second part was a huge fat old producer-director who publicly trailed round with a new girlfriend every few months. Molly didn’t say so: she knew Euan didn’t have any brothers or sisters. “Mm. Shall we have a glass of wine?”

    Euan was quite sure it’d be putrid. He didn’t say so: he already knew she had no palate. He grabbed a waiter—why was it the waiters at this sort of do were getting younger and younger? This one, in the obligatory black slacks and white shirt, with his hair impossibly gelled, looked about fourteen. He was getting old, that was what. She chose the white. That was probably a mistake. He chose the red. That was definitely a mistake. He forced a way through the crowd for them—he couldn’t see anybody else he knew, where the Hell were Rosie and John?—and joined Derry and Georgia. They were actually looking at the pictures.

    “Mine,” said Derry the instant they came up to him.

    Euan smiled a little. They were the two he preferred: he’d seen them on Anna’s laptop. Even better in the flesh, though. Framed as a diptych: personally he’d have them framed individually but hang them together. One showed the window with a deliciously complex grey-green succulent in the foreground, the other the window in different shades with an equally delicious complication of tropical blooms in front of it. “Aye. What is that flower, again?”

    “Bougainvillaea,” said the two Australians in chorus, pronouncing the initial syllable “bo”.

    Derry smiled a little. “Bougainvillaea,” he confirmed, giving the initial syllable the sound that M. de Bougainville would have found more familiar. “Don’t you remember that glorious giant hedge of it we found in Queensland? I filmed you and Rosie having a row in front of it.”

    Euan winked at Molly. “Of course I do, Derry. I also remember the screaming fit you threw at the amount that wizened old tortoise that owned it wanted, to let you film it. Of course what he should have done was go down on his bended knees and thank you for the privilege.”

    “Yeah. Talking of wizened old tortoises, how’s that picture she’s doing of one?”

    “His spies are everywhere,” said Euan heavily as Molly’s and Georgia’s jaws dropped. “And dinna look at me, I’m no’ in the habit of giving out information that’ll lead to a piece I want being snapped up from under ma nose!”

    “James Allen mentioned it,” said Derry smoothly.

    “Aye, I just bet he did, the bastard! He’s already talking about a one-woman show for next year. If you must know, it’s gone to L’Informel.”

    “Good, I’ll drop in,” said Derry, grinning. “I am buying these, by the way, so give up.”

    “They wouldn’t quite suit Quince Tree Cottage, lovely though they are, so they’re all yours.”

    “What about your flat?” asked Molly.

    “They’d make everything in it look like the dreck it is,” he replied grimly.

    “I’ll have that little oil of Ruislip, if you’re sick of it,” offered Derry.

    “You will not, and I’m not!”

    Derry just shrugged and turned back to a smug contemplation of Anna’s Open Windows Numbers 2 and 5. “You can’t have them, they’re mine!” he said smugly as John and Rosie came up to them. “–Looking good, darlings! Haven’t seen the cheongsam before, Rosie; suits you.”

    It was cream, brocaded in a pattern of blossom with a thread with a mother-of-pearl sheen. “I’ve had it for ages. I suppose you’re going to squirrel those lovely things away in your blasted villa where the sun never shines,” she said on a cross note.

    Derry shrugged. “No: I’ve decided to let Linda have the villa. Taking all my stuff out of it. Buying a decent house over here.”

    “Where?” she croaked.

    “I haven’t decided, yet,” he said, looking smug. “Darlings, must circulate, but shall we catch up later? Supper? –Lovely!”

    The Haworths just about managed not to sag visibly with relief as the bulk swam off into the crowd. Even though it did tow Georgia along with it.

    The select precincts of The Green Apple were still echoing to a deafening roar of conversation but the crowd had thinned slightly after the trays and trays of strange little savouries, possibly not definable as canapés, had disappeared. Colin eyed the disposition of the parties somewhat drily. Somehow Euan Keel had managed to desert Molly and attach himself to Terri: they were now animatedly discussing the paintings. True, Terri’s looks were much improved: the spots had gone and she’d lost some weight. And her hair, having been ruthlessly brushed and shampooed by Pauline Stout of Sloane Square Salon, was now in a glorious silky black cloud round her shoulders. But had he had to give his honest opinion, Colin would have said that Keel hadn't consciously noticed it. Funnily enough Molly wasn’t all on her ownsome: a completely strange young man had firmly attached himself to her and was plying her with nibbles and white wine. Rupy had turned up very late, in an ’orridly draped lounge suit, and was now deep in conversation with The Green Apple’s good-looking male partner. John and Rosie had at one stage been mobbed by a crowd of Fiona’s Wimbledonite cronies but the female ones were now only mobbing John. Colin gave his cousin a dry look and moved off to where Rosie and a tall, dark-haired man in Buddy Holly specs were wedged into a corner looking desperate, as a couple of solid-looking types in solid-looking suits yacked at them earnestly.

    “Oh, hi, Colin,” said Rosie in tones of heartfelt relief. She effected introductions: the solid-looking ones were two local councillors who wanted her to open something, presumably in her Lily Rose Rayne persona, and the desperate bloke in the specs was Mark Rutherford, her professor. He and his wife belonged to the save the trees of Wimbledon movement. Something like that. Maybe it was save the common.

    Meanly he told the councillors that his cousin wasn’t allowing his wife to undertake any public engagements and that was him, over there.

    “Thanks,” said Mark Rutherford limply as they descended on John.

    “Any time. –You’d better come and sit down, Rosie, you’re looking tired.”

    “She’s pregnant again,” said Rutherford, scowling.

    Colin knew that, but he hadn’t been going to mention it.

    “I don’t produce one a year!” retorted Rosie with pardonable annoyance. “And I don’t do it so as to get out of my tutorial load!”

    “No? It sure feels like it,” replied her boss sourly. “Can you see Norma?”

    “No. And if I was you, I wouldn’t go home and leave her to walk.”

    “I’ll walk; tell her she can have the car,” he said sourly, going.

    “He’s taken it personally,” said Rosie feebly as Colin took her arm.

    “Mm. Over here.” He led her over to the wall where a clump of chairs was occupied by some artistic-looking types of several sexes all talking very loudly and incomprehensibly. “Please give this lady a chair, she’s pregnant,” he said to the ambient air some two feet above their heads.

    They melted away like the dew and Rosie and Colin sat down.

    “Thanks. You ought to command a regiment,” she said drily.

    He sighed. “Don’t you start. John’s already started dropping hints.”

    Rosie put a kind hand on his knee. “He’s that sort. He has a policy of being very tolerant, but he’s so practical and straightforward and strong-minded himself that he can’t really understand when other people are just plain knocked out.”

    Colin swallowed painfully. “Mm,” he managed.

    Somehow he and Terri ended the evening piling onto the train with Euan Keel. Oh, well. Colin just leaned back and closed his eyes as they eagerly discussed art…

    “I’ll drive. Where are your keys?” said Euan firmly.

    “Uh—the fucking car’s been altered. Automatic. No foot controls.”

    “Good, it’ll be like ma dad’s, in that case.”

    Colin gave in: the chap wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. In the car he said: “Is your father a paraplegic, Euan?”

    “No, just crippled with arthritis and too bluidy stubborn to give in and move down here to a milder climate,” he said sourly. “He used to drive a Mazda—second-hand but in good condition; but it got to the stage where he had verra little control over the bluidy thing. So I forced him to have a double hip replacement and while he was recovering I got him a new car with the same modifications as this. –The fucking hospital tried to talk him into a wee electric thing: the nasty wee things are death traps, not to say, immediately labelling you as half human! No-one was more surprised than me when he took to the new car like a duck to water. It is a nice car,” he said with a little smile. “An Audi. I drive it quite a bit when I’m up there. –I usually take the train, no way am I up for driving maself all the way to Edinburgh.”

    “I see, so he’s still up in Scotland?”

    “Aye,” he said with a sigh. “A seaside suburb. It is quite nice in summer, but awfu’ cold and bleak in winter.”

    “Has he seen your cottage, at all?”

    “Seen ma cottage?” he said loudly. “He hasna even seen me on the stage doon here!”

    Ouch, thought Colin, grimacing. “Mm. Parental relations can be rather strained, however good our intentions. My father’s a parson, but if you think that makes him an angel you’d be very much mistaken. Stubborn as a mule, completely intolerant of anyone else’s beliefs and opinions, while priding himself on being an enlightened Leftie from way back.” Somehow he found he was telling them about Pa’s blessed photo of himself with Bertrand Russell, and the endless demos and marches of his childhood… Neither of them needed him to explain who Bertrand Russell was or the significance of Greenham Common.

    “In the nuddy!” revealed old Jim Parker, sniggering.

    “Eh?” replied Jack Powell weakly. “You going daft, Jim? Or are ya claiming he is?”

    “Might be. Shock like being shot up and nearly losing yer ruddy leg’d be enough to send most blokes pretty near the edge—look at our Norm. Got a bash on the bonce, too. Fell orf a tank, think it was. Armoured car, maybe. When the bastards shot ’im.”

    “Shut up about ’is ruddy traumas in Iraq, Jim,” he said tiredly. “Look, is this one of your fucking leg-pulls? Seeing how much I’ll swallow, just because she done them rude drawings of Euan? Because I’m warning you, I’m not in the mood for fucking green balloons!”

    “Nope. Go and see for yerself.”

    Jack dithered. But he sure as Hell didn’t have anything else to do today, business was what you might call slow. Slow as in non-existent, yeah. So he went.

    Jesus! Well, it wasn’t rude, no. But Colin certainly didn’t have a stitch on. He was seated sideways, his good side, the right side, to the viewer—you wouldn’t have want to paint that scarred leg, that was for sure. The good leg was drawn up, and he was holding the knee with that arm. The other leg was stretched out, the scars not showing. It was just a black drawing against a grey painted background, presumably she was gonna paint over it. But the bloody thing was huge! Bigger than life-size, even though a good deal of the board was pale grey.

    “You can certainly draw, Anna. Gonna put the paint on later, eh?” he said feebly. “Um, will that gallery bloke buy it? Or is Colin gonna cart it back to ’is country place and hang it in ’is wife’s drawing-room?” he added on a snide note.

    “I think he’s divorced, isn’t he?” said Anna placidly. “I’m not painting it for anyone to buy, really, Jack. I’m just painting it because I need to.”

    Jack took a deep breath. That was a real artist for you, no doubt.