ART TROPO
Jay Raymond
Chapter One
Jack Henessy was experiencing yet another day of suffocating boredom on a very hot day in the City of London office of Maximus Insurance. As he wiped his brow, a girl resembling a Boticelli goddess passed by his desk. Fascinated by her beauty, he made rapid sketch of her features on a claims form. All he could see of her when he looked up again was a blurred image behind the frosted glass of Edward Donaldson's office. A few minutes later, she passed him on her way out. He dashed into the corridor and arrived in time to see the lift doors closing behind her trim figure.
He ambled back to the office, feeling deeply disappointed, and asked his boss's PA: 'Who's the girl who just called on Donaldson?'
There was swift flurry of fingers on her keyboard and she answered: 'She's Amanda Trout, a public relations consultant. Her company is called LookRight.'
Her exquisite features haunted him all the way to his lodgings in Willesden Green. His landlady complained as soon as he opened the front-door that her electric fan had stopped working. He changed the fuse, ran upstairs to his bedroom, opened his laptop, and began searching for the LookRight website. The photograph that appeared confirmed that his sketch had captured her likeness. Her website offered expert advice on how to dress well. He filled in an application form, describing himself as an artist badly in need of new clothes. Which was true. His attempt to establish himself as an artist in his native village in Norfolk had left him penniless and he found it hard to survive on the meagre salary he earned in London. He made another sketch of Amanda, this time with coloured pens, and emailed it to the website.
Satisfied that she was now aware of his existence, he walked to a nearby pub. As the barmaid poured him a glass of Guinness, he asked: 'Do you believe in love at first sight?'
'Only if the guy has loads of money.'
A tall, thin-faced, lanky man with ragged blonde hair and a goatee beard tapped him on the shoulder. The red T-shirt he was wearing carried the message: "I don't give a f*** who wins the football match."
Jack said: 'Hi, Coach. What'll you have?'
'A tomato juice with two fingers of Jack Daniels.'
'What's with the weird T-shirt?'Jack enquired.
'It gives me immunity when football fans behave badly. I thought you were a lager man. Why are you drinking Guinness? Mark Twain said when a man changes his drinking habits there's invariably a woman involved?'
'He was right. I've fallen in love.'
A large black man joined them. Coach said: 'Hello, Jimmo, how's the music business.'
Jimmo replied amiably: 'Looking good, man. Sold a lot of stuff today.'
Jack enquired: 'How's your missus?
'Which one? I got lots of chicks gunning for me at the moment. Yeah, alright. Josie's fine. She thinks she's pregnant.'
'No. Freedom's a wonderful thing. You don't know you've lost it until it's too late.'
He smiled effusively at a young girl sitting nearby, to emphasize the point.
'Do you good to settle down, Jimmo,' Coach said.
'Hey, man. I'm only forty. That's too young to settle down. There's still a lot of women around.'
'Will you make them all pregnant?' Coach enquired.
'No. I don't believe in polee-gamy. Well, only occasionally. And you, Jack. Any women in tow?'
'Coach said, shaking his head: 'Jack has just found his ideal woman.'
'Ain't no such thing, man,' Jimmo said, frowning deeply. 'Their main task is putting a good man down. And after they put him down, they lift him up again just to show there's no hard feeling. Then they push him down again, just in case he's getting the wrong ideas. You have been warned. Follow Coach's example and mine. Multi-loving, not multi-taskin,' is the thing to get good at. But you have to practice real good and hard. So what happened to Eleanor, Coach?
'Gone back to the States.'
'You still frozen outa the USA?' Jimmo enquired.
'Yeah. Back in LA little Monica told me she was eighteen and she was only fifteen. How was I to know without examining her birth certificate? I was only eighteen myself, but I could face a charge of statutory rape if I went back.'
'Tough, man. Tough,' Jimmo said. 'Happened to Polanski, that movie director feller, same way, didn't it.'
'Could happen to you again here, man.'
'No. I only date women twice my age now.'
Jimmo gave a deep sigh of sympathy.
'You know, Coach, it's a cruel world. Never did know what to make of it. Ain't no God that I can fathom out. He lets Holocausts and Tsunamis happen.' He winked at Jack and went on: 'And he lets little innocents like Coach take the blame for the lies little girls tell and get permanently exiled as a result. And if there ain't no God, how can a man get justice? Can you explain it, Jack?'
Coach ordered another half-pint of Guinness for Jack.
Jimmo suddenly asked Coach with a puzzled expression: 'Why do people call you Coach?'
'Back in the USA I once coached a school football team.' Coach explained. He inadvertently knocked his drink onto the floor and exclaimed: 'Shit!'
'Why do you Americans say nothin' but shit?' Jimmo enquired, bending down to retrieve the glass.
Coach paused for dramatic effect and explained: 'An American pharmaceutical company paid a group of volunteers for the exclusive use of their waste matter. When one of them sold his shit to another drug company, the company sued him. The case eventually went to the Supreme Court, which ruled that every American holds inviolable rights to his own shit. We say shit all the time to remind ourselves of that historic judgement.'
'That's a load of shit,' Jimmo declared after a stunned silence.
During the heated argument that ensued, Jack decided to go home and dream about Amanda.
Dreams had always played an important part in his life. A dream had solved a math problem that had baffled him in his classroom at school. Another dream, of a batsman hitting a duck with multi-coloured feathers into the outstretched hands of a fielder, had resulted in a painting, called: "Out for a Duck," which had helped him to gain entry into art college, the examiners having declared it worthy of René Magritte.
That night he dreamed that he was a Red Indian brave who came across a beautiful squaw tied to a tree on the opposite side of a deep ravine. Determined to rescue her, he ran back a short distance, turned round and gathering momentum, hurled himself across the abyss. The sensation of falling woke him up. The dream suggested that to succeed with a brilliant and beautiful business-woman like Amanda he must follow the example of the Indian warrior and take a leap into the unknown. The following morning he handed in his resignation.
Edward Donaldson said amiably enough: 'I gather you've had enough of the insurance business.'
'The big world outside could become just another rut. But I'm sure you know what you're doing. I'll give you a good reference.'
During the lunch hour, with a view to his first meeting with Amanda, he bought new slacks, a shirt, sweater and trainers, placing them on his already over-burdened credit card.
His application to the website was still unanswered when he arrived back in his lodgings this night. Lying on his narrow bed, he thought wistfully how much an Aston-Martin sports car would enhance his chances with Amanda. The hard fact was that he didn't even own a bicycle. A cheaper alternative suggested itself when a gorilla appeared on his television screen surrounded by hundreds of adoring women. As the gorilla sprayed himself with body lotion the commentator's voice declared that "Villain, " a brand new fragrance, completely blinded women to men's imperfections. It would need several gallons of the stuff, Jack thought gloomily, to earn even a passing glance from Amanda.
Logging onto the internet again, he found his application unanswered.
What should he say when he first met her? Your voice is as melodious as Schubert's Trout Quintet? No, that was too fulsome. Better perhaps to tell jokes. Years before Coach had proved that humour was a powerful aphrodisiac by laughing an underage girl into bed. Exiled from the USA as the result, he now worked as a foreign correspondent for a Los Angeles newspaper. His website ran a blog on which he mercifully lampooned political figures in the USA and occasionally made fun of his own friends. Jack had pleaded to be made fun of, but so far had been disappointed. Still, it might yet happen.
Was he being disloyal in allowing his thoughts to stray from Amanda? How could someone who wouldn't even recognise him in the street tug so at his heartstrings? Although she hadn't got in touch with him, he remained convinced that they were like a pair of twin subatomic particles he had once read about in a science magazine. These particles, apparently, spin in harmony even when they are trillions of miles apart. If you changed the direction of spin of one, its partner instantly followed suit, even though there was no communication between them. Scientists didn't know why this was so, any more than he knew why anything affecting Amanda would instantly affect him.
To gain the attention of such an elegant, beautiful, sophisticated woman, he needed to earn more money. Some of his colleagues were budding entrepreneurs. Adam Loach in accounts was about to launch an internet business which would allow punters to gamble on the success rate of dating agencies. Tom Abulis had built up a store of pornographic magazines in the belief that one day they would be banned, which would enormously increase their value. That, at least, was the excuse he gave for buying them.
That evening, opening his mail he found a demand from his credit card company for payment of his outstanding balance and considered withdrawing his resignation from Maximus Insurance. Then he opened his laptop and found an email which made him whoop with delight.
Dear Mr. Henessy
Thank you for your interest in LookRight. We are studying your questionnaire and will telephone shortly.
Sincerely,
Amanda Trout.
PS: The portrait was splendid. Thank you so much.
A fortnight later he was still waiting for her telephone call. Something terrible must have happened. She could be dead. Suicide. Car accident. Anything. It was a dangerous world. In a state of near mental collapse, he went to see his GP and told him: 'Doctor, I'm going mad.'
'People who go mad don't know they are going mad. What seems to be the trouble?' Dr. Sanjay Patel answered.
Studying the doctor's kindly brown eyes, Jack wondered why he was bothering the National Health Service, when it was obvious that the reason Amanda had decided not to contact him was because she had discovered that he was penniless and about to become unemployed.
The doctor again asked him gently what was troubling him. He replied: 'I can't sleep and I can't eat.'
'Hmm. We had better take a look at you.'
Out came the stethoscope. Dr. Patel listened and tapped his chest.
Out came the sphygmomanometer.
Dr. Patel announced: 'You're in good physical shape. Are you worried about something?'
'Yes, I foolishly resigned my job, in order to pursue a career as an artist.'
Dr. Patel nodded sympathetically.
'My conservatory is full of water colours, which I can only sell if I price my work at five-pence an hour. Luckily, I am able to feed my family by practising medicine.'
He grinned at Jack, who answered as he rolled his sleeve down: 'You're lucky. I trained as an artist and that's what I want to do. But it just doesn't seem possible.'
Dr. Patel said: 'Well, it's obvious that you are perfectly sane. I'm going to write you out a prescription.'
'A prescription won't help.'
'This one might,' Doctor Patel said with a smile. 'Come back if it doesn't work and I'll give you some pills.'
Jack studied what the doctor had written. It said: 'Sell your stuff on the Underground. A friend of mine did and it kept him going for a while.'
He thanked the doctor and by the time he got home had decided that he would draw caricatures on the Underground. But he would not tell Amanda how he earned his living.
He bought crayons a pad of A5 paper a cushion and an electronic timer to reassure impatient clients their cartoon would be finished in time. As an afterthought he took with him a large Panama hat which had once belonged to his father, hoping it might attract a few extra coins from people in too much of a hurry to be caricatured.
He set off for Piccadilly Circus that afternoon, taking some sample sketches. The plangent sound of a cello greeted him from the bottom of an escalator. He settled down nearby with his drawings on display. Two hours later he was the richer by the princely sum of one pound eighty-pence.
He was on the verge of giving up, when two burly railway policemen ordered him to leave.
'I was just about to go, anyway,' he protested, 'Nobody wants my drawings.'
'Is that one?' a policemen suddenly asked, looking with interest at his cartoon of the Prime Minister.'
'How much to do one of me?'
He whispered: 'Meet me in ten minutes by Boots the Chemists. I'll have one for my girl friend.'
Jack gathered up his belongings and made his way up the escalator. Soon afterwards, he made a rapid sketch of the railway policeman, diminishing his small nose, exaggerating his round chin and his red, pouting mouth. His client laughed and declared: 'It's terrific.'
'Is there nowhere on the Underground I can set up shop?'
'Not without permission. Try Covent Garden. There are loads of tourists there.'
Covent Garden piazza was thronged with visitors. There were jugglers, musicians, a conjurer doing tricks and a young woman making origami airplanes which dived and soared and occasionally crashed and skidded along the paving stones. He found a pitch and in no time had sketched two young men and three girls accompanying them and made fifty pounds.
The breeze blew pleasantly on his face as he worked, oblivious to the chatter in a variety of dialects and languages going on all around him.
This, he told himself joyously was the life. He was as free as the paper airplanes floating in the air all around him. In an hour he had made as much as he would have in four hours hunched over his desk in his claustrophobic cubicle. And although an Inland Revenue Inspector would eventually learnabout his earnings, for the time being it was tax free. He could now afford to take Amanda out on a date. One day she would be his lover, his partner, his missing particle in life's journey through the universe.
A Nigerian couple – the woman in flowing orange and green robes, the man in a well-cut business suit – studied his work and said: 'You can make a picture of us.' Four minutes later when he handed it to them they roared with laughter. He said glumly: 'I'll do another one, if you like.'
But apparently they were laughing because they liked it. 'It's a great photo. Our children will love it.'
The man handed him twenty pounds. He was about to give him change when he remembered that it was a double portrait. The couple moved away. Remembering that photographic realism was back in fashion, he decided that no insult had been intended by the reference to his work as a photo.
Looking up at the sky which was clouding over rapidly, he laughed out loud. This was money, real, honest-to-goodness money. For two years before coming to London he had worked in poor light in the caretaker's cottage his father occupied, trying to scrape a living as an artist. Lacking financial resources, he had been forced to take a job with an insurance company. Now was earning a modest living doing what he loved doing best.
It began to rain heavily. The space outside of Covent Garden Opera House emptied very quickly. Regretfully, he gathered up his belongings and went home.
Jack's landlady, Mrs. Levene, said to Jack at least once a week: 'Did I ever tell you that my husband only just missed being an opera singer?' He had been a cantor in a local synagogue. Today, as Jack sang in the shower, she called out: 'Did I tell you that my husband was once asked to sing at La Scala, Milan?'
'Wonderful, Mrs. Levene,' he shouted back. As a matter of fact I was in Covent Garden today.'
'Oh, my goodness, Covent Garden Opera House! My husband nearly sang there as well.'
He laughed out loud. He was making several hundred pounds a day selling caricatures. In the meantime, a brief notice had appeared on Amanda's website saying: 'Regrets. Have gone abroad as the result of an urgent business enquiry. Please be patient.'
Now, having at last received a telephone call from Amanda, he was due to meet her in a restaurant in town. She had said that after they had dined, if they couldn't find suitable clothing in a nearby department store, she would consult a tailor in Savile Row who would create for him exactly the kind of garments that she had in mind. The reason she gave for the delay was that she had been in Los Angeles, exploring with a colleague the possibility of opening a branch of their business there. Her voice was so warm, so vibrant and so sympathetic that he forgave the pain her absence had caused him.
While he was working out his notice, his colleagues, having learned about his new venture, clamoured to be drawn. Even Donaldson put in a request. Suspecting that he might be his rival for Amanda's affections, he deliberately gave him an effeminate look.
Things were looking up. He was beginning to share the belief, shared with many other of the performers in Covent Garden, that street performances were merely stepping stones to professional success. A comedian had gone on to cruise ships and now had a lucrative television contract. A juggler was making good money in Moscow. And an actor who gave impressions of characters in Dickens' novels was now working in Hollywood.
One of the performers accidentally ran over Jack's Panama hat while riding his unicycle. He was only three feet nine-inches tall. He stopped abruptly, stepped down from his bike and apologised profusely. Jack made light of the incident brushed off the hat and later accepted an invitation from him to take a break for coffee.
George was about forty-years old, had wavy ginger hair and a long irregular nose. He confided with a world-weary air, when the espresso coffee arrived, that women begged him to make love to them. 'I have never married, because it would be impossible for me to remain faithful,' he added lugubriously.'
Jack pretended to believe him.
George asked him if he had read Dickens and Dwindle detective novels, which featured George Hamble, a very small man like himself nicknamed Dwindle, and a very large retired police inspector.
'Top Marks for Murder. Wasn't that the first of the trilogy?'
George said proudly: 'That's right. I sometimes pretend that I'm Dwindle, the man who solves the really difficult cases. He sometimes seems more real to me than I am myself.'
'You look pretty real to me. Do you work here full time?'
'No, I work as a social counsellor for Tower Hamlets three days a week, although my ambition when I was a kid was to work in a circus. I visit schools with an invention of mine called a Bafflescope. It consists of a circle of six mini-telescopes pointing towards the centre. When you look in you can see a picture which can either be interpreted as two heads facing each other, or as a vase. It's a well known optical illusion, which demonstrates how the mind informs the eye rather than the other way around. I got a local engineering firm to make it. The kids look through the mini-telescopes and I ask them what they can see. They move around and keep seeing exactly the same image either as a vase or two separate faces. Having grasped the concept, it helps them to recognise their own prejudices and become more tolerant.'
'That's a very interesting idea.'
'Yeah. My next invention will be a machine that will make people believe I'm six-feet tall.'
'George, as far as I am concerned, you are six-feet tall. Did you train as a psychologist?'
'No. I call myself a metaphysician.'
'I admire you for making such a mad idea actually work. I'm something of a madman myself.
'What makes you say that?'
'I'm a dreamer and I have fallen in love with a beautiful girl who came into the office where I worked. The only conversation I have ever had with her has been over the phone.'
'I hope it goes well for you/ Do you have any family who can help you?'
Jack shook his head.
'I have a sister called Penelope who lives in Australia. My father was a general practitioner. When my mother died he became an alcoholic and was struck off the medical register. He now works as a caretaker in a local primary school. Recently, he told me he had collapsed outside a pub. Some kind person helped him to get home.
George hesitated and then asked Jack if he would draw him.
Jack installed him in the sunshine on the paved area outside and began working at a less frenzied pace than usual. He wanted to do his subject justice.
With a few deft touches he imparted to George, a challenging, swaggering, look and enjoyed his look of pure delight when the sketch was completed.
Dressed in his new clothes, Jack set off to meet Amanda at a restaurant in Kensington. Her voice had sounded warm, husky and seductive over the telephone. Just as he was thinking approaching her as a suave, super- confident James Bond, he tripped over the feet of a lady wearing a sari in the railway carriage. He apologised profusely and realising that the role he had intended to play was way beyond him, decided instead to present himself as a highly-successful artist. The train moved off with a jerk. He clutched at a metal upright and recalled their recent telephone conversation.
'Hello, Amanda, I'm Jack Henessy. I got in touch with you because I need advice on buying clothes.'
'You're the guy who did the lovely portrait.'
'You made my nose look like Pinoccio's.'
'It's OK. It's a very nice portrait. I have it over the mirror in my sitting-room.'
'That's great. I'm very flattered. You were abroad, I believe.'
'Reasonably well. I'm not committed to anything.'
'Good.' The last thing he wanted was for her to emigrate.
'Why did you apply to us, Mr Henessy?'
'I'm an artist and wish to create a good impression when I visit art galleries.'
'How did you hear about us?'
'From a lady who works for Maximus Insurance, Katrina Patterson.'
'I don't know her. I know a man called Edward Donaldson.'
'I see. I have to tell you that I earn my money by presenting my clients in the most favourable light. Clothes are very important. I shall make you appear the most successful artist on God's earth. Whatever you pay me will be money well spent, because gallery owners, and I know quite a few, are almost as much impressed by the appearance and the personality of an artist as by his draughtsmanship. I suggest we meet in town. I charge a set fee for my services, which includes VAT. Would you like me to quote it now.'
He was horrified by the figure she quoted, but said: 'That's OK.'
'What kind of art are you into, Mr Henessy: Post Modern, Kinetic, Op-Art, Conceptual, Punk?'
'Ah, so you know something about art?'
'A little. I worked for an art gallery owner for a while You haven't told me what kind of art it is you specialise in.'
'Is it relevant?'
'Oh, absolutely. The kind of clothes will vary according to the type of gallery you visit.'
'I have been concentrating on portraiture. But I'm quite versatile. I have some groundbreaking idea germinating in my mind. The art critics will be frantically thumbing through their thesauruses looking for words to describe my new work.'
'That sounds exciting. Where shall we meet and when?'
Suddenly it occurred to him that instead of asking her to come out on a date, when they had completed their business, he would ask her to become his agent. That would give him a good excuse to meet her again.
'Would you like to suggest somewhere'.
She named a very expensive restaurant in town.
. A splendidly uniformed doorman ceremoniously opened the door of the restaurant as he approached. Amanda was standing just inside the foyer. His confidence evaporated at the sight of her elfin beauty and he stammered: 'Um ...um ...um...'
'Jack Henessy?' She enquired with a faintly surprised look. 'Or is it John?' 'Call me, Jack, please, Amanda!'
Her eyes were violet, glistening in the light shining through the glass door. Her frizzled, golden hair made a perfect frame for her delicate face. Her complexion, which had seemed pale in the fluorescent light of the office where he had worked, had a soft, pink, appealing glow. Her exotic perfume made him dizzy. He experienced a fierce desire to protect her from any wild beasts lurking in the vicinity of High Street Kensington.
'You are Mr. Henessy?' she repeated
'Er, yes, and you are Amanda Trout?'
She gave him an encouraging grin, and he followed her, as the maitr'd ushered them to a table, wondering if he had enough money to pay the bill.
A waiter handed them napkins. Amanda leaned forward and said gently: 'You seem very nervous. Have you changed your mind?'
'Yes, I mean, no. I do want you to choose clothes for me.'
'Good. You have exactly the right kind of figure for what I have in mind.'
'Are you by any chance related to Edward Donaldson?' Jack enquired.
'He's my second cousin.'
'Are you kissing cousins?'
'What do you mean?' she asked, frowning.
'It's just an expression.' He shook his head and said: 'You must excuse me. I haven't met a public relations person before.'
'What's there to be scared of?' she enquired, frowning slightly. She then gently laid her hand upon his, which sent a sudden and entirely unexpected message through his whole system.
He stammered: 'I – er – th-think –I need to go to the bathroom.'
She gave him an amused look.
When he returned, Amanda had ordered starters.
'I hope you don't mind,' she explained. 'But we're short of time.'
'That's fine,' he said, covering his lap with a napkin.
'Where did you train,' Amanda enquired.
'At the Constable School of Art.'
'He was famous for his landscapes.'
'Yes.'
'And you specialise in portraits.'
'Yes. But I'm pretty versatile.'
'That's good. Where is your studio?'
'I have a little place in Covent Garden. But I'm looking for something bigger.'
'They had finished their starters. She chose duck à l'orange for the main course. He chose the same and then described the painting that had helped him gain entry into art college.
'Would you like to do portraits of sports people? Football fans pay huge sums for pictures of their stars.'
'I'm not sure if that's the direction in which I wish to go.'
'You must concentrate on your market. That is the only way any business can prosper.'
'I'm an artist, not a businessman.'
'If you want to sell anything, there must be a market for it.'
His eyes were focused on a tendril of hair lying across the exquisitely tender white skin at the nape of her neck that was having an overwhelmingly powerful effect on him.
'Amanda, I want to paint exclusively for you. You can have sole rights to sell whatever I create.'
She said firmly: 'I'm here to advise you on clothes, not sell your pictures.'
'Something has happened which changes everything.'
'I've fallen in love with you. I'm sure it's not the first time this has happened.'
'It's the first time during a business lunch.'
She stared at him as though he was a creature from outer space.
He muttered: 'Your eyes – I got their colour wrong in that portrait I sent you.'
'My fax machine only does black and white.'
'Oh, that's a pity. You have such lovely eyes. You must let me make a proper portrait of you.'
'Jack Henessy, I am here to advise you on your clothes.'
'Of course. But I do so want to take you out on a date.'
'That's not possible, I'm afraid.'
'Because I'm a country pumpkin? – I mean bumpkin.'
'Don't be silly. But I did notice your provincial accent. How long have you been in London?'
'Two years. I'm from Norfolk. I hardly know anybody in London, although I did make a friend yesterday, a midget who rides a unicycle.'
'Well, at least a unicycle is eco-friendly. I don't want a pudding. Shall we go?'
He produced his credit card but she insisted on paying, saying: 'This one is on me. I always pay for luncheon, to soften the blow when I send in my bill.'
She then whisked him into Harrods in Kensington. The staff instantly recognised her and accompanied by a good-humoured but deferential salesman, she picked garment after garment from their extensive collection and asked him to try them on. He hardly recognised himself in the mirror, complaining: 'I look more like a banker than an artist. Why black and more black?'
'Because bankers are bankable. Gallery owners will guess that you are one of those artists who are aware that what the rich really want are pictures that appreciate in value.'
'I guess you're right, Amanda. I suppose we're finished now. When can I see you again?'
'I was divorced recently. I'm not ready to go out on dates yet.'
'OK. Then let's have another business meeting. With your practical good sense and my painting prowess we'll do well together.'
'I don't think so.' She looked at her watch.
'Did your husband leave you very well off?'
She shook her head.
'Then for purely practical reasons accept my suggestion.'
'I don't know you.'
'Then get to know me.'
'I haven't seen any of your paintings.'
'You saw the portrait I sent you.'
'What makes you think you can succeed? The art market is extremely overcrowded.'
'Not for the works I intend to produce.
. How old are you?'
'Going on twenty-six.'
'I'm going on thirty-two.' She smiled and a slight dimple appeared on her flawless right cheek.
'If you don't want an emotional relationship, then let's have a business one. We complement one another. I'm an inveterate dreamer, you have loads of common sense.'
'There may be something in that.'
'Why not give it a try?'
They were standing outside Harrods by the Underground station.
'I'll think it over. What's your mobile number?'
'I don't have one.'
'OK. First step in your business career; get a mobile. I'll be in touch. Goodbye.'
She hailed a taxi and was whisked away into the traffic, leaving him wondering how he was going to pay for the outrageously expensive, and as far as he was concerned, totally useless new gear he had just bought.
He was in a good mood when he resumed his position in Covent Garden the following morning, A cheque from Maximus Insurance returning his pension contributions ensured that he would be able to pay Amanda's fee. Which left him with a bill from Harrods for six fabulously expensive black shirts and three black bomber jackets, together with accessories such as silk socks, an elaborate signet ring, cambric handkerchieves and what she called an attention-grabber, a huge designer gold medallion with a pentameter diagram.
'They'll think you're into black magic' she had whispered. One of my clients used to pretend he was into cannibalism. That made him very original and creative. Actually, he just kept painting the same squares in different shades of white. He now lives in the Algarve on his ill-gotten gains. Hasn't painted for yonks.'
He had whispered back, wearing a pained expression: 'I'm not like that.'
She then discussed excitedly with the salesman the virtues of a designer watch with a skull and crossbones face; the bones supplying the hour and minute hands. He rudely interrupted their conversation. Amanda intimated that it was important for an artist to be different, even when buying a watch. He insisted he just needed a watch that kept good time. She was appalled.
'A different kind of watch sets you apart. People will think you're rich and distinctive and because you don't need their order, they'll give you one.'
'That sounds very perverse.'
'That's what life is all about.'
'What about lady artists? What kind of a watch would you advise them to wear?'
'I advise women artists not to wear watches at all. It makes them appear unworldly. Selling is a very subtle business. Rational explanations don't always work. Now I come to think of it, a Patek Phllippe might be your style.'
What kind of hands do they have?'
'Ordinary ones.'
'Good. But I would rather have a cheap watch.'
'They don't grab attention.'
'My pictures will do that for me.'
'Good. I hope to see them one day.'
They moved on into the underwear department. Who needs designer underwear, he asked in despair. 'You never know,' she replied, archly and chose a dozen pairs of tight-fitting, designer underpants. Colour black, of course.
He asked himself now, as he held out samples of his quick-fire portraits towards potential new customers in Covent Garden, whether the fact that Amanda was divorced made any difference. None whatsoever he told himself. If anything, it had deepened his protective sense towards her. Her ex-husband must be a brute, totally lacking in sensitivity. She had been very businesslike during their meeting and he liked her for it. She obviously saw him as gauche and provincial. Time would change that. He wasn't in the least disappointed now that he had met her in the flesh. She was amazingly beautiful as well as being smart and sophisticated. Her qualities exactly compensated for those he lacked. The Controller of Statistics sitting at his Universal Personal Relationships Computer up in the clouds had known precisely what he was doing when he led her into the Claims Department of Maximus Insurance.
One day they would join together and make beautiful and harmonious love. But that was years away. In the meantime their minds and emotions would merge. They were good for each other. Together they would conquer the world. Her promise to telephone him augured well. The mobile he was going to buy would include a camera, so that he could capture the colour of her beautiful eyes. And he would send her passionate text messages.
The new sweater and slacks are beginning to work, he assured himself, as he began an image of the lady with a huge wart on her nose, which he tactfully reduced to a minor blemish . The new clothes from Harrods will work even greater miracles.
He waved at George, who was doing some fancy manoeuvres on his unicycle, and later joined him for lunch.
'How's it going, George?' he asked after they had found a table in the restaurant.
'Yeah. I went out on a date with that lady I told you about.'
'Great. Did you kiss her?'
'No. It was a business meeting. We had lunch in a posh restaurant. And, George.' He stopped talking to tell George he had egg round his mouth.'
As George wiped it, he continued: 'An extraordinary thing happened. Just after we sat down she put her hand on mine and I got an erection like a fireman's ladder. I had to rush to the loo and throw cold water on it. The strange thing is that I don't just want to go to bed with her yet. I want her on a higher plane – a spiritual plane, if you know what I mean.'
George was finding it hard to contain his merriment. He finished wiping his mouth, took control of himself and said heavily: 'Well, good on you mate. Do you think she noticed you had a hard on?'
'She would be highly flattered to know that the mere touch of her hand could turn you into a raging bull.'
'I doubt it.'
'Are you going to see her again?'
'She promised to call me.'
'What was the business meeting all about?'
Jack explained that he had told her he needed her assistance in order to renew his career as an artist.
'Do you have any paintings to sell?'
'I left seventeen at my father's place when I left home. I'd work my butt off, if I could afford a studio somewhere.'
George looked thoughtful and carried on eating. After a while, he said: 'Are you sure she's the girl for you?'
'Absolutely and completely. She's the girl of my dreams.'
'What do you know about her?'
'Only that she has a business website and she's divorced.'
'Hmm.'
'What do you mean, hmm?'
'She has already failed in one marriage.'
'Who said anything about marriage?'
'You said she's the girl of your dreams.'
'Yes, I've told her I need her as my business partner.'
.'But supposing she keeps on ...' George started laughing again.
'Keeps on what?' Jack said impatiently.
'Giving you a stiffy.' George was laughing so much he could hardly speak.
'I'll make sure I have cold water on hand,' Jack said in a dignified voice, before joining in the laughter.
He went home that evening disappointed because he had attracted less custom than usual. He couldn't possibly afford to rent a studio and there was a limit to his earnings in Covent Garden. Some customers tried to haggle and when winter came his income would dry up completely. Unlike George, who had a part-time but steady job, he had nothing to fall back on.
As he passed Mrs Levene in her sitting-room on his way upstairs, she called out: 'A young lady was on the phone for you. She left her number.'
'Great. Thank you. I'll call her.'
He felt better now. But he was aware that only the most insightful and powerful of dreams could solve his problems.
Chapter Six
He was delighted when Amanda telephoned. She told him that she had remembered that he needed a larger studio. Afriend of hers owned a large one-bed room apartment in Deptford which might be suitable for him. The tenant had been posted to Hong Kong. The owner would let him have it free of rent for three months, at the end of which period he would have to pay one year's rent in advance.
He pretended to be interested and asked when he could see her again. She told him she was going away for a week to Yorkshire, but would get in touch when she returned.
'How will your business manage without you?' he asked.
'I can do it on my computer as well in Yorkshire as anywhere else.'
'Where do you live when you are in town?'
'I share a flat with someone in Primrose Hill.'
'Can I have the address?'
'Later. I'll give you a bell soon.'
'You promise.'
'Of course. We might discuss your idea for a business partnership.'
'Splendid.
She put the phone down.
He was beginning to suspect that Amanda's internet business was not as successful as he had at first thought and that this might work to his advantage.
The next morning he woke from a dream. The words from Twelfth Night, "like the sweet sound that breathes upon a bank of violets" kept rnning through his head. They obviously alluded to Amanda's eyes, which were the colour of violets. Then a more practical interpretation suggested itself to him. A bank is a bank is a bank, and that's where the money is. The dream is telling me I need to borrow some money.
His first attempt to see his bank manager was unsuccessful. But a few days later he was granted an appointment with the under-manager. The formidable-looking blonde lady looked sceptical when he said that he wished to start a new business.
'What kind of business?' she demanded.
'I need a studio in which to paint and exhibit my paintings.'
He showed her his diploma from art college, some photographs of his paintings and told her about the deal he had been offered on the apartment.
'How much capital do you need?'
The figure he mentioned included fifteen month's living expenses and a year's rent. He smiled nervously.
'How much money have you made in the past year from painting?'
She was not impressed. On impulse, he took a sheet of the bank's notepaper that lay on the desk between them, and said: 'Mrs Gallagher. You have such an interesting face. Do you mind if I sketch you?'
She waited patiently as he sketched her face, eliminating the worry lines. She smiled broadly when he handed it to her.
'My husband will love this,' she said. 'There is just one more question. Do you have any collateral?'
'Only my genius,' he said, paraphrasing Oscar Wilde.
'I'll put it to the manager. But I doubt if he will pass it.'
He told George during their lunch break the following day
'Money always goes to money, George said philosophically. And they went on to discuss George's idea for another, even more complicated, bafflescope.
Later in the day, just before they were about to leave, George invited him to have a cup of coffee.
Jack said gloomily, as they waited for it to arrive: 'My dreams don't work as they used to. A dream suggested I should go to the bank. I did and was promptly turned down for a loan.'
'Dreams don't impress bank managers.'
'How much do you need?' George enquired.
He told him.
'Supposing I were to lend it to you,' George said, pursing his lips speculatively.
'How could you afford it?' Jack asked, intensely surprised.
'My mother's estate came to fifty-thousand pounds when it was sold up and I was the sole heir.'
'But you will need the money for your old age.'
'I may not have one. In any case, this is a business proposal based on my own personal assessment of your potential as an artist. How many paintings have you completed and how many have you sold?'
'About twenty in all. I sold only three.'
If I lend you the money I would only do so on the basis that I shall have a lien on any unsold paintings in your possession and any other valuable possessions you may have.'
'The total value of my unsold paintings wouldn't amount to anything like the money I need. The three paintings I sold fetched less than a thousand pounds.'
'But the seventeen unsold ones will fetch much more when you get known.'
'Van Gogh was dead for years before his paintings became valuable.'
'And look at what they are worth today! I shall be taking a huge gamble but I have a gut feeling that this is the only road to riches that will ever come my way.'
'George, you're an extraordinary guy. And I can't tell you how much your noble gesture means to me. But I couldn't possibly accept it,' Jack said, immensely moved by his new friend's generosity.
George took a sip of coffee, leaving a rim of foam around his lower lip, and then said blandly: 'Well you have my offer, Mr… I don't even know your surname.'
'Henessy.'
'You have my offer. If you agree, I'll ask my solicitor to draw up a suitable agreement.'
Jack, uttered his profound thanks and went home feeling humbled by George's extraordinary magnanimity. His new friend had offered more than just money; he had passed a vote of confidence in him. He has seen loads of my drawings and obviously esteems them highly. I think he was impressed by my portrait of him. I put my soul into it because I felt he deserved it. Anyway, if I did accept his amazing offer, I would make sure that he got a good return on his money.
There was no message from Amanda.
He lay in bed that night reflecting that his dream had not entirely let him down. Chapter Seven
The one-bedroom, third-floor apartment, part of an old warehouse overlooking the Thames, had been stripped and completely refurbished. It was very spacious, open plan, furnished in a minimalist style with a small kitchen set in one corner of the living-room,. Amanda assured him that everything in the flat had been chosen without regard to price. Huge windows let in the subdued light of a cloudy morning in early October.
The estate agent pointed out the magnificent view of ships and small boats making their way up river. He failed to mention the huge apartment block which partly blocked the view. Nevetherless, Jack was enormously impressed.
Amanda then asked the agent: 'Why is the owner giving the first three months rent free?'
'The lessee. has already paid it. He's a foreign exchange dealer, who has been suddenly transferred to Hong Kong.'
'Yes, but what's the catch?'
Jack had a sudden vision of a lodger invading his privacy.
'Joey is a budgerigar. The lessee can't take it with him and he insists that the sub-lessee undertakes to keep Joey in good form until he returns.'
They both laughed.
'No, I'm absolutely serious. You will have to sign a document in which you swear to feed and water him, allow him the freedom to fly around the room for five minutes every day and talk to him. I don't see how the last clause can be monitored. But, and this is the gentleman's idea, he reckons that you will grow to love him and will agree to look after him until the end of the-lease. The owner is perfectly happy with this arrangement, because he is getting paid for the full fifteen months. Got it?'
'Supposing it dies?' Amanda enquired, her eyes crinkling with mirth.
'It says here,' said the estate agent, taking out a document from his briefcase, that if a post mortem should suggest neglect or ill treatment then the sub-lease shall be said to have been violated and the lessee or owner may take such steps as may be necessary to evict the tenant or tenants.'
He added, replacing the document in his briefcase, You can't deny that the guy has a great sense of humour.' He then said something with a lugubrious air that made Amanda and Jack burst out laughing again: 'You're very lucky. Most apartment leases absolutely rule out the keeping of pets.'
'Where is Joey at the moment?' Amanda enquired.
'Any chance of your keeping him for the duration of the lease.'
'None whatsoever. We have a cat. I'm having to be extremely vigilant.'
Amanda then said: 'We're going to have lunch and we'll give you a decision, say' – she looked at her watch – 'by two o'clock.'
'Fine,' said the estate agent. 'You have my number. This flat would have gone by yesterday, if it hadn't been for the budgy clause. Not everyone wants to share their lives with a bird.'
He stumped off down the stairs. Jack and Amanda took the lift and stood staring at each other as it went down. It had been an extraordinary day, capping a series of extraordinary events.
When Amanda telephoned after returning from Yorkshire, eager to let her know that his work had been viewed favourably, Jack told her that George had offered to lend him the money. When he met her for coffee that morning in West Hampstead, she was wearing a plain, fawn-colored top and trousers and a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He was utterly enchanted.
'I'd better buy you a new shirt,' she commented briskly, when she saw him. 'And a new sweater.' The ones he was wearing were new, but he refrained from telling her so.
She then asked: 'Have the clothes arrived that we ordered?'
'Yes. But they aren't suitable for everyday use. My landlady nearly had a heart attack when the Harrod's van arrived. She thought I'd won the lottery.'
He then told her about the extraordinary offer that George had made and added that he had decided to turn it down.
'Where did you meet this guy?
'He's the midget I told you about. I met him in Covent Garden.'
He apologized for not telling her sooner how he earned a living.
She replied: 'Never mind that. But why not take up this wonderful offer?'
'Because it would be taking advantage of someone whom life has dealt a bad set of cards.'
Jack, this little guy needs you. He admires your work and thinks you're going to be a celebrated artist one day. Who's to say he's wrong? If you turn it down you will be doing him an ill service. He'll never have the opportunity of saying: You know that famous artist, Jack Henessy, owes his success to me. And, of course, you'll be giving up perhaps the only chance you'll ever have of being successful.'
'But supposing I am unable to pay him back.'
'You can go always become an insurance clerk again and pay him in instalments. 'This is your big moment. Take it.'
He was impressed by her argument and told himself the more she talked the more he liked her
'We're going to be great business partners,' he told her. 'You've convinced me. I'll tell George tomorrow. I hope he hasn't changed his mind.'
'He won't,' Amanda said with conviction.
'People with the kind of difficulties he has don't make idle promises.'
Which struck him as being very profound.
He took her arm as they walked towards the bus stop and she did not object.
He asked how her business was doing and she said: 'Not very well. I may be forced to give up and try something else.'
'What about your trip to Los Angeles?'
'Nothing doing. I saw Mo, my ex, when I was there. I thought he might be willing to help. But I was mistaken.'
'You said he didn't leave you very well off.'
'The lawyers' fees were horrendous. He's an American citizen, although he was born in Cairo. He became bankrupt over here and then returned to .L.A. I have consulted lawyers again but there's very little hope of improving my situation. I have a six-year old daughter, called Cara and he, or rather his sister, has custody of her. It would be very hard to reverse the court's decision. Now you know it all.'
'He must be a swine.'
'Not really. He provided me with a settlement. I invested it all in my business and now it has all gone. You were my last customer. I am asking my IT expert to take the website down.'
'Well, I'm glad you told me. I shall look after you from now on.'
'Thank you,' She said with a forced smile. 'But it won't be necessary. I'll get a job. I am more than capable of looking after myself.'
'Would you come with me to inspect the apartment you told me about?'
'If you like. Ian Thompson, who owns it, is in Monte Carlo at the moment. I'll text him. He'll be very pleased.'
'Better wait until we've given it the green light.'
'OK.' She smiled at him, more graciously this time.
A warm glow swept over him. My dreams are coming true, he told himself, as they entered the Underground station.
Chapter Eight
Jack stared through the window of the railway carriage at the flat, featureless Norfolk countryside. He was his way to Kings Lynn, from where he intended to take a bus to the village of Tarleton, where he had been born. It had been a very wet autumn and leaves on the sparse trees still retained their foliage. The clouds were low and a few rain drops slid in slow motion down the window. It was a mournful scene.
He remembered how great painters had managed to convey the self-absorbed beauty of his native county. But he was acutely aware that his own studies of the Norfolk countryside were not his best work. He had been too preoccupied with family problems at the time he worked on them. The pictures, some were landscapes, now belonged to George Hamble. He had signed the agreement and George had promptly paid him enough money to pay one year's rent on his studio as well as his everyday expenses until the lease came up for renewal, including the essential tools of his trade. George had calculated everything with miserly exactitude. And yet what a debt of gratitude he owed him. He had given him the financial support his father would have supplied, had he not suffered a mental collapse when his wife died.
Jack's best hope for renewing his career as an artist now depended on Amanda's knowledge of the London art scene. He was aware that it could take years to build up his reputation. Although his representational work was more than competent, and his portraits excellent, the dream scenes that welled up from his subconscious demanded to be recorded on canvas.
It was worrying to learn that Amanda had lost custody of her daughter. Her ex-husband, spite of the fact that he had gone bankrupt after gambling unsuccessfully on movie productions, had somehow managed to persuade the court that his daughter would better off with his sister in Los Angeles, also a film producer, than with her natural mother. Amanda had told Jack that she had been cruelly defamed during the court proceedings. Jack assured her that he would be happy to support the child, but she was quick to point out that their relationship was purely a business one.
'But I love you and I will do anything for you.'
'OK then go and paint some fucking good pictures.'
Her use of the F-word worried him.
There was other bad news. Amanda had quarrelled with her flat mate, Jo Bowden. Telephone bills were at the root of their disagreement; the bulk of them run up by Amanda's business. Amanda also complained that Jo, the daughter of a Labour peer, had an old fashioned obsession with tidiness. And they had clashed over the smells from aromatic Asian foods of which Amanda was fond.
'Move in with me,' Jack said, hopefully.
'Don't be stupid. There is only one bedroom.'
'How utterly ridiculous! Besides, there's Joey. I couldn't stand a bird flying round the room.'
As the train rumbled along, he was enjoying a day dream in which Amanda was making love to him in his flat, when a green woollen tie dangled in front of his eyes. The owner bent over him and said: 'You're Doctor Henessy's son, aren't you?'
Daniel Overbury, an old friend of his father, smiled genially and said: 'You'll be pleased to know your father has been much improved since Henrietta came into his life. She's a lady from St. Lucia. Very cultivated. Very compassionate. Very strong.' Daniel flexed his shoulders, to add emphasis.
'I'm very pleased to hear it – Daniel.'
'And are you still producing masterpieces.'
No. But I hope to be back at my easel very soon.'
'I gather you took a sabbatical. Good man. I hope to see you in church soon.'
The news that his father had acquired a partner surprised Jack and he hoped his father would give him some pointers on how to win Amanda.
It was nearly dark. The rain had stopped. A few bright pinpoints of lights were visible from distant farmhouses in the murky background. He asked himself where these bizarre ideas for his pictures came from. They seemed to take over control of his brushes and enabled him to complete the painting without conscious effort. A cascade of brilliant, wavy red hair on the head of a woman further along the carriage caught his eye. His colour memory wasn't good. His dreams stayed longer in his mind than colours. One day he would discuss this weakness with Amanda, who seemed to know a lot about artists and the art world.
As he waited outside King Lynn station in torrential rain for the bus, a car drew alongside. The Reverend Overbury lowered the window and offered him a lift, which he accepted gratefully. Mrs Overbury at the steering-wheel regaled him for the next twenty minutes with the latest village news, which included the information that his father and his black girl friend, a lecturer in psychology from St. Lucia, were inseparable. His father's health, Mrs Overbury added, appeared to be much improved.
A plump lady with crinkled gray hair, wearing fashionable glasses, opened the door of the cottage where his father lived. A sage green dress outlined her full figure. His father was standing behind her in the narrow entrance hall. Jack instantly noticed the improvement in his appearance.
'I'm Henrietta Lacroix,' the lady said in a commanding tone and stood aside to allow him to enter the cramped living room. Noting his small overnight bag, she said: 'Where's the rest of your luggage.'
'That's all there is. I'm just staying the night. I have just come back to sort out my paintings.'
'That's disappointing. Never mind. I'll make you a meal.'
'No, that's fine. I have already eaten.'
'A sandwich and coffee, perhaps.'
Jack took a seat next to his father by the open fire. The tweed suit his dad was wearing he remembered from happier days. He told him: 'The Reverend Daniel Overbury and his wife were on the train and gave me a lift.'
'That was good of him. Don't see much of Daniel these days. He almost gave up on me, but Henrietta has worked the oracle. Haven't touched the stuff for six weeks. Never will again.'
'She's a wonderful woman.'
'I'm absolutely delighted. Have you told Penelope?'
'Time enough when she comes home. She has a boy friend now. And how are you doing?'
'I've found the woman of my dreams.'
He explained how his luck had changed.
'Sounds great, Jack. I'm sorry that I wasn't able to help you. I have great faith in your talent. But I caved in completely when your mother died. I'd be dead by now if it wasn't for Henrietta.'
'How did you meet her?'
'She's a psychologist who teaches at the University of East Anglia and does some clinical work as well. She called in at the Fallen Oak pub and found me outside in a drunken stupor. I told you about her when you phoned me. She took me home and put me on an alcohol-free diet. She has threatened to leave me if I fall by the wayside again. It has worked so far. I hope it always will.'
'Of course it will. What are the chances of getting back on the medical register?'
'I'd say twenty-per-cent. Henrietta puts it at eighty-per cent. We'll see who's right. I have got a lawyer working on it.'
Henrietta came in at the moment with a plate of sandwiches and coffee.
As Jack munched a chicken and pickle sandwich, Henrietta said: 'Your dad is on a strict regime of food and sex'
Jack pretended he hadn't heard.
His father grinned and said:' It's all right. She's a clinical psychologist. But she thinks she's a doctor.
'It's not a laughing matter,' Henrietta responded, straight-faced. 'You're going to be featured in a paper at a conference next year called Curing Alcoholism by the Controlled Use of Sex. You'll be more famous than Dr Freud's patient "A".'
Eddie said:' I keep asking her how many similar patients she is treating.'
Henrietta turned to Jack and said: 'I warned him that that for every drink he takes in future I shall take a hundred lovers.'
'That'll make you very tired,' Eddie said.
'But I shall have lived a little,' Henrietta replied
'A lot,' Eddie corrected her.
'Are you serious about presenting a paper?' Jack asked, incredulously.
She replied. No. This particular form of behaviour therapy only works if the therapist is in love with her patient. '.
His father was in good hands Jack decided.
Eddie then remarked with a grin: I have only to say "gin" and she's all over me.'
'If you touched one drop of it I would kill you,' Henrietta said, grimly.
Eddie said: 'Now, Jack, Tell me more about your new girl friend.'
'She's not my girl friend. She only tolerates me.' He gave a history of their relationship.
'Have you tried chocolates and flowers?' his father enquired.
'She only wants a business relationship.'
'Flatter her, son.' Eddie said, sagely. 'Henrietta laps it up when I tell her she's slim.'
'He sees me through the wrong end of a telescope,' Henrietta commented, and went on: 'Don't take advice from your father. He hasn't the faintest idea how to treat women. Your girl friend must be feeling very vulnerable after a divorce and losing custody of her child. Praise her, reassure her and be patient. Some of the best romances have come from successful business relationships. She'll be even more impressed when you paint some good pictures.'
'Thanks Henrietta. I'll take your advice.'
He noticed, when he went upstairs, that there was a double bed in his father's bedroom, where formerly there had been a single one.
Nine framed paintings were lined up against the walls of the bedroom in which he had worked before going to London. The remaining unframed eight canvases were rolled up inside a large pine wardrobe. He particularly liked a framed oil painting called Always Together. Two phantom figures stood by a birch tree locked in an embrace. The young man had carved the inscription "Daniel loves Julia" on the trunk of the tree." A knife used to carve the words, lay on the grass at the foot of the tree. The painting was in the romantic style of the Pre-Raphaelite School.
All the paintings were to be delivered by a van delivery service to his new studio To save the railway fare he had arranged to travel in the van.
Chapter Nine
The following morning, he returned to his lodgings to pick up his belongings .As he waited on the doorstep for the taxi, his landlady stood behind him and whispered: 'I'm going to miss you.'
'And I'll miss you, too, 'Mrs. Levene'
'You remind me so much of my late husband, 'Mrs. Levene said. 'Of course, he had a much nicer voice. Do you know something, if I were fifty years younger I would have fallen in love with you.'
'And I would have reciprocated. Ah, here's my taxi.'
The driver helped him with his luggage.
If an old woman can fall in love with me, he thought, perhaps a younger one soon will.
The paintings the van driver had unloaded earlier that morning were stacked against one wall of the studio. Apart from his clothes, including the expensive items bought under Amanda's supervision, there wasn't much to unpack. Most of the prized possessions of his youth had been sold off when the family home had been repossessed. There was a portable television, an out-of-date hi-fi unit, and his laptop computer. He still hadn't learned Amanda's motives for calling on his former boss.
. It was imperative now to produce saleable works of art to enable him to pay back George. He would be heavily reliant on Amanda's marketing skills. He hoped their business cooperation would bring them closer together.
Something moved as he examined one of the paintings and he heard a fluttering of wings. In accordance with the requirements of the lease, he had let Joey out of his cage. The budgerigar alighted on his shoulder and appeared to take a keen interest in the picture.
'How about this one of Tarleton Manor House?' he asked Joey.
Muffled chirruping, which he interpreted as 'mediocre but saleable'.
'How about The Marshland Adjoining Tunbury Lock?'
'Portrait of Mrs Overbury?'
Exactly what I think,' Jack remarked. 'Silly old bat. It shows on her face. But it's a damned good portrait.'
He then showed Joey the painting of a storm at sea he had dreamed about after a quarrel with his alcoholic father. Joey flew off his shoulder and flew excitedly from one end of the living room to the other, which Jack interpreted as an enthusiastic endorsement.
I'll recommend that one to Amanda when she starts her sales campaign, he told himself.
. She had not accepted his offer to share the studio, even though it appeared that she and her flatmate were at loggerheads with each other. It worried him that she had nowhere else to go. Numerous attempts to call her on her mobile had failed.
He encouraged Joey, who was clawing his way slowly along one of the frames, to perch on his finger and then restored him to his cage from which he had a superb view of the world outside.
Birds, he decided were much underestimated. They probably needed a trades union to look after their interests. He was making an eloquent appeal to Parliament on behalf of the National Union of Budgerigars when the entrance bell rang.
Two women on the pavement below were standing by an expensive sports car.
He heard Amanda's voice and pressed the entrance-door button. She stepped out of the lift a few minutes later, accompanied by a tall woman and several pieces of luggage. Her companion, carrot-haired and wearing a long fawn coat, said: 'I'm Jo Bowden. Amanda asked me to bring her here.'
Jack said: 'Of course. She's very welcome. Do come inside.'
Amanda looked waif-like and miserable. His hostility towards Jo Bowden lessened as it became apparent that she was perfectly straight-forward and sensible.
He carried Amanda's luggage into the apartment and enquired: 'Can I make you some coffee?'
'No, thank you.' Jo Bowden, glanced around the disordered flat. 'Lovely view,' she observed briskly, and then said: 'I must be off. Amanda will explain. I told her she could stay on with me until she is fixed up with something permanent. But she preferred to come and stay with you. I hope you both prove compatible. I'm afraid we weren't.'
She whispered as Jack opened the front door: 'She needs help.'
Amanda said as soon as Jack had closed the door,: 'Don't take any notice of her. I'm only staying until I've found suitable accommodation. I couldn't stand her bullying any longer. She's an anal-retentive, tidiness freak. Every bill has to be paid on time. Everything has to be put away the minute you finish a meal. I am very grateful to you for offering to put me up, but I shall find something soon.'
Jack said gently: 'I'd rather you stayed.'
'I have no money at the moment. Not until I consult with my lawyers in LA.'
'Don't worry. I have enough for two of us.'
Gazing at the large white leather sofa in the centre of the room Amanda said: 'I'll sleep there.'
.No. You can have the bedroom.'
'I have dumped myself on you without warning. I don't want to be a nuisance.'
'You could never be a nuisance. I'm thrilled that you're here. I never expected it in my wildest dreams. We'll work something out. I just want you to be happy.'
Amanda looked dubiously at the bird cage.
'You'll have to take the bedroom. You wouldn't feel comfortable with a budgerigar in the room'
'I'll think about it,' Amanda said doubtfully. 'I would like that cup of coffee.'
She approached and wiped a trace of bird pooh off his shoulder with a tissue.
He made coffee, removed his belongings from the bedroom and carried in her luggage.
'I'll only unpack a few things. This is a purely temporary arrangement,' She remarked, laying flimsy pyjamas on the bed.
'What say we have lunch in the Italian restaurant across the road.'
'No, is there a grocery store? I'll collect some food. I'm not completely broke.'
'There's a convenience store about a hundred yards on the right as you leave the building. When you come back, we'll discuss the situation.'
'What's there to discuss? I'm only staying here a day or two.'
'What do you intend to do?'
'I've applied to the local job office for a job, any job. They told me I might be able to work in child care.'
'But you're a PR consultant.'
'Yes, but it could take months for me to find the right kind of job.'
'Be my agent instead. Sell my pictures.'
She replied doubtfully, glancing at the paintings resting against the wall: 'I'll inspect them after lunch.'
'You bet. I'm longing to make a study of you.'
'What happened to your mobile? he asked. 'I've been trying to contact you for ages.' They were eating curried chicken, chapatas and chillies in the kitchen. The food wasn't to his taste. She had also bought a bottle of Chianti.
'It broke when I threw it at Jo.'
'I can't really remember.'
'Oh, come on. You must remember what it was all about.'
'Do you really want to know?'
He nodded with a serious expression.
'I raided her lingerie drawer.'
'Not really.' She giggled. 'But to be fair I had promised the week before that I wouldn't do it again. I was completely out of knickers.'
'Why didn't you go out and buy some more?'
He said: 'That time you called on Edward Donaldson you looked as though you had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. I assumed that you were very wealthy.'
'Appearances can be misleading. My family did once have a huge holding in North Yorkshire. My father neglected it and eventually sold most of the land, leaving my mother to cope with a small holding of fifteen acres. She makes a meagre living taking in donkeys and other stray animals.'
'Do you have any brothers or sisters?'
'Two brothers. They both work in the City. Neither will have anything to do with me, because I made such a terrible marriage. My former husband persuaded them to put some money into a movie enterprise and it bombed. They believe he cheated them. Naturally, I took my husband's part at the time but I didn't know then what a scheming, devious person he is. So there it is. Jo says I was born under an unlucky star. She's right. If you have any sense, you'll get rid of me as soon as possible. I don't intend, anyway, to stay longer than two days.'
'Amanda, darling. you're forgetting. I've also been unlucky. But I've just had a great stroke of luck through meeting George. You and I will make a good partnership. I'll paint. You'll sell what I paint.'
'Who's George? Amanda suddenly asked.
'George, the unicyclist I told you about.'
'Yes, of course. What's his surname?'
'Humble or Hamble. I can't remember which. I saw his name on the document I signed. It doesn't really matter. The important thing is that he's paying for this apartment and my living expenses until I get on my feet. My unsold paintings are his collateral –. the ones over there.'
'Will he have a claim on your future work?'
'I'm not sure. I'll have to look at the document.'
'The important thing is that he's given me the opportunity of a lifetime – a financial leg-up when I need it most.'
'I'll look at your stuff, Jack. But it can take twenty years to build up a reputation. I just don't see how we can manage.'
'But my dreams come true. You'll see. Come and inspect my pictures.'
Jack led her to his paintings and silently displayed them one by one. He was disappointed by her reaction to his pre-Raphaelite painting and the landscapes. But she was impressed by his portrait of Mrs Overbury and commented: 'You have a wonderful knack of entering into people's minds.'
'I haven't found my way into yours.'
'The portrait you did of me was a very good likeness.'
' I want to enter your heart, not your mind.'
. 'I don't believe in romantic love. What's this one?'
She was staring intently at a twelve-by-eight inch oil painting not included in his catalogue of completed works. The fantasy had lodged in his mind after being awakened by his father's drunken entrance into the cottage. A crab on the seashore was clutching within its claws a large analogue alarm clock. He had called it: The Next Train Will Arrive At.
'It's just something I painted when my dad came home drunk.'
'I know someone who will pay good money for that.'
'A gallery owner I used to work for. He paints a bit himself, but has no talent. I met him at the home of your former boss, Edward Donaldson.'
'What were you doing in Donaldson's office the day I first saw you?'
'Just trying to drum up some business. He was going to a fancy dress ball and I offered to dress him as a Regency buck. He fitted the part perfectly.'
'Why would someone want to buy something like this?'
Amanda studied it again closely.
'It's got a certain quality that Benny Shapiro will like. He is one of the shrewdest art gallery owners in the country. He's always ahead of the game. He'll like this because it's bizarre and juxtaposes two entirely incompatible images. He is obsessed with creating a new kind of art. Recently he has been busy promoting what he calls Tropopausal art. He has several artists on his books who turn out stuff for him. He is beginning to get enormous prices for them.'
'What exactly is Tropopausal art?'
'The tropopause, apparently, is a kind of roof that caps what we loosely call the atmosphere. His theory is that art has now gone through the roof. Beyond that he says there is is complete and utter insanity.'
'Benny never does anything for a joke. Once he starts something he throws himself into it with enormous energy.'
'But why does my painting comes into that category? Wouldn't surreal be a better description?'
'Tropopausal art usually has a funny message, whereas Surrealism is completely at odds with logic.'
'Why does it have to be funny?'
'It's not always funny but it must have at least a major element of incongruity. That's what your painting has. Benny says art should reflect life, which is invariably chaotic, mad, puzzling and, viewed objectively, very funny. Sometimes a tropopausal picture actually contains a puzzle – a hidden element, which the viewer has to find for himself.'
'The message of this particular painting was anything but funny. The crab is the symbol for cancer. The clock represents life ticking away.'
'It doesn't matter. I could invent a funny title for it. That is, if you don't mind.'
'I don't mind. But I can't guarantee to produce this kind of stuff to order.'
'You must, if you want to succeed. You don't have any choice. You need the money.'
'Can't you sell my portraits. That's something I'm really good at.'
'It could take years to build up a client base for portraits. Rich people who can afford them are very selective. If I can get you on Benny's list you'll start making big money straight away. I can almost guarantee it.'
Encouraged by Amanda's remarks, he said: 'OK. Let's have another cup of coffee while I consider the matter.'
The mugs in the kitchen were decorated with red birds, which reminded him of Joey. He would have to confine Amanda to the bedroom while Joey was let out for his exercise. To persuade her to stay with him, he would try to produce the kind of freakish paintings she had just described.
He said as they sipped coffee: 'My dreams are the main source of my art. Apart from portraits, I'm not inspired by representational stuff.'
. Amanda leaned forward, revealing a soft white cleavage, and said 'A businessman sells his dreams to his shareholders. A novelist sells her dreams to her readers. You have got to sell your dreams to Benny Shapiro, so that you can participate in his Tropopausal art movement. Come with me to see Benny. Wear those new clothes I made you buy.'
Amanda said briskly: 'You just paint your dreams. I'll turn them into Tropopausal art. And let's see if it works.'
Jack felt that he owed it to George, who had taken such a huge gamble in subsidising him, to take this opportunity to pay him back. A family matter diverted him for a while. His sister Penelope had arrived in England, accompanied by her new fiancé, Tom O'Brien, a derivatives dealer from Melbourne. Jack asked Amanda to accompany him to a pub lunch in Tarleton, Norfolk, the following day to celebrate his sister's engagement.
When she agreed, he exclaimed: 'My gosh, that's wonderful.'
'Don't get any ideas. Just say that I'm your agent and I've come along for the free meal.'
'I have made it clear from the start that I have no intention of getting involved with you other than helping to sell your pictures.'
'Right. I can well understand your situation.'
'How shall we get to get there?'
'I'll hire a car. Do you drive?'
'Yes. But I had to sell my car to pay for my fare to LA.' 'What happened in LA?'
'I tried to persuade my ex-husband to let me have custody of my daughter, Cara. I also asked him to support my business. I had no success whatsoever.'
'That's tough, Amanda. But let's stick together from now on. Everything will be all right. I'm sure of it. I've had nothing but good luck since meeting you. Look at how an almost complete stranger has set me up in this studio!'
'You'd better get in touch with a car hire firm.'
'I'll tell you what – I'll buy an old banger. There's enough money in my account.'
'Wait till you have sold some of your work.'
'I guess you're right. But I can afford to take you out for dinner tonight.'
'Would you like to ring your mother and tell her you're here safe and well.'
'Won't she worry when she rings up your former home?'
'My mother only has feelings for donkeys. Anyway, she's a bit demented.'
'It looks as though I'm the only one you can rely on.'
'I rely on myself, thank you very much.'
'Darling, no-one can manage by themselves. We all need friends.'
'I can't help it. Why do you dislike me so much?'
'Because of your entirely unwarranted assumption that I'm somehow going to fall for you.'
'I don't expect you to. I won't bother you unless you encourage me.'
He slept on the couch that night under an old eiderdown rescued from the contents of the family home which had been sold to pay off his father's debts. On his way back from the guest cloakroom, he caught a glimpse of Amanda sitting up in bed wearing flimsy pyjamas. One day, he decided, would commit that vision of fragile beauty to canvas.
The sounds of merriment were coming from the cottage as they pulled up outside. The satnav in the hired car had directed them unerringly to their destination. A matronly figure opened the front-door. Jack instantly recognised that his sister was hugely pregnant.
'My little sis,' he proclaimed 'and pregnant, too!'
'No. He kept it as a nice surprise. And here is my agent and business partner, Amanda.'
'Amanda Trout,' Amanda corrected him.
'Yes, Amanda Trout. Isn't she lovely!,' he said enthusiastically, provoking an indignant glance from her.
They were greeted by his father, Henrietta and a large stout man of forty with a mop of blond hair and a ruddy complexion, wearing a brown pin stripe suit which fitted him like a suit of armour.
Eddie introduced them.: 'Tom O'Brien from down under under meet my son, Jack.' He looked questioningly at Amanda.
'My agent and adviser, Amanda,' Jack said dutifully.
Tom said, enthusiastically: 'Good on you. Mate. Glad to meet yer, Amanda. You can come out to Aussie anytime.'
Eddie continued:' And this is Henrietta, who saved my life.'
'I believe Penelope saved your life,' Henrietta said to Tom.
'Yeah. She nursed me through a coronary by-pass. She's a great girl. And a quick learner. She'll be trading derivatives in a couple of months.'
'Not until I've had the baby,' Penelope said.
Tom gave a loud laugh and declared: 'We'll turn the little bugger into a trader as well.'
After an awkward silence, Tom said: 'How about that pub lunch, everybody?'
They walked a hundred yards to the Fallen Oak pub. A cheerful log fire was burning in the grate. A slim girl with a Romanian accent steered them to a table. As they waited for service, Eddie told them how Henrietta had helped him find his way home when he had been hopelessly drunk. He added with a frown: 'Alcohol is the worst anaesthetic in the world. Rots your liver and warps your perceptions.'
Penelope ordered soft drinks from the waitress.
Tom said: 'A whisky for me, darling. My doctor recommends it.'
Penelope wagged a reproachful finger at him. He shrugged and changed his order to orange juice.
During a discussion of addiction Amanda confessed to having taken cocaine.
Eddie enquired: 'Have you sold any of Jack's pictures yet?'
'Not yet,' Amanda replied. 'But I'm confident I will. He has a great talent.'
Eddie said with a smile: 'I think he's in love with you.'
Amanda said: 'I'm too old for him.'
'Nonsense. There's hardly anything in it,' Jack protested:
Amanda said, ignoring him. 'He's too innocent for this world.'
'Corrupt me,' Jack suggested.
'Should I, Eddie?' Amanda enquired.
Penelope commented: 'Artists are a lot tougher than you think. I was with Jack once when he was painting in a forest. He must have been about twelve. A huge alsatian, appeared barking and slavering at us. I was terrified and ran home but Jack just carried on painting.'
'So you failed to protect your little sister,' Amanda chided him.
'It must have been enjoying one of my rare creative moments.
Penelope showed them a splendid engagement ring and announced that their wedding would take place in Melbourne the following January.
'Just in time make the little bugger legal,' Tom said. My ex-wife won't attend. My kids might. I can well afford another family. I'm the first person in my family to have struck it rich.'
'What's your secret?' Eddie asked.
'If I told you, you'd become rich at my expense. What about you, Amanda? What's your secret? I bet all those artists want to paint you in the nude.'
'I always refuse,' Amanda said demurely. 'I just sell what they produce.'
'Just as well. Those modern artists are likely to put your chief assets in the wrong points of the compass.'
He guffawed, bought a whiskey at the bar, insisting in a loud voice that it was purely medicinal.
Tom mentioned that he had played rugby for a well-known club and was having a large house constructed for his new family. On hearing this Jack felt better disposed towards him.
Henrietta announced after a pause in the conversation that she had been offered a post in Ontario.
'Will you go with her?' Penelope asked her father.
'I'm trying to get myself reinstated on the UK medical register,' Eddie replied irritably.
To divert the conversation from an embarrassing topic, Jack told them about his friend, George.
'How tall is he?' Tom asked.
'About three-feet nine,' Jack replied.
'The smallest member of our rugby team was "Titch"O'Brien,' Tom said reminiscently. 'He was five-feet five, a great lady-killer. It was a lady mosquito that got him in the end. He died from a rare kind of malaria.'
'Your unicyclist has obviously got a very big heart,' Henretta observed.
Shortly afterwards, he and Amanda started their return journey.
'It will be nice to get home,' Jack commented when they were on their way.
'Your home,' Amanda corrected him.
'It's yours any time you like.'
'I must get on with my own life.'
'You can still do that while you're staying with me.'
'I might consider it if you were gay.'
'Impossible. You behave like a horny adolescent.'
'I love you. I'll do anything for you. I can't help it.'
There was silence for a while, broken occasionally by voice instructions from the female voice in the satnav.
'Amanda, I dream about you all the time.'
'You're not the first person to have said that.'
'There's a road sign coming up a few hundred yards ahead. Will you see if you can read it.'
'Don't you trust the satnav?'
He didn't answer. As Amanda looked out for the road sign, he surreptitiously changed the Voice Preference in the satnav from female to male, and said: 'If the girl in the satnav undergoes a sex change, will you stay for longer than two days?'
The satnav then announced in a manly baritone: 'In three hundred metres take the second turning at the roundabout,'
'How about that!' Jack exclaimed. 'Will you stay for a week?'
'I suppose I'll have to,' Amanda replied, in a listless tone
Jack felt that he had achieved a significant victory.
The following morning in the shower he sang: Thy Tiny Hand is Frozen. Amanda, sitting on the foot of the bed examining her toe nails, called out: 'Roberto Alagna would be terrified if he knew he had such opposition.'
He grinned, dried himself, put on a bathrobe and prepared breakfast.
Amanda came into the dining area soon afterwards, wearing an elaborate blue satin housecoat embossed with what appeared to be scenes from a medieval battle.
'That's a magnificent garment,' he exclaimed.
'My ex bought it for me in Milan years ago.'
'I like the illustrations.'
'If you look at it closely, you'll see that they represent marital rather than martial battles. The Italians have a great sense of humour.'
'I'm glad you're staying on.'
'Don't imagine that you fooled me last night with your satnav. But I'll keep my promise. I was about to ask you if you dreamed last night.'
'You said you use your dreams to create paintings. If you painted more pictures along the lines of the drawing of that crab and the alarm clock you showed me you could become very successful.'
'What's the point, if you're going to leave me?'
'I've said I'll stay a week.'
'If I did become extremely successful, would you stay with me longer?'
'Perhaps. If you came up with the goods.'
'I'll make a Faustian pact. I'll paint my dreams. And you can sell them to – what's his name – Benny.'
'Shall I meet him some time?'
'I'll introduce you to him. In the meantime, get on with your work. I'll see to the dishes.'
A large trestle table stood at one end of the large picture window, on which Jack had laid out pigments, tubes of oil paints and other materials. Some of the oils had deteriorated. But he had a plentiful supply of pens, inks, chalks, crayons, charcoal sticks and pencils. He took a soft pencil and began to outline a scene from a dream that had come to him during the night. Two identical bearded bridegrooms appeared to be going in opposite directions through an open door. On the left the bridegroom was confronting a radiant, smiling young woman wearing a white bridal outfit. On the right the same woman, now careworn, was facing him, defiantly throwing her wedding ring away. He had called it Time Telescoped.
He rapped on the door of the bedroom when his sketch was completed. Amanda opened it. She was fully dressed and was engaged in a heated conversation on a mobile. She waved at Jack, while continuing to talk. 'OK, Benny. He's marvellous. I swear it You'll love his work. When can I show you a sample? OK, I'll bring him along. He's a cute guy. Simple, but a genius. OK. Goodbye.'
She handed him back his mobile and explained. 'I've just spoken to Benny at his Bond Street gallery. I sneaked a look at what you're doing before I rang Benny. It's marvellous.'
He led her to the easel, turning it round to get a better light.
'Yes, that's splendid. Benny will go for that.'
'Was he an artist before he became a gallery owner?'
'He dabbles a bit, but he's hopeless. He made billions from the rag trade, sold out and then decided to make a name for himself in the art world.'
'I can't fathom out all this "Tropopausal" stuff.'
'Don't worry. Just keep on painting in your weird style. Benny and I will do all the fathoming that's necessary.'
'Shall I tell you what this drawing means to me?' he asked.
'It shows a couple whose ten-year marriage has been telescoped into a split second of time.'
Amanda replied: 'That's OK. Benny wants everything to be ironic, bizarre, larger than life and where possible, comic. Comedy is the biggest crowd-puller in the world. He'll think of a title.'
'My pictures speak for themselves.'
'The essential thing is to meet Benny's requirements. He wants art to be more optimistic.'
'How do you know all this?'
'He has explained it all to me. I used to work for him. He employed me to find out what other gallery owners were up to, and he also gave me a commission on any pictures I sold. Market research is the key to everything. But don't be misled. In addition to his commercial instinct Benny really does have a highly-developed eye for art. He'll sum up your work in a few seconds.'
'What kind of title would you propose for this one?'
' I'm thinking of something like Illusion and Disillusion. But we'll discuss it with Benny.
'Your title has nothing at all to do with my dream.'
'Forget about your dream. We are talking big bucks. That's better than dreaming.'
'Do you want me to finish the painting?'
'Not yet. We'll take it as it is. Let's make sure Benny likes your style first. I'll call the other painting of the crab and the clock I Must Get Home In Time To Be Eaten. That's the sort of black humour Benny likes. And we'll take Mrs Overbury just to show him how beautifully you paint portraits.'
'OK. Now that I've sold my artistic soul, do I get a kiss?'
She kissed him perfunctorily on the cheek and said: 'I'll see if we can get to see Benny this afternoon.'
'We'll have a sandwich before we go. I'll ring Benny and tell him we're on our way.
They took a taxi to Bond Street. A smartly-suited Japanese girl ushered them into the inner office of the Shapiro Gallery. Jack noticed on the walls some coloured, highly dramatic Cubist paintings and workmanlike oil paintings of sailing ships. Where were the so-called Tropopausal pictures he wondered.
Benny, a portly man with wavy black hair, obviously dyed, was sitting behind a large rosewood desk. He was wearing a double-breasted navy-blue suit with gold buttons. White ruffs protruded. from his sleeves. On the wall behind him was a picture of a skyscraper with a huge single red rose projecting through the roof. The caption on a small brass plate said: "And I'll Throw in the Skyscraper."
He gave a welcoming smile, rose from his chair and kissed Amanda.
Indicating the picture behind his desk, Benny said: 'A famous property developer was chasing a pretty woman much younger than himself and asked the artist to paint this picture. I bought it from him after he had gone bankrupt.'
The taxi driver propped Jack's pictures against a wall. Benny bent down on one knee and examined two of them, leaving the portrait on one side.
He stood up, grunted approval and said: 'Any more from where that came from?'
Amanda responded. 'Jack Henessy will set up a production line, if you like.'
Jack retorted: 'He might go back to painting portraits.'
'Jack, your portraiture is superb, Benny said with a smile, after glancing at the portrait of Mrs Overbury. 'I'll pay you to do one of me some day.'
. He inspected the picture of the crab and the alarm clock.
'Yes, very good. Robust brushstrokes, vivid colouring. Try to give it a more metallic patina and it'll be just what we're aiming for.'
Benny returned to the chair and placed his small, beautifully-manicured hands on the desk and said solemnly: 'Jack, I have a stable of artists, steadily growing in number, who work along the lines I suggest. I have no talent for art. What prevents me from painting is that I have what I call "twinkle vision." I can only see the funny side of things. I'd like to commission you to paint a series of these pictures. We'll spread some laughter around between us. How many can you turn out?'
Amanda was smiling. As Jack looked at her for guidance, she replied: 'You can do at least one a week, can't you, Jack?'
Benny said: 'OK. Just one word of warning, if you're going to work for me, don't talk to me about the sanctity of art. As far as I am concerned art is just another commodity. What I do have is a deep reverence for profit. My father turned the profits from his grocery store into diamonds, which he hid in my mother's you-know-what and escaped to England just before the Gestapo came for him in Berlin. If he hadn't done that I would never have been born. That's why I don't laugh at profit. But I laugh at everything else, including your paintings. Let me have another look.'
Benny and Amanda then discussed his drawing of the married couple. Benny said: 'How about Before and After The Honeymoon, Amanda?'
'Amanda muttered. 'Too old-fashioned. She knelt down beside him. 'The Bride Bridles, perhaps?'
'Any ideas?' Benny asked Jack. Embarrassed, he remained silent.
'Bride and Prejudice?' Amanda enquired
Benny, deep in thought, ignored her, and said to Jack: 'could you show her throwing the wedding ring into a chamber pot?'
Jack replied doubtfully: 'I suppose so.'
Benny gave a strangulated shout.
'Now I've got it! Marriage à la Merde, a variation on Hogarth's famous series of paintings, Marriage à la Mode. There has always been and always will be controversy over marriage. Jack, can you emphasize the look of dismay on the man's face as he realises he's going to have to recover the ring if he wants his wife back?'
'I think that's funny,' Amanda admitted.
'That's all we need to know,' Benny said with a self-satisfied grin. 'Our aim is to debunk all the pretensions that have bedevilled art since art historians and art critics came into existence. From now on Tropopausal Art will dominate the art scene. We'll make a stack of dough and have a good laugh at the same time.'
Greatly perplexed, Jack said to Benny: 'How many pictures of this kind have you sold so far?'
'Twenty-seven. That may not seem a lot but the word is spreading fast. It was very encouraging when one of our pictures at the Royal Academy got a red 'sold' dot on the first day of the Summer Exhibition. It was a wonderful painting by Jamie Turtle called Gynaecologist Gets a Taste of His Own medicine.' I don't suppose you've heard of him, but you will in the future, that's for sure. I have since bought the picture from its new owner. You have to see it to get the humour.'
Benny gave a sniggering laugh. It's fantastic. But both your pictures – I'm not talking about the portrait, although that's excellent – are very funny.'
'I didn't intend them to be.'
'Don't worry. Change the context and what is very serious can often seem very funny. And contrariwise, what is genuinely funny looked at from another angle can be very serious. And the public sometimes enjoy an intriguing puzzle. Don't fret about your artistic soul. Let me tell you, my friend, that there is nothing so sincere as comedy. The punters never reject a work of art that makes them laugh.'
'That doesn't necessarily add up to a new school of art.'
'.Julian Gillespie, art editor of the Independent, who was an enthusiastic proponent of conceptual art, has now enthusiastically espoused Tropopausal Art. Here's a copy of one of his articles.'
Benny opened a drawer in his desk and handed Jack a page photocopied from a newspaper. 'You can read it when you get home.'
Jack crammed it into his back trouser pocket and hurt his knuckles trying to free his hand.
'How did you manage to convert him?' he enquired, sucking his injured fingers.
'We didn't,' Benny replied complacently. 'He underwent a Road to Damascus conversion when Amanda was showing him around the Tropopausal Show we held in the gallery last year. The exhibition was quite small – nineteen paintings was all we could muster at the time, but he was very impressed. He laughed so much it gave him a heart attack.'
:'It was very frightening,' Amanda commented. 'As the paramedics were carrying him to the ambulance, he called out "Tropopausal art will be the death of me." He's fine now and firmly believes that Tropo –Tropo – Tropopausism – that is to say Tropopausal art will be the wave of the future.'
Jack enquired: Why that particular name?'
Benny answered: 'I wanted a name that suggests the height of insanity. Someone told me that if you went up in a hot air balloon you couldn't get higher than the tropopause.'
'Are you sure you want to commit yourself to this, Amanda?' Jack enquired.
'Of course. Benny has hired me to do the campaign.'
Benny commented: 'Damned right. You should have stayed with me instead of starting that ridiculous business, Amanda.'
'Well, it looks as though we are going to sink or swim together.'
'You bet we're going to swim!' Benny declared enthusiastically. 'Tropop-tropo-tropopau-sism, he said, mocking Amanda's stutter, is going to make us all very rich. Let's go to my club.'
After coffee and sandwiches in Benny's club, they hailed a taxi to take them home. Benny had paid Jack a generous price for the paintings and instructed him to paint more. 'Choose any theme you like – it's entirely up to you. Amanda tells me that your inspiration comes from your dreams. It doesn't matter a fuck as long as the end product is funny. Humour is the sine qua non of Tropopausal art. I expect it to make the same impact during this century as Art Nouveau and Art Deco did in the last one. Oh, and by the way, exaggerate the angular construction when you can and give your paintings a metallic patina. We aim to make that our trade mark, plus where possible, the humorous aspects, of course.'
Just before they left his club in the Haymarket, Benny grabbed Jack's arm and, said fiercely: 'Do you remember my saying that humour is a very serious subject.'
' There is no prick like a prick who takes away his own livelihood. So don't prick the balloon Got it?'
'An amazing guy,' Jack told Amanda in the taxi, putting his arm round her. 'Is he gay?'
'Benny is as straight as the road ahead,' Amanda declared a little tipsily. The road ahead had some slight curvature, but he felt he could trust Amanda's judgement. She added: 'He sometimes pretends to be gay when it suits him for business purposes. He has a beautiful wife and six children a yacht and two jet airplanes.'
'Lucky man,' he commented.
'It's not luck. He works like fuck and he takes enormous gambles. But when he believes in something he gives it all he's got. That is why I am confident that our involvement with Tropopausal art will make us both very rich.'
'When I bank that cheque he gave us, I'll be able to pay George the money I owe him.'
'Wait until you've painted a few more pictures.'
'OK. I just hope I don't run out of dreams.'
The meeting with Benny Shapiro had in some respects been quite puzzling. He had believed up until now that his art expressed his innermost soul. The notion of painting to order troubled him a little. But it was obvious that Benny and Amanda knew exactly what the public wanted. To win Amanda he must please them both. At least he had the freedom to choose the subject of his paintings. Allowing Benny and Amanda to choose the titles would in some respects make life simpler
He said to Amanda: 'Let me kiss you to show my gratitude for that wonderful experience.'
She allowed him a brief kiss.
Drawing away from him afterwards, she said: 'You must cash that cheque first thing in the morning, so that we can buy more food. It will take several days before it's in your account.'
'And Joe needs some bird food.'
Hurray! Jack thought. She is showing concern for Joey. We'll soon be a family of one man, one woman and a budgie.
At four o'clock in the morning Jack's mobile rang. He threw off his eiderdown and answered it.
A voice said: 'Is that Jack Henessy?'
'I used to live in the flat you are renting. Is Joey in good health?'
'Good. Does he ever ask for me?'
'No. He's a budgerigar, for Christ's sake?'
'He does talk. I taught him to say Paulee.'
'He hasn't said a word since we've been here.'
'Perhaps he misses me. I certainly miss him. Don't know a soul in Hong Kong. Can I talk to Joey?'
He's asleep in his cage. It's four o'clock in the morning here.'
'OK. Sorry I woke you up. Tell Joey I miss him.'
Jack swore, went to the bathroom and then stood silently by Amanda's sleeping form, marvelling at her delicate features, faintly illuminated in the moonlight. He was tempted to kiss her on the forehead, but remained perfectly still.
She suddenly murmured: 'Is that you, Benny?'
'It's Jack. The bloody telephone woke me up. The man from whom we leased the apartment rang me up to ask some stupid questions about Joey.'
'What's wrong with Joey?'
'Nothing. His owner wanted to talk to him He rang up from Hong Kong.'
She sat up, gave a slight shudder and said in a very small voice: 'I'm frightened. You can get in beside me if you like. But absolutely no sex.'
'Of course! I wouldn't dream of it.'
He slid into the bed, and snuggled up beside her. She complained sleepily: 'Something's touching my leg.'
She gave a whimpering sound, and was soon fast asleep again.
Jack lay awake, trying to think of something that would persuade his fire-escape ladder to lie down. He thought about George and the grand opportunity he has been given to resume his career. He thought about the lucrative commissions now coming his way. He marvelled at Amanda's unerring business instincts. He asked himself whether Benny's theory that art should contain either a puzzle, a good laugh or both was true. He brooded on his dependency on the new art movement. Remembering that it was Benny's grandfather's devotion to profit which had allowed him to survive the Holocaust, he decided that this was a lesson he might usefully learn.
He drifted off to sleep and was soon dreaming.
Chapter Fifteen
A huge building made of sugar cubes occupied his gaze. It was truly enormous. But every time he tried to lick it, it moved away from him in a series of jerky, movements. He stood back and viewed its vast, imposing, white granular surface with awe.
He told Amanda about the dream the following morning. Instead of answering, she imperiously ordered him out of the bedroom. He trotted out of the room, made a note of his latest dream in his laptop, put on his bathrobe and made breakfast.
While Amanda was in the shower, he drew up a list of the brushes, canvases, parchment papers, oil paints, pigments, gouache and other materials needed to carry out his new commissions. He would have to discuss his dream with Amanda. It was very puzzling. He was still finding it difficult to believe that Benny's ambitious scheme was being taken so seriously by the cognoscenti.
When Amanda, clad in her blue bathrobe, sat down at the breakfast bar, he said: 'I had the most peculiar dream last night.'
'You shouldn't have invited me into bed.'
'You should have more control over yourself.'
'I did control myself. I didn't try to seduce you.'
'It wouldn't have worked.'
'Of course. I can understand. You are still upset by losing your daughter and by your business problems. In addition to which you obviously don't like me.'
'You seem permanently pissed off with me.'
'I wouldn't have accepted your invitation to come and live here, if I didn't like you.'
'A little. I particularly admire your artistic skills. That's why I took you to see Benny Shapiro. I'm so pleased that his judgement coincides with mine. Make the coffee.'
As he obeyed, she said: 'Now that we have shown that it is perfectly possible for us to lead independent lives, I am prepared to extend the time limit I set. I will soon be able to afford a place of my own. I used to work for Benny on commission, but he has offered me a well-paid salaried job.
'I'll give you a commission of fifty-per-cent of the value of any of my pictures you sell.'
'That is very generous of you.'
'I want us to be partners in every sense of the word.'
'You mean business partners.'
'I hope it will lead to something more eventually.'
'No hope of that ever happening.'
'I'll just have to go on hoping.'
'What was this dream you had last night?'
He described it and then commented: 'I can't see it as Tropopausal Art in any shape, manner or form.'
'Give me time to think about it,' Amanda said thoughtfully. 'Could you make an omelette?'
He did so, and as he served it, he said: 'I've just remembered, Benny gave me a copy of an article about Tropopausal Art.'
He read it aloud to Amanda.
"There have been schools of art ever since Neanderthal man first scrawled on the walls of the Lascaux Caves. Some schools have short lives, especially when they have been imposed by autocrats and dictators. But when something which has genuine wit, honesty, vitality and originality comes along, its sheer momentum carries itself into the future. This is certainly the case with the Tropopausal Movement.'
Jack continued: 'He then waffles on about Impressionism, Expressionism, Cubism and Surrealism, saying that they are becoming distant memories. My God, I wonder how much Benny paid him to say this?'
'Go on,' Amanda said impatiently.
"If John Ruskin were alive today, he would undoubtedly say to his wife, Effie, that of all the artistic outpourings that have graced our present age none shows greater promise than the one showing at an extraordinary exhibition in the Shapiro gallery, London. It is provocative, irreverent, and represents the peak of human achievement in the visual arts. Its use of brilliant colours, metallic patina and subtle chiarosco is what first catches the eye. But its chief virtue is that it captures the wit and spirit of the times. It is suffused with vivid visual images that cause an explosion of sheer joy.
My darling, Effie, I am suffering from sore ribs, which my surgeon says will only be cured when I manage to drag my eyes away from these triumphant expressions of the human spirit. If laughter be the food of the gods, then let me have a surfeit of Tropopausism!"
Jack then said in a subdued tone, 'He goes on to mention the names of some of the artists and quotes some of the titles, which he says are moving, provocative and sometimes screamingly funny.'
'Well, that's very good. Why are you looking so glum?'
'I think he exaggerates. It is, after all, just another style combined with a splash of humour.'
'It's more than that. What did Surrealism have going for it? A few visual puns. A few ridiculous dreamlike scenes which gave Salvadore Dali a licence to print money. Benny Shapiro has brought together some great artists with a brand new artistic formula. Why complain about it?'
''I doubt if it will catch on.'
' Benny will make sure that it will.'
'By advertising on newspapers, radio, television, the internet – the whole works.'
'That could cost a fortune.'
'That's no problem for Benny.'
'So what does he get out of it?'
'It doesn't really matter as long as it suits us.' She continued in a dreamy voice: 'Benny was one of the most successful entrepreneurs in Europe until he sold most of his businesses, tried to paint and discovered that he had absolutely no talent. He then took to selling paintings and now he's doing what he's best at?'
'Persuading the whole world that he has the very thing they want to buy.'
'He sounds like an egomaniac.'
'That's right. He is known as the King of Chutzpah.'
'Chuzpah is cheek, nerve, audacity.'
'But why should I allow myself to be dragged along.'
'Because you are being paid handsomely. Do you want to remain a nonentity all your life?'
'OK, then produce more pictures.'
Pouring out the coffee, Jack then sang to the tune of La donna è mobile
I'm a love-struck hippopotomus,
Who paints Art Troppotomus.
'Please shut up,' Amaanda said curtly. 'All you are being asked to do is use your talent in the service of his movement. If you don't, plenty of others will.'
'I guess you're right, Amanda. Incidentally, have you thought about the dream I had last night?'
'It was about a building made up of enormous cubes of sugar.'
Amanda, closed her eyes and said after a few moments: 'Could you add a scene of black slaves working a sugar plantation in the Caribbean?'
'What would be the point?'
'You'll find out. Will you do that for me?'
'Yes. But I fail to see what good it will do'
'OK. I'll get on with my work now. What are you going to do?'
'I'm going to ring Benny.'
Standing in front of his easel, with the budgerigar on his shoulder, Jack kept repeating: 'Amanda- Amanda-Amanda-Amanda.' He was trying to teach Joey to say her name. The previous day he had told her that Joey had dropped blobs of white guano in exactly the place in his painting where he had decided to lighten some shadow. He had added: 'The public will pay big bucks when they know that my masterpiece has been painted with bird shit.'
He envied Joey, asleep in his cage covered with a red cloth, while he slept on an uncomfortable sofa under a tattered eiderdown. It was now early December. But he had taken it as a sign that his relationship with Amanda was improving when she bought him some handkerchiefs. She had refused on hygienic grounds to launder the ones he used to wipe up Joeys' mess in the washing-machine.
'Amanda ...Amanda ....Amanda,.' he appealed again to the bird. There was no response. Shortly afterwards, however, Joey said something which sounded like "Paulee." He thought at least when the flat owner telephoned again, he would be able to confirm that Joey had spoken his name.
Sometimes he wondered if Joey dreamed of a lady budgerigar with see-through feathers in the same way as he dreamed of Amanda in her sexy pyjamas. Their relationship had not improved, although they were living in reasonable harmony. He cooked ready-made meals in the micro-wave while she was on the telephone. He made the bed while she used the telephone. She did the ironing, with the telephone tucked under her chin. He put clothes into the washing-machine while she used the telephone. He used the vacuum cleaner while she used the telephone. She was always on the telephone. But it did appear that her salesmanship was bearing fruit.
Amanda had thrown herself enthusiastically into a campaign Benny Shapiro had launched which would persuade gallery owners all over the world to give Tropopausal art priority. She had succeeded in convincing many of them that other schools of art were hopelessly passé and that Art Tropo was about to conquer the world. She networked tirelessly with influential people at famous art fairs. She advertised extensively. She had even managed to secure a television discussion at prime time between Benny and a famous art critic. Benny had stunned the critic by saying that "Impressionists left you feeling fuzzy, Cubists left you feeling fat, Abstract art left you mystified, Surrealism left you doubting your sanity and Conceptualists proved that you were right to do so. Only the Tropopausalists left you with a feeling of undiluted happiness."
'Surely Primitive Art is cheerful, Mr Shapiro.'
'You're happy for the fat, ignorant bastards depicted on canvas, not for yourself. It's a vicarious happiness. Shapiro art gives you a belly laugh and you come away from it chuckling.'
'You called it Shapiro art.'
'I am the founder of the movement.'
'How can you be the founder, if you're not an artist?'
'The Pope doesn't indulge in sex but he advises his flock on the subject.'
'Ah, but how many take his advice?'
'If Art Tropo sells as many paintings as those who do, we'll do all right.'
'Art is all about being moved by the beauty and mystery of the universe.'
'Exactly. But if you can laugh your head off at the same time, it adds enormously to the fun.'
Amanda's initial doubts about the wisdom of allowing the ebullient Benny to be interviewed, had been swept away by the enthusiastic messages of approval that came flooding in afterwards.
Because he was at a critical stage in his career, Jack had reluctantly decided not to accompany his father and Henrietta to his sister's wedding in Melbourne, Henrietta was shortly due to take up her post in Ontario. Jack hoped that for his father's sake their partnership would continue.
Suddenly, remembering his latest dream, he announced excitedly to Joey: 'I've had a great idea for a painting.'
The source of the dream had been a visit to the Dorset coast towards which he and Amanda set off very early in the morning in a hired car. Arriving very early at Durdle Door, they admired the rugged arch jutting out from the cliffs into the sea sculpted by nature from the Portland limestone. Amanda exploring the beach, was childishly pleased when she found a blue-veined pink round, symmetrical pebble, which was pretty enough to serve as a pendant on a necklace. Jack looking out at the sea, ruffled by small white-caps, said: 'Let's strip off and swim. There's nobody around.'
He undressed and dashed into the sea, swam out to the arch and back again. As he dried himself, Amanda commented mischievously: 'Your dangly bit is rather small.'
'It's the cold. When it has warmed up it will be more than sufficient to meet your requirements.'
'I don't have any,' Amanda said primly and continued to lay out their breakfast picnic.
Munching a tuna sandwich, Jack said: 'You haven't told me anything about your marriage.'
'I don't wish to discuss it.'
'It must have been particularly painful losing your child. Perhaps we can do something about it.'
'There's nothing you, or anyone else, can do, and added, looking around at the deserted beach, said: 'Let's go somewhere else.'
'Lyme Regis isn't far from here.'
They spent the rest of the day on the beach, looking for fossils and ended up buying some from a shop.
The expression "Dangly bit" which Amanda had used triggered a dream in which two teams were competing in a mixed-sex rugby match. A humorous Tropopausal painting immediately came to mind.
It was coffee time. He put Joey back in his cage and went down the stairs to buy some milk. As he arrived on the second floor, a door opened and a girl said: 'You're an artist, aren't you. I have seen you working from across the street.'
'What are you painting now?'
'Great. I love rugby. Can I see it?'
She was large and well-proportioned. Her plump legs mounting the stairs ahead of him were well-suited to the picture he was planning.
'I've only done the outline,' he explained, showing her his charcoal sketch.'
'It's great!' she responded with a grin. 'It looks awfully funny.'
'It's intended to be.' And then on impulse, he said: 'Would you like to model for one of the players? I'd pay you, of course.'
'That's exactly what I'm looking for. A robust lady rugby player.'
'How much would you pay?'
Whatever the market rate is for models. I'll check out the current rates.'
'OK. When would you like me to take my kit off?'
'We can start now, if you like. I'll model you as the lady tackling that huge giant just before he hits the touch line.'
She went into the bedroom to undress and took up the required pose on the white sofa, her face red with embarrassment. Her strong, well-proportioned, plump body was exactly what he needed.
'I hope you're not too cold.'
'No. My boobs are sagging.'
'They look very natural, Paula.'
'How do you know my name?'
'One of your letters was delivered here by mistake. What do you do for a living?'
'I recently qualified as an optician. I don't have a job yet.'
'That's interesting. I'm beginning to think I may be a little colour- blind.'
'Have you had your eyes tested?'
'Yes. They're quite normal for reading, driving and so on. But I sometimes think I miss some colours. Would you raise your bottom slightly?'
'I could show you some colour cards.'
'Some time perhaps. I'm not too worried.'
Do you mind if I eat a sweet?'
'Is the lady who lives here your partner?'
'My business partner. We share the flat.'
'I live with my dad. He and my mum are divorced.'
'In Florida with her boy friend.'
Joe fluttered about in his cage and made a twittering sound.
'He and I have very interesting conversations about the universe and everything.'
'He looks a very intelligent bird.'
'He's cleverer than I am. He can fly.'
'What are you teaching him to say?'
'Amanda. That's my partner's name.'
'I've seen her. She is very lovely.'
At that moment Joey made a noise which sounded like 'Paulee.'
Did you hear that?' he asked Paula.'
'He said something, but it wasn't Amanda.'
'Wretched bird!' Jack exclaimed, as he made a delicate adjustment with his pencil.
Paula said. 'I've heard that talking birds will only say someone's name if they like them.'
'An old wive's tale. I should like to be quiet for the rest of this session. I need to concentrate.'
Afterwards, he paid Paula twenty-five pounds, with which she seemed well pleased.
A she left she enquired: 'You think my body is OK?'
'It's great,' he assured her.
'And I think you're very cute. You look quite angelic when you're absorbed in your work. Perhaps you'll need me again some time. Knock on my door, if you would like that colour-blindness test.'
I wouldn't mind giving her a rugby tackle, he told himself, as the door closed behind her, if I were not hopelessly in love with Amanda.
He telephoned George to tell him that he would soon be in a position to pay off the loan.
'No hurry. I don't need the money. It's secured on the paintings you told me about.'
'I would rather pay back the loan.'
'I wouldn't mind buying one of your recent works?'
'Not possible, I'm afraid. I've already had an advance on them from Benny Shapiro, the gallery owner.'
'Is he the fat guy I've seen on the telly promoting Tropopausal art?'
'That's right. What do you think of it, George?'
'It's a big hype. But then so is everything else these days.' 'I'm not complaining. I don't have to sell caricatures in Covent Garden any more. And it all resulted from meeting that girl I told you about.'
'Does she still give you a stiffy.'
'We're business partners.'
'Ah, well. You never know. Things might improve.'
A number of artists from the Tropopausal School, together with advertising executives and marketing people, were attending a seminar held in an office in Vauxhall that belonged to one of Benny Sapiro's property companies. Amanda stood at Benny's right-hand side, looking Jack thought, like an angel posing as a business-woman.
Benny said: 'We have called this meeting to announce to the world in general that Tropopausal Art is expanding so fast that it is impossible to keep up with demand.' With a mischievous glint in his eye, he said: 'I'm going to ask one of you to paint a huge balloon with the word Tropopausal Art. The words underneath will say anyone who pricks this balloon is a prick.'
'OK, guys, you've got the message.'
He paused and went on: 'Just remember that investing in our school of art has a lot to recommend it. Unlike the financial world, where everyone passes their debts onto someone else, Tropopausal painting is a source of genuine wealth. Everything you talented guys paint is big time and will continue to be, not just in this century, but in the next and possibly the one after that. Those who criticised us have already got egg on their faces. We have a huge success on our hands. Any questions?'
A fat, bearded man wearing a large fedora hat enquired: 'Why do you insist on vetting the titles. And for that matter why is it mandatory to give them one?'
Benny said: 'Do you know what a punch line is?'
'Yeah,' the bearded man answered.
'The title is the equivalent of the punch line in a joke. Got it?'
A woman with close-cropped white hair and a crab-apple face enquired: 'How is the movement doing in the United States?'
'I'll pass that one onto my marketing manager – Amanda?'
Amanda stepped forward and said in a composed manner: 'New York has embraced it like a long-lost lover. The major galleries are arranging future exhibitions. We have had enquiries from Detroit, Chicago and Philadelphia. I am going out to Los Angeles in the New Year to pave the way for exhibitions there. We plan, where possible, to match our paintings to American taste. Their humour sometimes differs from ours. So if any of you fail to see your paintings in American catalogues, that is probably the reason. The remedy is to study the market more carefully.'
An immensely tall, thin woman with carroty hair and a prominent beaked nose said: 'I have a question for Mr Shapiro.'
'Why is Tropo art under this compulsion to be funny?'
'I already answered that question,' Benny answered, pretending to look puzzled.
'Not satisfactorily, Mr. Shapiro.'
'You're a journalist, aren't you. This is a private meeting.'
'OK, Jane Orchard ? because I recognise you. Let me tell you something. Nothing stays still in this world. If time stood still, you'd still be wearing corsets. I was brought up on the slogan buy cheap and sell dear. If I had ignored my father's advice, I would be a schmuck journalist telling everyone they mustn't change with the times. You may have me down as a wealthy ignorant, upstart who thinks he can buy his way into the cosy, aristocratic world of higher aesthetics. But let me tell you one thing: you don't impress me one little bit. And do you know why? It's because you haven't even begun to understand – or perhaps you knew once but have since forgotten – that communication is what links all of us human beings together. What all great artists have in common is their desire to establish a communication with their audience. And the greatest of them also grasp that comedy is never more than a hair's breadth from tragedy. All the artists present here today have understood this and are putting their hearts and souls into pictures that will tune people into the cosmic reality of life itself. And that's, basically, what it is all about.'
There was a ripple of applause.
Jane Orchard said: 'Thank you, Mr Shapiro.' Waving her sound-recorder above her head, she said: 'I have recorded your answer.'
After the meeting Jack accompanied Benny and Amanda, to the Shapiro gallery in his chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce. Benny, leaned forward and poured out drinks from a small refrigerated cabinet.
'How'd it go, Amanda?' he asked.
'Very well. Nice morale-raising speech.'
'That was a stroke of genius planting whats-her-name – Jane Orchard – among them. Did you give her that brown envelope?'
'Of course. It'll be a great source of controversy when her report reaches the headlines.'
' Nothing like controversy to stir things up.'
'That's right, boss. Now, Jack, we've been discussing your sugar cube painting. We want you to turn the building made of sugar cubes you imagined into a replica of the Tate Modern art museum. The reason for adding a scene on a slave plantation is we're going to use your painting to help us get an exhibition of Tropopausal art laid on there. The Tate business was originally founded with money made from sugar plantations. They're bound to cooperate when they see it.'
'I get the idea. But the painting is not very funny.'
Benny intervened: 'We'll call this one Bitter-Sweet. It's ironic. Get the idea? Don't let it stop you from dreaming funny dreams.'
Jack showed them, when they arrived at Benny's gallery, a digital photograph he had taken of the drawing of a naked rugby match he had provisionally entitled Dangly Bits.
Benny, stuck out his lower lip and said: 'Why not The War Between The Sexes?'
'Because it's not funny,' Jack responded.
Jack said: 'I think it's funny, don't you Amanda?'
She said doubtfully: 'You're title might suit an unsophisticated audience in the north of England, but it wouldn't go down in the USA. Don't worry we'll think of something that will suit the American market.'
They sat around Benny's desk, solemnly examining the photograph.
Amanda, with a forefinger delicately poised over her top lip, said: 'You recall Manet's picture: The Naked Lunch, how about The Naked Crunch?'
'Not everyone is acquainted with that painting,' Benny objected. He drummed on the table, looked again at the naked rugby players and enquired with a puzzled frown: 'Why should waggly penises be considered funny?'
'Why should wobbly breasts be considered funny?' Amanda countered.
Jack said: 'Because without such serious pieces of equipment life would come to a halt.'
Benny snarled. 'Then why aren't vaginas funny?'
'Because they don't wobble – at least mine doesn't.' Amanda said.
Jack grimaced at her disapprovingly.
There was a momentary silence. Benny placed both hands on his forehead and closed his eyes. Some minutes later, he opened them and said: 'Humour is the distinguishing mark of the Tropopausal art movement. Right?'
He got up, grabbed his hat and announced: 'I'm going to my club. You two guys sort it out. And it had better be funny!'
Jack and Amanda looked at each other and then at the photograph.
Jack said disconsolately: 'I still think Dangly Bits is funny.'
'It's funny,' Amanda said soothingly. But maybe we can dream up something even funnier.'
When they returned to their apartment Amanda, noticed a sweet wrapper on the settee and asked: 'Where did that come from.'
'Paula must have left it there.'
'She's from number nine downstairs.'
'What was she doing here?'
He pointed to the drawing on the easel and said: 'She is tackling that brute of a fly-half. Isn't she great!'
'How did you manage to persuade her to pose naked?'
'You shouldn't waste our money on naked models.'
'What difference does it make whether they're naked or not?'
'I don't like the idea of our apartment being invaded by naked women.'
'Don't be absurd. I did life studies when I was at art college. It's part of my job.'
'Well you'll have to get used to it. Do you mind going into the bedroom. I have to let Joey out of his cage.'
'You just love that bird, don't you.'
'Which one – Paula or Joey?'
Ignoring his witticism, Amanda, repeated ill-temperedly: 'You shouldn't throw our money around on naked models.'
'I'm free to spend my money any way I deem fit.'
'We have got to manage our finances properly.'
'Paula was exactly right for what I wanted. I may have to employ her again to get the flesh tones just right. Incidentally, she recently qualified as an optician and thinks I may be a little
colour- blind. She's offered to give me a test.'
'Sounds as though she's making a play for you.'
'Don't talk crap. Now, can I let Joey out of his cage?'
'Why should I be locked up in my room just so that you can give freedom to a bird?'
'It's only for five minutes. You're being unreasonable.'
'And you are being very ungrateful. Kindly remember that it was I who found this apartment for you.'
'And I invited you to stay here when you had nowhere else to go.'
'You'd still be a clerk in an insurance office, if it weren't for me. Anyway, now I have a job I can afford my own flat.'
Angrily, he forced her down onto the settee, where she remained winding the sweet wrapper nervously round her fingers, and staring up at the bird cage
He shouted: 'Nothing has happened between Paula and me.'
'I didn't say it had. I was just warning you to be careful.'
'She's a perfectly respectable lady.'
'I didn't say she wasn't.'
'Why should you care if I shagged her? You insist you're only my business partner.'
'That is exactly what I am. But I don't want you to make a fool of yourself.'
'If I want to make a fool of myself, as you call it, I am perfectly free to do so. You're my partner, not my lover.'
'That's right .I have told you that anything else is out of the question.'
'Then why quizz me about my sex life.'
'OK. Shag whoever you like then. But I'm not going into the bedroom just to suit a wretched budgerigar.'
'You can go out to the pub across the road while he's having his exercise.'
'Then stay where you are. He won't hurt you.'
'I hate birds. I once saw that Alfred Hitchcock movie. It was very frightening.'
'He's a very nice friendly bird. We talk to each other.'
'What do you talk about?'
'Anything and everything.'
'You're a stupid sentimentalist. OK. Let him out. I'll shut my eyes.'
She closed them and screwed up her face.
Jack opened the door of the cage, and persuaded Joey to perch on his finger.
'There you go, Joey. Fly!'
The bird remained on his forefinger.
Amanda's eyes were still firmly closed. He wondered did the bird sense a hostile presence?
The budgerigar said: 'Paulee.'
'He didn't say anything.'
The bird again said very clearly and loudly: 'Paulee.'
'Did you teach him to say Paula?'
'Don't be ridiculous. He's saying Paulee not Paula. His owner's name is Paul.'
'Paul is a one syllable word; he spoke two syllables. It was definitely Paula.'
'You have been shagging that girl, haven't you.'
'I swear that I haven't.'
'Then why does he keep saying her name?'
'He's not. For Christ's sake, Amanda, I have only seen Paula on one occasion when she posed for me. But even if I had shagged her a thousand times, what difference would it make? You have already said you're leaving me.'
'I didn't say that. I said I could afford my own flat.'
'Well, I'm glad to hear it.'
'Because I'd miss you terribly.'
Joey flew off his finger at that moment and perched on top of his cage.
Amanda looked nervously up at the bird and said to Jack: 'Sit next to me.'
He obeyed and placed his arm round her.
'I didn't say you could do that.
Joey flew past them, as he removed his arm, and inspected the kitchen tabletop for crumbs.
'There you are,' Jack said. 'I told you there was nothing to be frightened of.'
Amanda bent her head, as the bird again flew past them. Jack put his arm around her again and said: 'Did you want to discuss Dangly Bits?'
Joey alighted on the curtain rail.
Amanda glanced nervously up at him and said: 'Benny, by the way, wants to call the whole Tropopausal Art Movement by another name. He says Art Deco had a long run because it had a short, snappy title. So from now on we're calling it Art Tropo.'
'What about the new title for Dangly Bits?'
'You'll have to ask Benny.'
'Not while that bird is flying around. He might land on my head.'
'He won't. He only lands on my head when I'm wearing my fez. He's got used to it in the way a pilot gets used to a landing field.'
'Are you sure he isn't saying Paula? '
'I keep telling you he isn't. And even if he did, it doesn't prove that I've been sleeping with her.'
'You don't mind if she poses for me again.'
'I suppose it's all right.'
'I've got stretch marks.'
'Several of the models who posed for us at art school were mothers.'
'Paula has huge breasts.'
'You were wearing almost transparent pyjamas that time you asked me to sleep in your bed. I wanted to kiss them.'
'Poor Jack! I might let you some time.'
She screamed as Joey flew overhead.
'Something touched my hair.'
He pulled out a tissue, murmuring: 'But I think I can see a tiny insect.'
He wiped off a white blob and said: And I think there's another one on the side of your neck.
'Let me see it. There aren't any insects this time of the year.'
He thrust the tissue is his pocket and said: 'It's too small to see.'
'Joey shat on me! It was pooh, not an insect.'
'It's very good for the skin.'
'You're just making that up.'
There was another whirring of wings as Joey flew over them again. Amanda threw herself down on the settee, as though attacked by a marauding eagle and gave a prolonged scream.
Jack returned the frightened bird to his cage.
Amanda said: 'He shat on me again,' and took off her blouse. He watched, fascinated, as she unfastened her bra.
'There's some on here.' Amanda proffered the bra and he wiped off the specks of white.
'And here.' She indicated the space between her breasts.
He removed the white splash and standing back, said in a shaky voice: 'How's that?'
She looked up at him, and said with a laugh: 'Do you want to paint me or fuck me?'
He stepped forward and they collapsed into a writhing heap onto the couch.
The fires of love quenched, Jack placed a tiny spot of yellow ochre with the tip of his brush in the centre of a blank canvas. Amanda was fast asleep in bed, looking bemused, tranquil and extraordinarily beautiful.
It was tempting to stop, leave the tiny spot of yellow and call the picture "Dotty?" The public would think what a witty fellow he was. A museum curator would explain earnestly how many years of toil and experience it took to accomplish such a feat. These Abstract fellows had it easy. That movement had had its day. Now, he belonged to something even more important, which promised to be even more financial rewarding: the Tropo School of Art. His works must satisfy its requirements as laid down by Benny: strong brush strokes, angularity, lively colouring, a steely patina and a combination of humour and incongruity.
Dangly Bits had been given the caption Tickle-Tackle. Benny had telephoned Amanda to tell her about the new title, which he was convinced would work on both sides of the Atlantic. The man had extraordinary confidence in his own judgement. Since he had been offered a handsome sum for the painting, there seemed to Jack no point in arguing.
Joey, in his mind, had earned the Budgerigar Order of Exceptional Merit, because of the extraordinary improvement he had brought about in his relationship with Amanda. Instead of being a money-obsessed, personal relations and marketing expert, she was now a sexually-charged, passionate woman, responding to his love-making with ecstatic cries of pleasure. During one of their sessions she had jumped out of bed and performed a wild, uninhibited and passionate dance.
'Bless you, Joey,' he murmured. 'You are forgiven for saying Paulee instead of Amanda.'
Time now to think of something funny for his new picture. He remembered that while he was painting Mrs Overbury's portrait she had complained that her husband was so obsessed with eternity that he totally ignored the fact that the hinges on the gate to the cemetery had rusted away.
'Perhaps he regards it as a short cut to Heaven,' Jack had quipped.
Her smile had illuminated the portrait.
So what was he going to make of this first tentative dab? The Big Bang had started with an even smaller dot, bringing with it time, which slowed down when you were waiting for your lover to come and speeded up afterwards.
Still in need of an inspirational dream, he decided to go back to bed.
Amanda, bare-breasted, her long fair hair spread around her, was wriggling sinuously in front of him, her mouth ripe for kisses. As they clinched, her hair turned into a mass of wriggling, hissing snakes. He woke with a start. Why then had that disgusting image come to him? Amanda was not the Medusa; she was his beloved, his shining star. He closed his eyes again, hoping for another dream that would provide inspiration for a new painting which would pacify the Big Chief.
When he opened them again, Amanda was lying outside the duvet, one rose-tipped breast emerging from her unbuttoned pyjama top, a blissful smile on her face.
He kissed her and whispered: 'Darling, let's make love.'
Amanda opened her eyes, glanced at the clock on the bedside table and exclaimed loudly: 'My God. I had forgotten!'
She swung her slender legs out of bed and rushed towards the bathroom door.
'What's the matter?' he asked.
'I have to attend a conference in Paris.'
'Order a taxi for me at ten o'clock. I must be on EuroStar by midday.
She explained during a hasty breakfast, that a phone call had come from Benny's secretary the previous night, asking her at short notice to attend a conference on Tropo art in Paris. The Director of Modern Art at the Louvre, Nicole Aguiel, considered that her gallery had been slow to appreciate this latest major advance in the art world and had requested Amanda's presence.
'Why didn't you tell me?' he asked, the coffee pot poised over her mug.
'I forgot. I'll be back by midnight tonight.'
'Can't we make love before you go?'
'We'll jingle genitals when I get home tonight.'
'Jingle genitals. That's what Mo, my ex-husband, used to call it.'
'I prefer calling it making love.'
'Making love. Shagging. Pounding pelvises. Jingling genitals. What's the difference?'
'An important one. I love you to distraction.'
'Honey, me love you, too,' she said soothingly.
Before going down to the taxi, she kissed him and said: 'It was lovely last night, Jack. You mustn't take offence. Remember that I've been to hell and back.'
He forgave her, attributing her slighting reference to their love-making to a hangover from her previous marriage.
Inspiration was on its way. Wearing a battered red fez on which Joey was perched, Jack gazed at a sketch and whispered; 'Joey, you'll like this one. It'll remind you of that lady budgerigar friend of yours, the one with the translucent feathers.'
The drawing consisted of a jigaw puzzle. The image was a nude female torso. closely resembling Amanda's. A vital piece was missing. It had become a puzzle within a puzzle. He looked at it, wondering why.
'She did a jig for me,' he confided to Joey. 'And I'm feeling feel sore. Jigsaw, got it?
Joey chirruped engagingly.
'That's great, Joey,' he responded. 'Keep on encouraging me.'
'Paula. was standing outside the front-door, looking embarrassed.
'You've got a bird on your head,' she remarked.
'Sure. This is Joey. Joey meet Paula, the lady who got me into hot water.'
'Why did I get you into trouble?' she enquired, as she entered.
'There was a slight misunderstanding over your name, for which Joey was responsible. He's dumb most of the time and when he does talk he puts his foot in it.'
'I just wondered if I could pose for you again. I could do with the money.'
'I suppose so,' he said doubtfully. He glanced at the incomplete Tickle-Tackle painting leaning against the wall. 'I didn't get your colouring quite right. Strip off.'
'Who's that naked woman?' she enquired curiously, as he began to remove the jigsaw painting from the easel. 'It looks like a jigsaw.'
'Why is a piece missing where her vagina should be?'
'It got lost. Don't ask me why.'
Joey flew away and perched on the easel.
Paula went into the bedroom and emerged a few minutes later wearing Amanda's housecoat
'Shall I adopt the same pose on the sofa?'
She shrugged off the housecoat. He was mixing colours when Paula said: 'It's a fig leaf, isn't it – the missing piece of the jigsaw.'
Yes, he said slowly and heavily. 'It could well be.'
'And Joey has just shat on my leg.'
'Sorry. I'll put him back in his cage.'
Having performed this task, he returned to the easel, and, began to apply colouring.
She said as he was working, 'You obviously don't fancy me.'
'I happen to be in love.'
'Well, if you ever fall out of love, call me and I'll come running.'
'Thanks. Do you mind if I take a couple of shots with my digital camera. It will refresh my memory, if I have to make any subsequent changes to the picture.'
He took several shots with a digital camera before resuming his work.
He made coffee, paid Paula and then put the finishing touches to Tickle-Tackle, applying certain subtle changes to the other figures, in order to restore balance to the picture. He then replaced it on the easel with the jigsaw nude.
Why had he omitted the item that had given him so much pleasure the night before? Should he call it Jenny Without Her Talia? No, that would offend all the women in the world, and there were lots of them, called Jenny. She Doesn't Give a Fig for a Fig Leaf suggested sluttishness. Frustrated, he connected her breasts with a straight line and drew two more lines converging on the missing piece of the jigsaw, which gave it a vaguely Da Vinci look. But the picture still lacked the essential Art Tropo features.
He decided to have lunch.
Still chewing on a chicken leg, he returned to the drawing, which obstinately refused to yield any meaning.
He appealed to the bird in his cage: 'Come on, Joey. Give us a title in return for all that expensive bird food.'
Why had he left the vagina out of the picture?
'Talk, Joey. Say something, for Christ's sake.'
Joey said clearly and distinctly: 'Paulee, Paulee.'
Jack's eyes then travelled beyond Joey's cage to a building site further down the road on which workmen were still working. It reminded him of the superstition among builders dating back thousands of years that one small part of the building – a brick or a tile – should always be left unfinished and he decided to call his painting: "Unfinished Business."
When Amanda came home at ten o'clock the following morning, she looked tired and subdued.
'How did it go?' he enquired, as he helped her remove her coat.
'All right. I was up half the night after the conference discussing Art Tropo with Nicole Aguiel.'
'Did you manage to hold your own?'
'Yes, although she personally is still a little sceptical.'
'Typically French. They pretend to be avante guard but are really ultra-traditional.'
'Absolutely. But the Power Point presentation I composed on the train caused a sensation at the conference. Would you make some breakfast. I'm starving.'
'Let's go back to bed,' he suggested when Amanda had finished eating. However, she insisted on showing him the presentation on her laptop, which had been displayed with a projector onto a large screen during her lecture.
'Where did you learn French?' he asked, astounded by her fluency.
'I attended a finishing school in Switzerland for a year. And I've been to France many times since.'
'How come an intelligent woman like you should fall for a gawping idiot like me.'
'You're reckoned to be one of the best prospects in modern art. No need to be so modest. They raved about your picture.'
'Marriage à la Merde. They thought it outrageously funny. Even Nicole Agueil conceded that it has a certain je ne sais quoi qualité.'
'Benny is right. It is essentially Hogarthian in spirit.'
'I told them at the conference that Art Tropo has reinvented satire.'
She brought up the Marriage à-la-Merde illustration on the laptop.
'And they really liked it!' he exclaimed incredulously, examining it again on the screen
'That picture will help to make your name. Soon, people will think nothing of paying millions of dollars for a Henessy. Just keep on painting and we'll soon be as rich as Benny Shapiro.' She added sadly: 'It might even help me get my Cara back.'
Amanda explained that her ex-husband had wanted to call their daughter Cairo after the city where he had been born. But when she objected it they agreed on a compromise. Jack responded: 'Let's hope we get her back soon. Now tell me more about your conquest of the Frogs.'
Amanda had praised the innate artistic taste of the French, adding that their reputation would suffer if they did not embrace this latest innovative wave of art. Paris had led the artistic world in the nineteenth-century, had held its own in the twentieth, but now in the twenty-first century it was in danger of falling behind. She had condemned contemporary artists who used gimmicks like dirty linen and dead meat, lauded the work of great French artists, and declared that Art Tropo was the true successor to Art Nouveau and Art Deco. If the French embraced it, they would once again be in the forefront of the art world. Marriage à la Merde was an excellent example, of the new genre because it combined the technical mastery typical of classical art with deft wit and sarcasm that cut through to the core of modern susceptibilities.
French philosophers, she went on, have always been dominated by rational thought. They were the major force behind the Enlightenment which made it possible for science to immeasurably improve our physical conditions. Unfortunately, since then neither religion nor science has given us much to laugh about. Tropo Art, by way of contrast, is spreading humour and happiness around the globe, and setting a new standard for the present century.
'There was tremendous applause at the end,' Amanda said, looking at Jack a little anxiously. 'How did I do?'
He put his arms around her and said: 'You must be absolutely exhausted. Let's go to bed?'
'No, my darling. I must report to Benny. A great deal hangs on the outcome of that conference. The French are the bellwether of art. If the French take to Art Tropo, so will the rest of the world. I'm going to call a taxi. Be a good chap and do some shopping. And don't forget the bird food.'
'No, darling,' he replied meekly.
Chapter Twenty-one
Two years later Jack and Amanda were the proud owners of a seven-bedroom manor house in Suffolk near Alderburgh. They had also acquired a pied-à terre apartment in Chelsea. Jack had one regret. Too busy to give Joey the attention he deserved, with the permission of his owner in Hong Kong he had delivered him into the hands of the owner of a pet shop in town. For fifty pounds he had agreed to look after Joey for the rest of his life.
The large sitting-room in the manor house had been converted into a studio. Jack was busily painting Art Tropo pictures which fetched staggeringly high prices at auctions all over the world. In a short time he had become famous and they were both very rich.
Marriage à-la- Merde had started it all. In the left-hand half of the painting the couple were blissfully happy. On the right-hand side, the wife, looking intensely miserable, was throwing her wedding ring into a chamber pot, challenging her husband to retrieve it. A well known art critic had written: 'The yearning in their eyes speaks eloquently of the hardships and crises that are part and parcel of marriage. The painting suggests that the institution will survive, in spite of its temporary loss of popularity.' Another reviewer commented: 'The scatological title condemns marriage and rightly so. For an artist to attack the sanctity of cohabitation in the twenty-first century would be an affront to public opinion.'
The claims and counter claims that followed were a gift to the Art Tropo publicity machine.
Naturally, in the circumstances, it created quite a furore when Jack's engagement to Amanda was announced in the London Times. The associated publicity brought about exceptionally high print sales.
Jack was being quizzed by journalists who had parked themselves on the semi-circular tarmac outside his Suffolk home.
'Do you believe God invented marriage?' one shaggy-looking journalist with long hair asked.
'Haven't the faintest idea,' he answered.
'Why are you and Amanda entering into holy padlock?' a woman journalist with cropped hair asked.
'What have shit and marriage got in common?
'They're both natural functions.'
'Why are you against cohabitation?'
'Then why did you paint the picture?'
'It just came into my mind.'
'Why are the couple wearing eighteen-century costume?'
'Because it's in the tradition of Hogarth.'
'Did you and Amanda have sex before you got married?'
'It's none of your business.'
'Isn't it better for couples to try each other out for a few years?'
'Shall I try you out?' he had responded cheekily.
'Sure. I'll come in right away.'
And she would have done if he hadn't rapidly retreated through the front-door, closing it behind him.
. Amanda was on one of her hectic world tours, encouraging galleries to hold Art Tropo exhibitions, arranging auctions, organising parties and performing feats of PR that utterly amazed him. For himself, he preferred the peace and quiet of the countryside and found the intrusion of the paparazzi intensely annoying, although he realised it was a price worth paying.
He looked out of a side window. The paparazzi were still there. Then he had an idea. He opened the window and shouted: 'I've nothing more to say. You can draw lots and the winner will get a free portrait. The rest of you can go home.'
It worked. He was left with a journalist from Hello! magazine, who followed him into the house and into the large, bare studio in which he worked.
'Sit down, Helen Wrinkle-Brow.' He motioned her towards a chair.
'Winkle-Brown not Wrinkle-Brow.'
'Sorry.' He picked up a sheet of A5 paper and taking a soft pencil from a box, began sketching her.
He had promised a sketch, not an interview, so he took command of the conversation, describing how he had once charged ten pounds for caricatures in London's Covent Garden. 'If I charged you ten pounds do you think that would be excessive?' he asked with a quizzical look. They both knew it would fetch several thousand pounds.
'Of course not.' she answered.
Helen Winkle-Brown was utterly entranced by the finished portrait. She offered a ten-pound note. He accepted it and said: 'I'll frame this. It will remind me of hard times.'
When he had discussed his painting Marriage à la Merde with Amanda, she pointed out that Hogarth's series of six paintings was a savage attack on the morals of the upper classes, not on the institution of marriage. Even a hundred and fifty years later, she pointed out, an attack on institution of marriage by Thomas Hardy in his novel Jude the Obscure had brought about a tidal wave of criticism. Jack's picture, however, was being viciously attacked from both sides. The controversy raged in the media, sending sales to dizzying heights.
Benny Shapiro declared that Amanda's presentation at the conference in the Louvre could be accounted one of the greatest publicity coups of all time. The French had taken Jack Henessy into their Gallic hearts and the British and American newspapers and the rest of the media were now doing the same. She said to Jack with a contented sigh: 'Your picture came at exactly the right time. A lot of French people believe that the fact that their President and his wife were about to get divorced inspired the painting. But let's give credit where credit is due, the title was sheer genius on Benny's part. He really scored a bull's eye!'
Tropo was given another boost in Paris, when a Muslim deputy in the French Parliament said admiringly of someone's speech: 'C'était très tropo!' Under the impression that he had been insulted, the other deputy retorted: 'Et vous êtes très tropique.' For some reason this caused grievous offense and the two men came to blows.
Jack lay in bed, vaguely aware of the crows cawing in the larch trees outside. He wondered if his father and Henrietta, presently living in Toronto, would attend their wedding in June. His father's licence to practise medicine in the UK had been restored.
Jack had recently had some bad news. George Hamble, his benefactor, had died after being run over on a pedestrian crossing. He had long since paid off his debt to him. He missed Joey. Sheer sentiment, but sentiment should never be disregarded. Amanda had a sentimental regard for the pebble she had picked up on the Dorset seashore, even though it was completely worthless. He considered visiting Joey when he went up to town. It would be a crazy thing to do, but hardly more so than the behaviour of company directors who paid vastly inflated sums for his paintings, and entered them as assets in their companies' balance sheets. He might be a dreamer, but he was playing an important role in the world economy. It would probably go bust if he stopped dreaming. In fact he could argue that a visit to Joey would increase world prosperity by encouraging him to paint better pictures. He decided to visit the budgerigar in a pet shop just round the corner from Coach. First, though, he would call on his journalist friend.
Amanda set off early in the morning to report to The Chief. She informed Jack soon afterwards via her mobile that Benny was cock-a-hoop, declaring that revolutionising modern art was giving him even greater satisfaction than the acquisition of his first billion.
Later, when Jack went to take a shower. He was reaching up to clean the shower-head when Mrs Holmes, their cleaning lady, pushed her way into the cubicle. 'Don't bother with that, Mr Henessy.' she said, briskly and began cleaning the shower head, humming off-key the chorus from Beethoven's Ninth symphony.
As he reached for a towel to cover himself, she said: 'It's all right. I've seen more naked men than you could shake a stick at.'
'How come, Mrs. Holmes?' he said, wrapping the towel round himself.
'Call me Elsie. Me and my hubby used to go regular to a nudist beach near Brighton for our holidays. It was a sight I can tell you. Everything wobbled, even the beach balls were wobbly.' She laughed hysterically and then added: 'But of course I was much slimmer in them days. My figure was much admired by many of the gentlemen.'
'Yes, Mrs. Holmes – er – Elsie. I'll have breakfast while you're doing that.'
He bolted from the shower, put on a bathrobe and was on his way downstairs, when Mrs Holmes shouted: 'Would you take a look at some paintings I left on the kitchen table.'
He was very impressed by the quality and detail of six signed water colours. Lack of manners was obviously no bar to the possession of artistic talent.
He praised them when she came into the kitchen and she responded: 'Looks as though I've been wasting my time all these years cleaning for other people when I could have been a famous painter like you.'
'Just luck I guess, Elsie. I happened to be in the right place at the right time.'
' I suppose I can call you Jack. Amanda won't mind, will she?'
'I don't think so. You obviously like painting from nature – frogs sticklebacks, newts and so on.'
'There is a little stream near here full of the little buggers.'
'Would you like me to show it to you?'
'Yes, I'll take a look when I'm dressed.'
He put on a pair of wellingtons and accompanied Mrs Holmes onto a field on his own land that he had rented out to a riding school. The smell of horse dung on the ground nearly, but not quite, overpowered the pungent perfume Mrs Holmes was wearing.They passed through a gate into a neighbour's meadow. A small stream ran between steep grassy banks, overshadowed in places by clumps of willow trees. He was delighted to find this enchanting scene so close to his property.
He scrambled down the bank, to view the tiny creatures that had captured the attention of his fellow artist. Tiny fish and water beetles swam in the crystal clear water among the plants. He was kneeling down, completely engrossed, when Mrs Holmes, squatting down behind him, put her arms round his waist and whispered: 'It's lovely being close to you, Jack.'
Trying to extricate himself from her embrace, Jack overbalanced and fell into the shallow stream. Still clinging to him, Mrs Holmes tumbled in also.
He picked himself up and laughed out loud.
Mrs Homes exclaimed: 'What the fuck are you laughing about?'
He scrambled up the bank, and after several attempts managed to haul his massive cleaning lady back onto level ground.
After they returned to the house, she hung her wet dress above the Aga cooker and changed into one of his smocks. He changed his own clothes, went into the studio and stared at his latest painting.
Called Rules of Engagement, it depicted the Battle of Trafalgar. He had been thinking about the sailing ships in Benny's gallery when the idea had come to him. Nelson's ship, the Victory, stood in the foreground. The painting depicted the lurid naval battle. Crimson cannon fire raked the topsails and crashed through the sides of the sailing ships. Protruding from the canvas at ninety-degrees into the three-dimensional world was the barrel of a gun. Around it was an engagement ring containing real diamonds. A switch behind the canvas allowed a puff of smoke to appear from the muzzle of the gun every few seconds. The device had once formed part of a bust of Winston Churchill, displayed in war-time in a tobacconist's shop, smoking one of his famous cigars. Jack had bought it on E-Bay.
An inset in the upper left of the painting depicted sailors giving their girl friends engagement rings before the battle. Hence the title. Allowing the gun to protrude was meant to suggest that Nelson and the other eight-thousand sailors killed in the battle had entered the world of infinite dimensions. Joey, who occupied the three-dimensional world more fully than earth-bound human beings, would appreciate his painting he reflected. He was debating whether the painting would meet Art Tropo criteria, when Mrs Holmes, wearing a black thong and a black brassiere, sauntered into the studio.
'That smock of yours,' she said with an arch smile, 'smelled of paint and turpentine, so I took it off.'
Holding out her arms, she said: 'Jack, my darling, I'm yours. Do what you like with me!'
He was stunned by this unexpected invitation, but suddenly had an inspiration.
'Before we do anything rash, Elsie, I should like to buy those pictures you showed me. They are beautifully executed.'
'Really!' She beamed at him. 'My tutor at evening classes said they was worthy of an A.'
'I'll give you a hundred pounds for each one. But in view of that I think that as fellow artists we should confine ourselves to a professional relationship.'
'Well, Jack – I mean Mr Henessy – now you put it that way I can see what you mean. Will you be able to sell my pictures?'
'The ones I am buying from you are for my private collection. But I'll see what I can do.'
'You are truly a gentleman, Mr Henessy.' She lunged towards him, kissed him on the lips and said: 'Oh, Mr Henessy, what a pity we can't have an affair.' She added wagging a knowing finger at him, 'But I knew all along you had your eyes on me.'
Turning on her high heels, she clattered out of the room.
Jack heaved a huge sigh of relief and turned his attention again to the picture, wondering whether Benny Shapiro would approve of the title.
A courier on a motorcycle with a specially-equipped sidecar arrived soon afterwards to take the completed picture to the Shapiro Gallery. Benny was the sole arbiter of what constituted an Art Tropo painting. He placed great emphasis on humour, but accepted paintings that challenged common sense and grabbed the imagination of the viewer. He was fond of saying: 'If you can't make people laugh, make their hair stand on end.' Jack hoped his latest painting would come in the latter category.
The courier, a short, black-haired, stocky Romanian studied the picture and pronounced: 'Yes, it do well. Old-fashioned pictures with guns very popular. I am also an artist. Artist with the ladies. Is better, yes?'
'I guess so,' Jack replied.
Three hours later Benny rang.
'Your picture is very well handled. You have successfully mixed Marcel Duchamp with Jacques David. Very ingenious. Very dramatic.'
Unsure whether this was blame or praise, Jack assumed it was the latter and said: 'Thank you.'
'But it's a lousy title.'
'What would you suggest?'
'Napoleon Blown Apart, got it? Leave the engagement ring on the gun. The punters will think they're getting extra value for their money.'
Jack decided not to argue. Benny was unfailingly accurate when it came to assessing the market. Images of paintings from all over the world were beamed through the internet into his computer to be analyzed, categorised and priced. If his picture passed muster with Benny and earned money, that was all that really mattered.
Being famous had its drawbacks, but they were well outweighed by the advantages Jack considered. He and Amanda were looking forward to their wedding. His work was going well although he looked forward to the day when he would be free to concentrate on portrait painting at which he excelled.
Hs discussion with Paula had left him with a suspicion that certain colours might be invisible to him. He was relieved that if this were the case it had not in the least affected his career.
He and Amanda were living together more or less harmoniously. On one occasion Amanda had cried after they made love. When asked why, she said: 'It's just my polar bears,' which he assumed had something to do with the loss of her childhood toys.
He enjoyed driving around the countryside on his Kawasaki motorbike. When on one occasion a police car pulled him up for speeding, the police officer had offered to ignore the offence in return for his autograph. He gave him his autograph but insisted on accepting his punishment.
One day in early May, he drove out his driveway with Amanda on the pillion, intending to show her some familiar places from his boyhood in Tarleton. With a warm wind caressing his face, conscious of Amanda's arms held tightly around his waist, he accelerated down the country lane.
She had returned the previous day from Tokyo, where Art Tropo had taken a strong hold. There had been some interesting developments. The Japanese had invented a mini-skirt in art had returned the previous day from Tokyo, where Art Tropo had taken a strong hold. There had been some interesting developments. The Japanese had invented a mini-skirt in art tropo colours which bobbed up and down, either forwards or sideways. Adjustable settings allowed the wearer to determine how high and in which direction it would bob. Amanda also reported that a tall office block in Tokyo in Art Tropo style had been erected in record time. Blue and white external girders around it flashed numbers which corresponded to jokes appearing on the sides of the building in moving text. The jokes corresponded to typical Japanese domestic concerns. She described how couples would watch and giggle quietly into their hands while their favourite jokes appeared. A flashing Art Tropo red light on the very top of the building triggered laughter among people, even though they didn't always fully understand the jokes.
Airline passengers arriving at Tokyo airport were told by their captain: 'If you are on the left-hand side, look through your cabin window and when you see Art Tropo tower, feel free to giggle.' The Japanese had invented what they called "Giggle Triggers," which persuaded people to laugh when they saw flashing numbers associated with their favourite jokes. The latest technique was making life difficult for local professional comedians, who relied on heavily on catch phrases.
Visitors to art galleries, on the other hand, tended to take Art Tropo pictures very seriously. It was astonishing, Amanda had told him, to see his famous painting, Marriage à-la-Merde, surrounded by crowds of reverential Japanese visitors. Jamie Turtle's picture, Gynaecologist Gets a Taste of His Own medicine, also attracted a good deal of attention. But Amanda assured Jack that his own prints had outsold those of his rival by many millions.
As he weaved in and out of the traffic, Jack recalled that she had said the design of Japanese golf clubs had also been affected by the craze for Art Tropo.
He said: 'I suppose you mean the design of the club houses.'
'No, the golf clubs themselves – the implements with which you hit the ball.'
'Golf clubs are designed according to fixed scientific principles. They're not subject to the vagaries of fashion.'
'That's right. But the professionals have convinced Japanese golfers that an Art Tropo logo stamped on the club head produces a Zen-like response in the player, considerably improving his swing.'
Jack drove along a narrow road through a forest. The branches overhead, formed a cathedral-like roof, the sunshine making dappled patterns on either side. Amanda, seeing a carpet of bluebells, asked him to stop. He obeyed, put the bike on its stand and followed her along a track illuminated by sunshine. They removed their helmets and bomber jackets and sat down in a grassy hollow between the trees.
Jack commented: 'Perhaps we should have come in the Aston-Martin.'
'You'll get plenty of use from it when the weather turns cold.'
He put his arm round her and said: 'Darling, do you remember that first occasion when I told you that I had fallen in love with you?'
'In High Street Kensington?'
'Yes, my darling. And you were too mean to buy me a dessert.'
'It's a bit late now, isn't it?' She said, smiling up at him.
He kissed her and said 'We could pretend to have strudel with ice cream?'
'Or banana split and tarte tatin. You can be the tart.'
'In that case you would have to eat me?'
Amanda tore off her clothes, whispered excitedly: 'I'm your wood nymph' and danced away with the grace of a ballet dancer. By the time he had taken off his clothes she had disappeared. ,He looked around, found her hiding behind the trunk of a birch tree and lunged after her. She dodged his outstretched hands, and ran away. As he continued the chase, shouting 'Tickle-Tackle, Tickle-Tackle,' he lost sight of her among a tangle of vegetation and branches.
He suddenly stopped, worried in case he might stumble across a group of picnickers.
Proceeding more cautiously, he caught a glimpse of Amanda running naked through the bushes, and eventually tracked her down to where their clothes lay strewn on the ground. She held her closed fists out towards him like a pugilist. He approached, growling fearsomely. She dodged away and pirouetted, her legs half-bent, close together, her breasts swaying.
His manhood reasserted itself.
'Come here, you little vixen!'
'Couldn't fight your way out of a paper bag,' she jeered.
'I'll knock you out in the first round.'
'Not with that you won't,' she said scornfully, pointing to his erect member.
'He's the Champ. He'll go fifteen rounds with anybody.'
'What's the prize money?'
'Well, I suppose that's better than nothing.'
He imprisoned her with his arms. She became limp and sank gracefully onto the ground.
But as he entered her she mumbled: 'It's that bastard again.'
'If you don't like it, I'll stop.'
She shook her head furiously and gasped: 'No. No. It's all right. She rolled her head, as though to get rid of an unwelcome thought, and suddenly exclaimed breathlessly: 'Let's do it to the beat of a tango'
He tried to acquire the right rhythm but she exclaimed; 'No,' too jerky, try a waltz.'
He altered his rhythm again.
Squirming beneath him, Amanda complained: 'Too slow! Too slow! Too slow!'
'Yes, yes. No, no no. Not enough oomph.'
The rhythm of a polka took over his body.
'Success at last! They galloped to a sublime climax and all became peaceful.
A few minutes later the harsh scream of a sea gull flying above the green canopy of branches disturbed their sleep.
'Darling, that was a bit like the Goldilocks story,' he commented, as they dressed: 'Neither too hot nor too cold. Was it better than peach melba?'
'Yes, darling. Much, much nicer.'
'And talking of the three bears ...'
She interrupted him: 'Please, no bears, no bears.'
Why no bears, he wondered.
Before mounting the motorbike, he said: 'I forgot to tell you that Mrs Holmes came onto me while you were away.'
Amanda exclaimed after he described what happened: 'What a stupid bitch! We'll have to get rid of her.'
He explained the circumstances in which he had purchased her paintings.
'You paid six-hundred pounds for worthless forgeries!'
'No, darling, you are so naif. They are copies of Adele Addlepate's works.'
'She's a well know artist who specialises in wild life. You can buy her prints anywhere.'
'The paintings I bought were not prints.'
'No, they are forgeries.'
' She told me her art teacher had praised them.'
'She might have fooled her teacher but she can't fool me. Elsie showed me one of her paintings once. I didn't say anything but I knew it was a forgery. I never forget a painting. I have seen Adele Addlepate's work exhibited in the Summer Exhibition of the Royal Academy.'
'But she's is so proud of her work.'
'She's proud of her work as a forger, in the same way as you are proud of your skill as an artist. But there's a world of difference.'
He brushed some leaves and bluebell petals off her bottom and said: 'OK. I agree. We'll have to part company with Mrs Holmes.'
Before switching on the ignition, he said: 'When we were making love, you said something about: "It's that bastard again." Is there something troubling you?'
'No if I said it, it isn't important.'
It was too late to go to Tarleton.
Amanda was in Vancouver, so he decided to drive in the Aston-Martin to visit his boyhood haunts. Passing through Tarleton High Street, he came across Mrs Overbury carrying a shopping bag to the dry cleaners. He hailed her and she promised to meet him in the local coffee shop after she had completed her errand. There were grey streaks in her hair and her face had a ravaged look.
She said when she joined him: 'A neighbour recognised that portrait you did of me when she was in an art gallery in London. She said it's a wonderful likeness.'
'I just happened to catch the right expression.'
'I hear you're getting married next month. Daniel would have loved to perform the ceremony.'
'We're getting married in a registry office.'
'I understand. Will your father be there?'
'Yes. He's in Canada at the moment with Henrietta. He can now practice medicine in the UK again. I'm not sure what their plans are.'
'Well, that is very good news.'
He remarked that it was surprising that a small village like Tarleton could support several coffee shops.
'Many Londoners have bought second homes here. Hardly any of them are church-goers,' she added glumly. 'And Daniel himself is having a crisis of faith.'
As the waitress approached them, said: I'll have a diet-latte please, with a dash of goat's milk.'
Jack asked politely about the Reverend Daniel Overbury's problem.
'It's hard to explain. I recently had quite a large inheritance. You would think that would cheer him up, but he says members of his congregation all tell him that the world started with the Big Bang and that the Biblical version is nonsense. Everything is crumbling around him. He's very depressed.'
'He shouldn't take it too seriously My father once told me about an eminent physicist who explained during the course of his lecture that the Earth was held in position by the Sun's gravity. A woman called out to him: "That's nonsense". He replied: "Madam, do you have a better explanation of how the Earth is held in position.?" She said : "Yes. The Earth sits on the back of a giant turtle." He enquired politely: "In that case, madam, what keeps the turtle in place?" She replied: "He's sitting on the back of another giant turtle." The story was meant to demonstrate the woman's stupidity. But Jack's father pointed out that dubbed T for Turtle instead of 'G for Gravity, if the giant turtles varied in size inversely as the distance from the Sun, the woman's version was exactly the same as Isaac Newton's. You can point out to your husband that apparently silly statements are sometimes not as dumb as they first seem. The Big Bang doesn't necessarily disprove God's existence. But what am I doing telling Daniel his business?'
'That's all right. I'll tell Daniel what you said. It might help.'
Mrs. Overbury then enquired, giving him a shrewd look: 'Would it be possible for me to buy that portrait you did of me?'
'The price has shot up enormously.'
'I have had a considerable inheritance,' Mrs Overbury said with dignity.
'Yes, but I know you'll find it hard to believe, that portrait I did of you is now owned by a consortium of businessmen, each member of which owns so many square inches of the painting. The people who own it are all billionaires. Even they couldn't afford to buy the whole picture.'
Mrs Overbury looked puzzled.
'And what happens when someone wants to sell his share?'
'He can sell it on the Supplementary Art Stock Market. It's even weirder than Virtual Reality. A few square inches of a painting of a naked female torso I called Unfinished Business sold for five million pounds last year. I'm told it's now worth double that. The few square inches was where – ahem – her private part would have been.'
Jack's face reddened and he said: 'Well, yes, if that's what you want to call it.'
'Oh, for God's sake, man. Don't be mealy-mouthed. If you knew what my husband and I have to deal with in this village, you'd be horrified. Now back to my portrait. Don't I have the right to own my own face?'
'I'm afraid not, Mrs Overbury.'
'Doesn't seem fair, does it?'
'I guess not. But it would take an Act of Parliament to change things.'
'Well, never mind. It seems to me that this Art Tropo business has got out of hand.'
Mrs Overbury stood up, gave him a vigorous handshake and said: 'I must be going. I have to give a talk to the Women's Institute.'
Later, while Jack was parked outside the house where he had once lived, he called Amanda on his mobile. 'Is it OK to talk?'
'Yes, I'm having breakfast at the room in my hotel – the croissants are delicious.'
'Darling, I wish I was with you.'
'I didn't know you were fond of croissants.'
'It's you I'd like to eat. I'm in the car outside the house where I used to live.'
'It's quite small. I used to think it was huge. It's a four-bedroom semi-detached house with a built-on addition where my father's surgery used to be.'
'OK. He and Henrietta seem likely to stay in Toronto. We'll see them soon. Only three weeks to the wedding.'
'Yes, is all the paperwork complete?'
'Is your morning suit ready?'
'Yes. Everything's ready.'
'I told you to buy black silk socks.'
'Of course. I'll get them in London. I'm going to town to see Coach. The guy I used to see in the local pub.'
'Didn't he rape a fifteen year-old?'
'He was only eighteen at the time and she told him she was eighteen.'
'I don't like you mixing with people like that.'
'He's learned his lesson. Are you still taking your vitamin pills?'
Amanda had a fetish about her vitamin pills. It takes a long time to get used to the foibles of women he supposed. No doubt some of his traits were as mystifying to her, not least perhaps his habit of talking to budge
'Are you still there?' Amanda asked.
'Yes, the Aston-Martin simply purrs along. It does everything but talk to you.'
'I used to think you were quite mad talking to Joey.'
'It's no more ridiculous than advertising Japanese golf clubs with art tropo logos.'
'It pays for nice things – like sporty Aston-Martins.'
'You have a point. I'd better be on my way. I'll stay in Chelsea tonight. Love you, darling.'
'And I love you. Can't wait to get married. Ah, that reminds me. I spent a couple of days in French-speaking Quebec before coming out here to Vancouver. They now have a new catch phrase: "Comment va le mariage?". And the answer is "À la merde. À la merde."'
'I hope we never have cause to say that.'
'Of course not, darling. See you tomorrow night. Good bye.'
Jack then called Coach to confirm that it was OK to call at his Kilburn office. He adjusted his satnav and set off for London.
After he had been checked by a security guard, Jack climbed the stairs of a solid, Edwardian three-storey building just off Kilburn High Street. There was an impressive array of computer equipment on the ground floor. On the second floor he passed a large conference room dominated by a large wall-mounted, multi-television screen on which American TV stations were playing. It was amazing that his fame as an artist now gave him entry to so many places, including Coach's business premises. An attractive Chinese lady wearing a black business suit, greeted him on the third floor. She announced: 'I am Angela Wong, Coach's PA.'
Coach has been following your career with great interest. Come in.'
Coach was sitting in front of a computer screen, talking into a microphone. He was wearing a rumpled suit. His face seemed more lined. He said into the mike: 'OK, you guys, guess who's come to see me. The best Art Tropo painter in the world, Jack Henessy. 'I'm off the air for – ' he looked at his watch – 'fifteen minutes.'
He motioned Jack to sit in a chair opposite him and said: 'I've been reading all about your career and wondered if I would ever catch up with you.'
'I work in Suffolk now most of the time, but I thought it would be nice to pay you a visit.' He waved his hand around and said: 'This is an amazing set up.'
'Yeah, I've expanded since we last met. My blog is now an international institution. Would you mind if you and I did a podcast.'
'I mustn't do interviews without my agent's permission.'
'It'll be good for your image.'
Amanda's voice came back after he had called her on his mobile: 'OK, Jack. But mention only your past works, not the ones you're working on now. I'll log on to the website some time.'
He closed his mobile and said: 'It's OK.'
'Is she your girl friend?'
'She's the one I told you about in the pub that time. We're getting married next month. She's a wonderful girl. Travels all over the world meeting gallery owners, auctioneers and art journalists. We're both going to Los Angeles soon.' 'Is that so? Would you do me a favour while you're there? Would you look up this private dick.'
Coach scribbled a name and a telephone number on a business card and handed it to Jack, who put it in his wallet.
He continued: 'When I heard that the LAPD were looking for me, I asked him to investigate the girl who got me into trouble. He took my money and I never heard from him again.'
'Why do you want to know after all these years?'
'Angela is writing a novel about it. Let's get on with the interview.'
Angela Wong dabbed some power on Jack's face and moved his chair back a few feet. Then she took up a position behind Coach and focused a small movie camera on him.
Angela said with an encouraging smile: 'Don't be nervous. We'll edit out anything you don't like. They will all love you in the USA.
'OK.' Coach held up his hand.
'Jack Henessy, you've achieved extraordinary success during the past couple of years. First of all, what made you become an artist?'
'I wanted to capture my dreams on canvas.'
'Do you dream in colour?'
'So how do you manage to pin down on canvas what appears in a dream?'
'I try to capture the critical moment that encapsulates the dream. It's what every artist strives to do.'
'What do you like about Art Tropo?'
'That is a very honest answer. What else?'
'What is funny about a mixed game of rugby football with naked men and women?'
'You are referring to Tickle-Tackle?'
'It focuses on the reason why we don't play mixed rugby. A player's mind would be torn between "scoring," in the slang sense of the word or scoring a try. The painting has proved very popular in the USA, even though the rules of American football are different.'
'It has been labelled lascivious.'
'So was Rodin's The Kiss.'
'What about Unfinished Business?'
'It's a puzzle within a puzzle.'
'I would say it's more like a woman without a pussy. Why is it called Unfinished Business?'
'Because in the absence of that essential item the main business of life remains unfulfilled.'
'OK, Jack Henessy, now let's discuss some general issues arising from Art Tropo, of which you are a leading exponent. What are the chief characteristics that have led to its widespread popularity.'
Suppressing the word 'hype' which came instantly into Jack's mind, he replied: 'Our founder, Benjamin Shapiro, says Art Tropo is a paradigm of the Big Bang and what happened afterwards.'
'That's a rather large claim. There couldn't be a bigger one!'
'Art Tropo invites us to laugh at the chaos that has ensued since the world began. The fact that laughter is so therapeutic proves that we are in tune with the spirit of the universe.' He added hesitantly: 'That is subject to certain exceptions, of course.'
'What are they?' Coach asked politely.
'I can't think of anything at the moment.'
'Then I'll give you one, shall I?'
'Meaning that everything you have just said is bullshit. To reflect life truthfully, art must be tragic and ironic and painful and frightening and romantic and emotional. What do you say to that?'
Jack mouthed the words: 'Switch off the mike.'
Angela looked questioningly at Coach, who said: 'OK. we'll take a break.'
Angela went to get coffee and Coach said: 'You're doing fine.'
'No, like you said, I was talking bullshit.'
Coach said soothingly: 'It doesn't matter a horse's arse. My blog will divide America in two. That'll be good for Art Tropo and good for my website. We'll get a huge reaction.'
'But what you said about Art Tropo is true. It's just a load of bullshit.'
'It doesn't matter a monkey's fuck if it is. So is a lot of other modern art. That interview will result in millions of hits and do both of us a power of good.'
Jack drank his coffee, as Coach smiled at him good-humouredly.
In the final part of the interview, Coach asked him to define his attitude towards other schools of art. He asked: 'What do you think of Man Ray?'
Jack enquired mischievously: 'Did he do female impersonations?'
'We'll pass on that one. Do you appreciate chimpanzee art?'
'Their technique will evolve with time,' Jack said airily. Budgie art is much superior. Put a paintbrush into a budgerigar's beak and he'll outperform Jamie Turtle.'
'What medium do budgerigars use?' Coach enquired. 'Gouache?'
Grinning hugely, Coach then allowed Jack to see the movie of the interview, which required surprisingly little editing.
Afterwards, Jack walked round to the pet shop. He was looking forward eagerly to seeing his old friend. The layout of the shop had changed since he had last been there. He could see plenty of guinea pigs, puppies, kittens and snakes but no budgerigars. He asked a shop assistant if the owner, Mr Gillespie, was available and was told that the shop had recently changed hands.
When he explained that he had paid fifty pounds for his budgie to spend his last days in retirement, the girl started laughing.
'What's so funny?' he demanded.'
She whimpered again with laughter.
'I'm sorry sir. But Mr Quincey, the new owner, found that there was no demand for budgies.'
'So where can I find Joey?'
Mr Quincey sold a job lot of budgies to a dealer in Aberdeen. There is a big demand on the oil rigs. They make good company for the engineers.'
Jack stumped out of the shop, appalled at the thought of Joey alone on the storm-tossed North Sea. On the way to the flat he and Amanda owned in Chelsea, he consoled himself with the thought that the bird's cheerful personality might be improving the lot of a lonely oil rig worker.
The following morning, remembering that Amanda had ordered him to buy black silk socks for their wedding day, he strode confidently into the store where Amanda had once taken him in a quest for new clothes. He believed that on this occasion his task would be a great deal simpler.
There was a bewildering array of socks. He asked a passing assistant: 'Where do I find black silk socks?'
The cabinet contained hundreds of pairs of silk socks, the shades of which seemed to vary a good deal.
He asked the assistant: 'Which of these are genuinely black?'
'They are all black, sir. Do you want black black black or a lighter shade of black?'
'The blackest of black, I suppose.'
'We don't stock them. Too funereal, if you know what I mean. Black black is what you want.'
'I guess you're right. I'll have a pair of black black.'
'These are the right size for you, sir,' the assistant said, picking out a pair. 'Pure silk. black black. Excellent quality. Do you mind if I ask what they are to go with?'
'A grey morning suit. I'm getting married.'
'Oh, congratulations. But if you don't mind my saying, these are a little too black for a grey morning suit. I suggest you take the ordinary black ones.'
The assistant pointed to a pair.'
'I assure you they're black.'
'I should know the difference. I'm an artist.'
'Of course, sir. But the lighting here is fluorescent. When you get outside you'll find they are definitely black.'
Remembering George's Bafflescope, the purpose of which was to demonstrate that we all see things differently, Jack said: 'OK. I'll take half a dozen pairs.'
'That's the spirit, sir,' the assistant said with a leer. 'You might need all of them, divorce being so common these days.'
Jack drove back to his Chelsea flat, asking himself how many shades of colour do I see. If I see only see twelve million colours when other people see sixteen million, does it matter? If I am a little colour blind, I probably compensate in other directions. Perhaps I can see sixteen million jokes where other people only see twelve million. Perhaps I see expressions on people's faces that escape other artists. Whatever is wrong with me it doesn't seem to have affected my career.
Shortly after arriving at his London home, a former school friend who had agreed to be the Best Man at his wedding phoned to say that he had broken his leg and would be unable to attend. He decided to ask Coach to take his place. But first he called Amanda on his mobile and said:' Darling, Jimmy Belling can't be my Best Man. Do you mind if I ask Coach Donaghue.'
'I saw the interview. You were brilliant, darling.'
'Thank you. You don't mind. You were critical of Coach at one time.'
'I'll forgive him now that he has wowed millions of internet surfers with Art Tropo.'
'OK, darling. See you tonight. Can't wait.'
Their London pied-à-terre was very small – a tiny living room, which also served as a bedroom, a bathroom and a minute kitchen. In a year or two they hoped to buy a larger apartment. In the meantime, things were going well. They had booked the Carlton Club for a wedding reception. A well known chef was organizing champagne, canapés and nibbles. They were due to fly to Nice the day after the wedding to join Benny's yacht, presently anchored at Cannes, for a week's honeymoon cruising the Mediterranean.
Benny had also organised a stag night at the Art Tropo night club in the West End, currently the talk of the town, because it banned all drugs, including alcohol. Benny had announced that they were superfluous at an Art Tropo establishment. Laughter, he said, was the healthiest drug of all, for which he had received praise from the Home Secretary. He employed comedians and sexy girls to entertain his clients. It was a brave venture, relying on the increasing appetite for works of art that were auctioned after the show.
Jack ordered grilled turbot from a local take-away service and read the Times while he waited its arrival. When he had eaten, he doodled on a piece of paper, trying desperately to think of a suitable theme for his next work. He was determined to stay awake until Amanda arrived back from Canada. She was due at around midnight. Suddenly, he remembered a painting he had once made entitled Always Together, which depicted the ghosts of a pair of former lovers at the scene of their first assignation. He could satirise old-fashioned romanticism by adding a long list of lovers to the names on the tree – Julia loves Tom, Dick and Harry, Joe, Monty and a host of other names. Amanda would surely think that funny.
She seemed bright and cheerful when she came in. He paid off the taxi, brought in her luggage and kissed her resoundingly, thoroughly relieved to have her back.
She took off her jacket and he marvelled at her neat figure. He kissed her tenderly and said: 'How did it go?'
'Like a dream. Canada adores your work.'
'Yes. And how about Jamie Turtle?'
'Yes and many other artists, but none are as popular as you.'
'I haven't seen it, but I would have thought that some women would have found Turtle's painting of a gynaecologist being intimately examined by his patients pretty revolting.'
'Then you don't understand women. They love it.'
'Ah, that reminds me. Do you remember that Pre-Raphaelite style painting I did years ago. I'm thinking of adding the names of her lovers and calling it Happy Memories.'
'But romanticism is hopelessly out of date.'
'Jack, romanticism is for ever.'
'Then why do the public laugh at my paintings?'
'Because they are very funny. But you're on dangerous ground if you start knocking romanticism.'
'You don't find the idea funny?'
'Nope. Not in the least. Would you make me a nice cup of tea, darling?'
He went off to perform his errand, feeling quite puzzled. He obviously didn't understand women. Not even the woman soon to be his wife. She was sometimes depressed for days on end and nothing he could do seemed to lighten her mood. Then for no apparent reason she would become her old, sparkling, light-hearted self. He assumed that separation from her daughter had something to do with it, and resolved after they were married to do everything in his power to get her back.
Because Benny Shapiro had offered them the use of his yacht for their honeymoon, Jack felt obliged to carry out his promise to paint his portrait. An elderly butler opened the door of Benny's house in Mayfair for the preliminary sitting and led him into a living room furnished with elaborate crystal chandeliers, Persian carpets, gold-braided settees and armchairs. Benny came in soon afterwards, wearing a maroon-coloured robe over a polo sweater.
He offered Jack a drink, which he refused, and then pointed to some large pictures of stern-looking noblemen in rural settings which he declared with a flourish were his ancestors. Then he laughed heartily and said: 'Only kidding. My real ancestors were peasants who were lucky if they could remember the last time they ate chicken. But enough of that, let's get on with it.'
Jack directed him to a chair where the light was favourable, put up a portable easel and started to make a rough sketch .of the man who, after making a fortune in the rag trade, had so successfully invaded the rarified province of high art. Amanda attributed his success to his exquisite sense of timing.
Looking at this portly man of sixty, he wondered what interesting disclosures he might hear. Mrs Overbury had hinted at a youthful indiscretion while she was sitting for him. He decided his present sitter was too shrewd to do anything like that. But he was wrong.
Benny said: 'I can only give you one sitting this month. My secretary will set up some more when you come back from our yacht, The Margot.'
His wife's name was Margot.
'I'm not sure how many sittings I shall require. Incidentally, I can't thank you enough for your kind gesture. We're really looking forward to our honeymoon.'
'You and Amanda deserve it. You are the King and Queen of Tropo.'
Jack was trying hard to determine the bone structure of Benny's face. The expression would come later when he had got the fundamentals right.
Benny looked at his watch and suddenly exclaimed: 'Haven't you finished yet!'
'Benny!' he said: 'We've only just started.'
Benny laughed uproariously.
'I was only joking. I've got all the time in the world at present. My rearrangement of the art world is going like a dream boat. I have all the money I can ever need. My wife is a long-suffering saint My six children are all that I wanted them to be – rascals and rapscallions the lot of them, just like their father. I wouldn't want them any other way. One day I'm going to write a picaresque novel about their adventures. A libel suit by six children against their father would guarantee that it became a best seller. But Margot would kill me. How's the drawing going?'
'In my day people used to say Yes. Now they say OK. Good English has gone out of the window. Still, I like Americans. They're very honest people. An American will tell you to a dime what he's worth. And if you're successful they respect you for it. Here, they despise money. If you stole it five hundred years ago, that's OK. If you earned it with hard graft, that don't count for anything. That is why I went for this art thing. If you corner the market in good taste, not even the snobs in the Upper House can turn their noses up at you. You're what the Mafia call a made man.
'Amanda told me about your idea for adapting that Pre-Raphaelite-type painting to Art Tropo. The title was good. But she's right. Knock romanticism and you're a dead duck. I would no more consider depriving my wife of her romantic notions than I would deprive her of her dress allowance. They would both kill her – especially the dress allowance.'
Benny laughed out loud and then said thoughtfully: 'Women have a different view of life because of their kishkes.'
'Kishkes?' Jack repeated.
'Kishkes. Their insides. Don't you understand English? They get messed up when they have babies. That's why they deserve to have their illusions preserved.'
'What illusions?' Jack enquired absently, still trying to determine if Benny had any cheekbones beneath the padding of his plump countenance. He thought he had caught a glimpse of them when Benny looked cross. Perhaps he should deliberately make him cross.
Benny said: 'You ought to know about women's illusions now you are getting married. Like that a man should be faithful to his dying day.'
'I intend to remain faithful to my wife,' Jack said.
'Excuse me,' Jack said, holding up his pencil.
Benny said, flourishing his small hands: 'I didn't mean it insultingly.'
'How else should I take it?'
'You're an artist. All artists are basically schmucks. To be an artist is to be a schmuck. You can't help it. It's the nature of the beast. Artists harbour the biggest illusion of all; namely, that what they do is important. And sometimes they starve in a garret just to prove it.'
'In that case why are you supporting Art Tropo?'
'I've told you. To gain respect.'
Haven't you respect enough with your money, your yacht, your jet aircraft?'
'A man can never have enough respect.'
'Good deeds earn respect.'
'I give away millions. Most of it is wasted. And if I gave it all away I would be derided as a fool.'
'You haven't told me why an artist's work is unimportant.'
'You can't eat it, you can't touch it, you can't fuck it. It's pure illusion.'
'Benny, you are the King of Philistines.'
Benny looked really cross and Jack managed to shadow in his cheekbones.
'Nothing wrong with that. The Philistines got a walloping because Goliath didn't keep his guard up. You can't accuse me of lacking aesthetic taste when every picture I authorise as genuine Art Tropo is worth a fortune. It's those who disagree with me who are the Philistines.'
Jack stepped back to examine his work. The likeness was appearing. 'I've an important question to ask you. If my work is so unimportant, why do you want me to paint your portrait?'
'Pure vanity. At the end of the day one of my descendants will sell it for a lot of money.'
'I can paint you as a greedy, ruthless, calculating bastard, or as a kindly old gentleman. Which would you like?'
'My truth, or your truth?'
'You've called me a schmuck. Shall I paint you as a schmuck?'
'If you do nobody will believe you.'
'Because nobody will believe that a man who owns several mansions, a two-hundred foot yacht and two jet airplanes is a schmuck.'
'Do you really want to know?'
'You've already told me. It's because I'm an artist.'
'No, it's something else.'
Benny leant forward in his chair and said: 'Because you're marrying Amanda. She's a wonderful girl. I would have liked to hump her myself. She's brilliant at her job but she's very unstable.'
Benny screwed up his face, obviously finding it difficult to find the right words. Finally, he said: 'She is utterly unpredictable. I'll give you just one example. She used to sell pictures for me on a commission basis. We had an agreement with a very rich Texan oil man to buy the most expensive picture in the gallery. Just because he made a pass at her she sabotaged the deal by telling his wife. She'll either love you or hate you. Be prepared for that if you marry her.'
'There's no ifs about it. I love her and I'm going to marry her.'
'OK. Then you're a schmuck, but I warn you it'll take an heroic schmuck to keep her happy.'
'Are you saying this because you would have liked her for yourself, Benny?'
'I tried once and got a poke in the eye for my trouble. But I'm glad I forgave her. We make a wonderful team. And I'm very glad you're part of it, too, Jack. Forget what I've just told you.'
The following morning, remembering that Amanda had ordered him to buy black silk socks for their wedding day, he strode confidently into the store where Amanda had once taken him in a quest for new clothes. He believed that on this occasion his task would be a great deal simpler.
There was a bewildering array of socks. He asked a passing assistant: 'Where do I find black silk socks?'
The cabinet contained hundreds of pairs of silk socks, the shades of which seemed to vary a good deal.
He asked the assistant: 'Which of these are genuinely black?'
'They are all black, sir. Do you want black black black or a lighter shade of black?'
'The blackest of black, I suppose.'
'We don't stock them. Too funereal, if you know what I mean. Black black is what you want.'
'I guess you're right. I'll have a pair of black black.'
'These are the right size for you, sir,' the assistant said, picking out a pair. 'Pure silk. black black. Excellent quality. Do you mind if I ask what they are to go with?'
'A grey morning suit. I'm getting married.'
'Oh, congratulations. But if you don't mind my saying, these are a little too black for a grey morning suit. I suggest you take the ordinary black ones.'
The assistant pointed to a pair.'
'I assure you they're black.'
'I should know the difference. I'm an artist.'
'Of course, sir. But the lighting here is fluorescent. When you get outside you'll find they are definitely black.'
Remembering George's Bafflescope, the purpose of which was to demonstrate that we all see things differently, Jack said: 'OK. I'll take half a dozen pairs.'
'That's the spirit, sir,' the assistant said with a leer. 'You might need all of them, divorce being so common these days.'
Jack drove back to his Chelsea flat, asking himself how many shades of colour do I see. If I see only see twelve million colours when other people see sixteen million, does it matter? If I am a little colour blind, I probably compensate in other directions. Perhaps I can see sixteen million jokes where other people only see twelve million. Perhaps I see expressions on people's faces that escape other artists. Whatever is wrong with me it doesn't seem to have affected my career.
Shortly after arriving at his London home, a former school friend who had agreed to be the Best Man at his wedding phoned to say that he had broken his leg and would be unable to attend. He decided to ask Coach to take his place. But first he called Amanda on his mobile and said:' Darling, Jimmy Belling can't be my Best Man. Do you mind if I ask Coach Donaghue.'
'I saw the interview. You were brilliant, darling.'
'Thank you. You don't mind. You were critical of Coach at one time.'
'I'll forgive him now that he has wowed millions of internet surfers with Art Tropo.'
'OK, darling. See you tonight. Can't wait.'
Their London pied-à-terre was very small – a tiny living room, which also served as a bedroom, a bathroom and a minute kitchen. In a year or two they hoped to buy a larger apartment. In the meantime, things were going well. They had booked the Carlton Club for a wedding reception. A well known chef was organizing champagne, canapés and nibbles. They were due to fly to Nice the day after the wedding to join Benny's yacht, presently anchored at Cannes, for a week's honeymoon cruising the Mediterranean.
Benny had also organised a stag night at the Art Tropo night club in the West End, currently the talk of the town, because it banned all drugs, including alcohol. Benny had announced that they were superfluous at an Art Tropo establishment. Laughter, he said, was the healthiest drug of all, for which he had received praise from the Home Secretary. He employed comedians and sexy girls to entertain his clients. It was a brave venture, relying on the increasing appetite for works of art that were auctioned after the show.
Jack ordered grilled turbot from a local take-away service and read the Times while he waited its arrival. When he had eaten, he doodled on a piece of paper, trying desperately to think of a suitable theme for his next work. He was determined to stay awake until Amanda arrived back from Canada. She was due at around midnight. Suddenly, he remembered a painting he had once made entitled Always Together, which depicted the ghosts of a pair of former lovers at the scene of their first assignation. He could satirise old-fashioned romanticism by adding a long list of lovers to the names on the tree – Julia loves Tom, Dick and Harry, Joe, Monty and a host of other names. Amanda would surely think that funny.
She seemed bright and cheerful when she came in. He paid off the taxi, brought in her luggage and kissed her resoundingly, thoroughly relieved to have her back.
She took off her jacket and he marvelled at her neat figure. He kissed her tenderly and said: 'How did it go?'
'Like a dream. Canada adores your work.'
'Yes. And how about Jamie Turtle?'
'Yes and many other artists, but none are as popular as you.'
'I haven't seen it, but I would have thought that some women would have found Turtle's painting of a gynaecologist being intimately examined by his patients pretty revolting.'
'Then you don't understand women. They love it.'
'Ah, that reminds me. Do you remember that Pre-Raphaelite style painting I did years ago. I'm thinking of adding the names of her lovers and calling it Happy Memories.'
'But romanticism is hopelessly out of date.'
'Jack, romanticism is for ever.'
'Then why do the public laugh at my paintings?'
'Because they are very funny. But you're on dangerous ground if you start knocking romanticism.'
'You don't find the idea funny?'
'Nope. Not in the least. Would you make me a nice cup of tea, darling?'
He went off to perform his errand, feeling quite puzzled. He obviously didn't understand women. Not even the woman soon to be his wife. She was sometimes depressed for days on end and nothing he could do seemed to lighten her mood. Then for no apparent reason she would become her old, sparkling, light-hearted self. He assumed that separation from her daughter had something to do with it, and resolved after they were married to do everything in his power to get her back.
Because Benny Shapiro had offered them the use of his yacht for their honeymoon, Jack felt obliged to carry out his promise to paint his portrait. An elderly butler opened the door of Benny's house in Mayfair for the preliminary sitting and led him into a living room furnished with elaborate crystal chandeliers, Persian carpets, gold-braided settees and armchairs. Benny came in soon afterwards, wearing a maroon-coloured robe over a polo sweater.
He offered Jack a drink, which he refused, and then pointed to some large pictures of stern-looking noblemen in rural settings which he declared with a flourish were his ancestors. Then he laughed heartily and said: 'Only kidding. My real ancestors were peasants who were lucky if they could remember the last time they ate chicken. But enough of that, let's get on with it.'
Jack directed him to a chair where the light was favourable, put up a portable easel and started to make a rough sketch .of the man who, after making a fortune in the rag trade, had so successfully invaded the rarified province of high art. Amanda attributed his success to his exquisite sense of timing.
Looking at this portly man of sixty, he wondered what interesting disclosures he might hear. Mrs Overbury had hinted at a youthful indiscretion while she was sitting for him. He decided his present sitter was too shrewd to do anything like that. But he was wrong.
Benny said: 'I can only give you one sitting this month. My secretary will set up some more when you come back from our yacht, The Margot.'
His wife's name was Margot.
'I'm not sure how many sittings I shall require. Incidentally, I can't thank you enough for your kind gesture. We're really looking forward to our honeymoon.'
'You and Amanda deserve it. You are the King and Queen of Tropo.'
Jack was trying hard to determine the bone structure of Benny's face. The expression would come later when he had got the fundamentals right.
Benny looked at his watch and suddenly exclaimed: 'Haven't you finished yet!'
'Benny!' he said: 'We've only just started.'
Benny laughed uproariously.
'I was only joking. I've got all the time in the world at present. My rearrangement of the art world is going like a dream boat. I have all the money I can ever need. My wife is a long-suffering saint My six children are all that I wanted them to be – rascals and rapscallions the lot of them, just like their father. I wouldn't want them any other way. One day I'm going to write a picaresque novel about their adventures. A libel suit by six children against their father would guarantee that it became a best seller. But Margot would kill me. How's the drawing going?'
'In my day people used to say Yes. Now they say OK. Good English has gone out of the window. Still, I like Americans. They're very honest people. An American will tell you to a dime what he's worth. And if you're successful they respect you for it. Here, they despise money. If you stole it five hundred years ago, that's OK. If you earned it with hard graft, that don't count for anything. That is why I went for this art thing. If you corner the market in good taste, not even the snobs in the Upper House can turn their noses up at you. You're what the Mafia call a made man.
'Amanda told me about your idea for adapting that Pre-Raphaelite-type painting to Art Tropo. The title was good. But she's right. Knock romanticism and you're a dead duck. I would no more consider depriving my wife of her romantic notions than I would deprive her of her dress allowance. They would both kill her – especially the dress allowance.'
Benny laughed out loud and then said thoughtfully: 'Women have a different view of life because of their kishkes.'
'Kishkes?' Jack repeated.
'Kishkes. Their insides. Don't you understand English? They get messed up when they have babies. That's why they deserve to have their illusions preserved.'
'What illusions?' Jack enquired absently, still trying to determine if Benny had any cheekbones beneath the padding of his plump countenance. He thought he had caught a glimpse of them when Benny looked cross. Perhaps he should deliberately make him cross.
Benny said: 'You ought to know about women's illusions now you are getting married. Like that a man should be faithful to his dying day.'
'I intend to remain faithful to my wife,' Jack said.
'Excuse me,' Jack said, holding up his pencil.
Benny said, flourishing his small hands: 'I didn't mean it insultingly.'
'How else should I take it?'
'You're an artist. All artists are basically schmucks. To be an artist is to be a schmuck. You can't help it. It's the nature of the beast. Artists harbour the biggest illusion of all; namely, that what they do is important. And sometimes they starve in a garret just to prove it.'
'In that case why are you supporting Art Tropo?'
'I've told you. To gain respect.'
Haven't you respect enough with your money, your yacht, your jet aircraft?'
'A man can never have enough respect.'
'Good deeds earn respect.'
'I give away millions. Most of it is wasted. And if I gave it all away I would be derided as a fool.'
'You haven't told me why an artist's work is unimportant.'
'You can't eat it, you can't touch it, you can't fuck it. It's pure illusion.'
'Benny, you are the King of Philistines.'
Benny looked really cross and Jack managed to shadow in his cheekbones.
'Nothing wrong with that. The Philistines got a walloping because Goliath didn't keep his guard up. You can't accuse me of lacking aesthetic taste when every picture I authorise as genuine Art Tropo is worth a fortune. It's those who disagree with me who are the Philistines.'
Jack stepped back to examine his work. The likeness was appearing. 'I've an important question to ask you. If my work is so unimportant, why do you want me to paint your portrait?'
'Pure vanity. At the end of the day one of my descendants will sell it for a lot of money.'
'I can paint you as a greedy, ruthless, calculating bastard, or as a kindly old gentleman. Which would you like?'
'My truth, or your truth?'
'You've called me a schmuck. Shall I paint you as a schmuck?'
'If you do nobody will believe you.'
'Because nobody will believe that a man who owns several mansions, a two-hundred foot yacht and two jet airplanes is a schmuck.'
'Do you really want to know?'
'You've already told me. It's because I'm an artist.'
'No, it's something else.'
Benny leant forward in his chair and said: 'Because you're marrying Amanda. She's a wonderful girl. I would have liked to hump her myself. She's brilliant at her job but she's very unstable.'
Benny screwed up his face, obviously finding it difficult to find the right words. Finally, he said: 'She is utterly unpredictable. I'll give you just one example. She used to sell pictures for me on a commission basis. We had an agreement with a very rich Texan oil man to buy the most expensive picture in the gallery. Just because he made a pass at her she sabotaged the deal by telling his wife. She'll either love you or hate you. Be prepared for that if you marry her.'
'There's no ifs about it. I love her and I'm going to marry her.'
'OK. Then you're a schmuck, but I warn you it'll take an heroic schmuck to keep her happy.'
'Are you saying this because you would have liked her for yourself, Benny?'
'I tried once and got a poke in the eye for my trouble. But I'm glad I forgave her. We make a wonderful team. And I'm very glad you're part of it, too, Jack. Forget what I've just told you.'
Jack felt elated as he drove back to Chelsea. Benny had richly deserved his thump in the eye. Amanda was so beautiful the whole world wanted her. He was lucky that she had agreed to marry him after the unhappy experience of her first marriage.
Coach, an international journalist of some standing, seemed a good choice of Best Man. He had told Jack that he did not intend to forego the traditional privilege of insulting the bridegroom. He then asked Jack: 'Will Jimmo be there?' Thus reminded, Jack sent an invitation to him.
He had wanted a small. quiet wedding, but Amanda had insisted they should not waste an opportunity to publicise Art Tropo. 'Remember, darling, you're famous as the painter of Marriage à-la-Merde. The additional print sales arising from our wedding will be simply staggering.'
Three weeks passed in a fevered flurry of activity. Amanda issued a staccato series of orders concerning transport, catering, hotel bookings for guests, her dress, the latter seeming to need endless changes in design, as well as photographs, flight-booking, bouquets, flowers in the Registry office and at the reception and so on. sAn invitation to Amanda's ex-husband and her daughter in Los Angeles to attend was ignored. Jack briefly met Amanda's brothers, who seemed to have forgiven the financial problems caused by her former husband. He was pleasantly surprised when Amanda's father volunteered to pay part of the wedding expenses. His own father offered to pay for the cars. He declined both offers.
On the morning of the wedding, Jack was alone in their Chelsea pied-à-terre. Amanda, intent on preserving the tradition that a bride should leave for the wedding from the family home, was staying the night at her father's bachelor pad in Pimlico. Clad in his underwear, Jack sat on the bed and carefully examined a pair of black socks. His perception of the degree of blackness of the socks appeared to be different from that of the man who had sold them to him, and he was anxious that they should match up to Amanda's stringent requirements.
Benny's remarks concerning Amanda during the sitting kept returning to his mind. He was an overweening, egotisical monster. He congratulated himself, however, on resisting an impulse to storm out of the room. Amanda would certainly have disapproved. His anger subsided, however, when he thought of the nights of bliss they would soon be enjoying aboard Benny's yacht.
As he was about to put on his socks the telephone rang. There was no answere when he lifted up the receiver. He resumed dressing and remembered the stag night Benny had organised for him. Two of his former colleagues from Maximus Insurance had accompanied him to Benny's night club. They first visited a bar full of customers fuelling themselves with drink in anticipation of visiting the alcohol-free club on the other side of the road. Tom Abulis and Adam Loach seemed a little in awe of Jack's fame at first but soon they were chatting away merrily.
Neither of his former colleagues had succeeded with their money-making schemes. Tom professed to be angry with the government for continuing to tolerate pornographic magazines, the banning of which would have increased the value of his extensive collection. Adam Loach's business venture had collapsed, but he was now engaged to be married to a girl on the staff of a dating agency he had first approached with his idea.
'You made a terrible mistake, leaving us, Jack, ' Adam said joshingly. 'You would have been earning an extra two-K a year by now.'
Jack pretended to regret his decision to leave his old job and gulped down a full glass of Glenlevit whiskey.
Tom said: 'I hope I am not going to be forced to look at naked women over the road.'
. 'I'll blindfold you, if it becomes necessary, 'Jack responded. 'One last drink and it's time to go.'
The doorman was dressed like an eighteenth-century pirate. They walked along a corridor between walls embellished with some of the better-known Art Tropo prints into an arena containing fifty or sixty tables, most of which were occupied. Waitresses in mauve hot pants and black bras were serving soft drinks. A clown carrying an inflated rubber sheath with the words: 'No seamen allowed in here,' ushered them to a table near the stage. A small band on the right-hand side of the stage was playing Rock music. The maroon curtains across the stage were closed.
Soon the lights went down. The band stopped playing. A melancholy-looking man, wearing a grey suit and a red tie, came through a gap in the curtains. A medal hung from his lapel. He addressed the audience in a Yorkshire accent.
'Good evening ladies and mantlepieces. I'm a stand up comedian. If I fall down, please follow the instruction on my medical bracelet. It says if you find me lying in the gutter unconscious, please carry me to the nearest pub. And don't worry, if you split your sides laughing, we'll soon stitch you up, that is if you have a credit card. Doctors have to live too. This club, like the NHS, is free at the point of delivery. We charge for water, but there is no charge for wind. Feel free to fart.
We had the Prime Minister in here last week. I told him if he raised taxes again we'd make him streak stark bollock-naked across the stage. Somebody said his policies had left the Treasury in just that condition. Talking of finance, you've mebbe heard of the Stock Exchange. There's also an Insult Exchange. where you can exchange insults. My wife's name is Victoria. She and I have been trading insults ever since we got married. She said: 'You're not a man, you're a worm. I said you're so fat I need a taxi to go all the way round you. That's not strictly true. Sometimes I use my bike.
We made love on our honeymoon and when I wanted to do it again, she said: 'If God had wanted us to have sex more than once he'd have given you two penises.' And then she walloped me. This medal I am wearing is my Victoria Cross. I got it for making Victoria cross.
We went to a sex counseller. My wife complained that I didn't do foreplay. I said I'd do five-play or even six-play if she'd have sex with me again. Anyway, the marriage counsellor advised me to buy her some new clothes, perfume and jewellery. I did and it were very successful. Her boss fell in love with her and they now have six children, which I suppose means he has six penises.
'That's all for now, folk. Goodnight.'
Why am I here listening to this drivel, Jack asked himself. Tom Abulis commented: 'They use these old-fashioned comics to break the ice.'
A portly man with a toothbrush moustache, who looked very much like Benny Shapiro, strode onto the stage and said: Ladies and gentlemen, I'm here to introduce you to the latest game, which is very popular on Italian televison. It is called Troppo Tanto, Troppo Poco – Too Much, Too Little. But first I want to say something about the other tropo, Art Tropo, after which this club is named.
Field Marshall Goering famously said that whenever he heard the word culture he pulled out his revolver. That didn't stop him filling his mansion with beautiful paintings stolen from art galleries around Europe. He liked art and, of course, so do most people. A work of art communicates what is going on in another person's head. Representational art came first, but soon we began to ask for somthing more. New schools of art came into existence, and because we are suggestible vegetables, we follow them slavishly. We eat Brussels sprouts at Christmas because everyone else does. We admire celebrities because celebrities admire each other. And we buy designer objects because everyone else does. Oscar Wilde rightly said fashion must be ugly otherwise they wouldn't have to keep changing it. But come what may, we all desire to own the latest and best pictures available. And that is why you will soon be bidding for the superb Art Tropo treasures to be auctioned later on tonight.
Jack was wondering why Benny had disguised himself with that ridiculous moustache, when he heard him say: 'Tonight we have in our midst one of the most outstanding Art Tropo painters in the world. Stand up, Jack Henessy and let everyone see you.'
. He stood up to the sound of tumultuous applause. 'He is getting married in a few days time,' Benny added, clapping his hands, encouraging more enthusiastic applause.
He went on: 'Gentlemen, you have two of most things– two hands, two eyes, two ears and two kidneys. They are fail safe. Lose one and you still have the other. But by making this night club alcohol free, I give your single organs, your heart, your liver, your brain and that other very important single organ, a holiday. They will all work much better as a result. There's an old saw that says a sense of humour and a healthy liver go together like an arrow and a quiver.
'We're not the only beings who possess a sense of humour. Hyenas laugh. Whales laugh so loudly you can hear them three-thousand miles away. God told a whale a joke once and he laughed so much that he vomited a guy called Jonah. But nobody laughs when they are hungry, so bon appetite – the waitresses will now serve your meal.
Girls in bras and hot pants bustled about placing cartons of fish and chips on the tables.
As the guests ate, Benny continued: 'I'm going to talk about the truth. The truth is that the truth is very hard to find. The closer we get to it the more it eludes us. But the closest you get to the truth is when you laugh. It's very hard to tell a lie when you are laughing.'
The biggest laugh of all was the Big Bang. From an unimaginably small dot the world sprang into existence. Scientists tell us that traces of the vibrations of the laughter resulting from that cosmic joke can be detected even today. Some billions of years later, we are told, a giant cricket ball hit the earth, causing the dinosaurs to disappeare. The MCC are still trying to recruit the bowler responsible. Mammals survived, and that is because we are endowed with a sense of humour. Laughter is the secret of life, which explains the phenomenal popularity of Art Tropo, which has inspired a whole new generation of comic artists.
A new form of art will eventually supplant Art Tropo, just as mammals replaced dinosaurs. But until that day comes Art Tropo will be good for your health and strength and your wallet. Art dealer from all over the world have come to buy pictures at the Art Tropo auction that will take place shortly. You couldn't make a better investment. But first play Troppo Tanto, Troppo Poco. Good luck and good night.'
The band began to play again very softly.
. A young woman leaned over Jack and murmured: 'Would you like to play Troppo Tanto, Troppo Poco. Too Much, Too little? You make a wager on how much money is tucked inside my bra. If you came within ten pounds, I will double the money you have staked.'
Tom Abulis suggested two-hundred pounds. She opened her bra. Out tumbled her breasts along with seven fifty-pound notes.'
He lost his twenty pounds stake.
'Tough titty,' she murmured., ran her hand lightly though his hair and moved away.
Soon, another girl appeared.
In the course of an hour or so Tom and Adam lost several hundred pounds.
'Don't mind those boobs. There are plenty of udders.'
On the stage a slender lady of indeterminate age wearing a long gold lamé robe addressed the audience, as the girls made their way out.
It's all right, my darlings, she said, patting her chest, 'I have two of those precious objects right here. And it won't cost you anything to see them. I used to breast-feed babies when I had surplus milk. Now, if I showed my breasts to those suckers, they would say: Get thee to a surgery and have some implants. Polonius was right: To thine own breasts be true and thou shall not show falsies to any man.
'If they had treated Hamlet with Prozac, Polonius would have lived long enough to go into a care home – or scare home – as they are sometimes called.
'Did you know Shakespeare was incontinent with words ...' Jack and his friends didn't wait to hear her complete her performance.
At the car park, Jack recompensed his former colleagues for the money they had lost. He was a little miffed when he heard Tom whisper to Adam as they went off: 'He can well afford it.'
It was difficult for Jack, during the hectic flurry of activity that followed, to believe that he was marrying an outstandingly beautiful girl whose marketing skills had transformed him into one of the most highly successful artists in the world.
The wedding had a dream-like quality. Everybody – Amanda's parents, guests he scarcely knew, complete strangers and the registrar at the wedding ceremony – expressed warm messages of good will and love towards him and his smiling sylph-like bride. Strange faces surrounded them, pressing on them generous presents, together with fervent good wishes.
A memory of his schoolmaster telling him that to become an artist was the surest way to bankruptcy came back to him, and he congratulated himself that success in his chosen field had allowed him to enjoy this consummately happy day.
'Yes, yes,' he said to Edward Trout, dapper little father of the bride, wearing a moth-eaten morning suit, who asked him if he was pleased with his new wife.
'Yes,' he said to the photographer who asked if he would be allowed to turn his photographs into digital Art Tropo masterpieces.
'Will you kiss the bride?'
'Yes'. He said, acceding with immense pleasure, as dozens of photographers with flashing cameras recorded the event.
The festivities flowed from the Caxton Hall to the reception at the Carlton club, where Amanda's father had once been a member. The vintage Roller whisked them away and they were ushered into a room in which they were to relax and prepare for the reception. Once there, he kissed his bride lovingly. Bright-eyed, she tore herself away from his embrace to repair her lipstick and said: 'When I get you on board the Margot you won't know what's hit you.'
And as he happily gulped down champagne, thoughtfully supplied by the management, he suddenly realised that he had not yet spoken to his own father and Henrietta, who had crossed the Atlantic to be with him on his wedding day. He must repair the omission as soon as possible. A recollection of his father's weakness for alcohol came to him briefly as he climbed the stairs, but was soon forgotten in his state of glorious euphoria. He paused momentarily to examine a portrait on the wall of the former prime minister, Margaret Thatcher, which he thought particularly well executed, and then continued to the reception area.
It was crowded with guests.
'And you are?' he asked a strange woman. 'Oh, my God, I'm so sorry. You are Amanda's mother. Upon which Mrs Eleanor Trout informed him sorrowfully that one of her donkeys had died the night before. 'He's in Heaven now, God rest his donkey soul. But I simply had to come to the wedding.'
Agile waitresses and waiters were sliding around like ice skaters carrying trays of canapés and assorted nibbles of caviar, foie gras and Marmite, which everyone who was anybody knew was the preferred topping of the Marquess of Bath to whom Amanda's father was distantly related.
Eddie and Henrietta were there, looking bewildered, jet-lagged and downcast.
'Marvellous of you to come, Dad and Henrietta. Thank you for preparing me for the happiest day of my life. I wish Mum could have seen it.'
'Pity you didn't attend your sister's wedding, his father replied grumpily.
'You mustn't say that, Eddie,' Henrietta reproached him. 'Your life is completely taken over when you become famous like your son. Where's Amanda?'
Amanda was talking excitedly to Donaldson, his ex-boss. Someone buttonholed him and whispered urgently: ' I've cobbled a speech together. But it makes you out to be a complete wanker.'
It was Coach, looking extremely uncomfortable in an ill-fitting morning suit. His girl friend, Angela, beside him was smiling fatuously up at him. Jack caught a glimpse nearby of Jimmo looking very solemn, a very pregnant black girl by his side.
'Amanda says it's better to be insulted than ignored.'
Coach said: 'I got a good response from that blog interview. Howabout another one soon?'
'When we get back from our honeymoon.'
Amanda had stopped talking to Edward Donaldson.
'Yes, We must get the driver to pick up the presents for us. Isn't it wonderful that everyone is being so nice. The whole world adores Art Tropo, ' she added and gave an excited little whoop. 'What say you now to Marriage à-la-Merde. Isn't it a howl!'
'He's here somewhere with Margot.'
Jack removed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and thought, if that extraordinarily beautiful apparition had not passed by my desk in the Maximus Insurance office, I would still be worrying about paying my rent and wondering whether my laundry would be ready for collection on the way home. I'm so lucky to have married such a clever and beautiful woman. My dreams have ushered me into the world of celebrities and some of the richest people in the land.
Benny and his dowdy wife appeared. 'Meet my wife, Margot, 'Benny said with a smirk. I call her my sheet anchor because she keeps me level when stormy winds blow.'
'How do you do, Mr Henessy, Margot said in a very composed manner. 'I hope your dear wife will keep you safely anchored as well.'
'I am sure she will,' Jack replied.
'Just a word of advice. When you're aboard Margot, drink as much as you like, of course, but keep the keys to the drinks cabinet in a safe place.'
Benny whispered; 'We had a great picture sale in the club the night you came. And he added, grinning: 'And the takings were excellent at that bar I bought just across the road.'
You can't keep a good entrepreneur down, Jack thought, as the Master of Ceremonies wearing a red coat called out in an imperious voice: 'The Best Man, Mr Coach Donaghue, will now pay a tribute to the bride and bridegroom.'
Coach appeared from behind the MC, waved his hand and announced: 'This marriage will last no longer than a sparrow's fart.'
Jack stared around at a sea of horrified expressions. He caught a glimpse of Henrietta's shocked face. Mrs Trout, Amanda's mother, was nodding her head like one of her donkeys. Amanda's hand tightened on his arm.
'A superstitious Mexican friend once told me always say the opposite of what you want to happen on special family occasions and then everything will turn out OK. Apparently it frustrates the Evil Eye. So here's wishing Amanda and Jack many years of happiness and good fortune.
'Jack, incidentally, is the only person I know who can get drunk on half a pint of Guinness. He's an innocent in a wicked world. He told me that Amanda is an angel who has descended from Heaven to make him happy. The truth is she has more common sense in her little finger than Jack has in his whole body. That is why they complement each other so well and why their marriage is bound to be successful. He will create more beautiful Art Tropo paintings. She will use her extraordinary power of persuasion to sell them at astronomical prices.
'I should like to say a word, if I may, about Art Tropo. There is an old saying that a country deserves the newspapers it gets. The same applies to art. It is fitting on this happy occasion to recall that the bridegroom produced that famous painting, Marriage à-la-Merde, which has made people laugh all over the world. The point, I guess, is that you have to go through a whole lot of shit to achieve a really good marriage.'
Coach held up his hand again and said: 'There is something else. The bridegroom has one thing in common with another great genius, Albert Einstein. Both men refused to wear socks. Lift up your trouser leg, Jack.'
Jack remembered as he obeyed that, after taking off his socks that morning to make sure they were black, he had ben distracted by a telephone call and forgotten to put them on again.
The guests found it hugely funny.
He took the subsequent ribbing in good part.
Eddie consoled him afterward: 'Not to worry, son. I lost a pair of trousers the day I got married and never realised its symbolic significance until Henrietta explained it to me.'
Jack and Amanda held hands as they took off in Benny Shapiro's private jet. They fell asleep soon after they were airborne and awoke just before the landing at Nice airport. From there a large limousine whisked them to the marina at Cannes.
A female member of the crew handed Amanda an enormous bouquet of red roses as they walked across the gangplank. The captain of the Margot, a short, dapper Italian, Alfredo Caligiorno, welcomed them aboard. The chauffeur followed with their luggage and they went through to their cabin, passing on the way a state-room with mahogany panelling and some paintings, among which Jack recognised a Magritte. The coincidence pleased him. Having admired the Belgian painter's engaging wit for so long, he was now being similarly feted and celebrated.
As the chauffeur deposited their cases on the floor of their opulent sleeping quarters they were greeted by Benny's sonorous voice issuing from loudspeakers: 'Alfredo has just informed me that you have arrived. Have a good time. You're going to be very busy when you come home.'
Jack and Amanda looked at each other and laughed.
'He always has to have the first and the last word,' Amanda said.
'Hey, look at this,' Jack cried out, pointing to a GPS receiver on one wall showing their position on a map of the Mediterranean. When he turned around, Amanda was asleep, lying fully clothed on the double bed. He lay beside her and was soon fast asleep himself.
Noise and vibration from the ship's propellors awoke them the following morning. Through a porthole in the cabin he could see the masts of the yachts in the marina rapidly receding.
Amanda woke up and propped herself on one elbow.
'What's happening?' she enquired.
We're at sea, my darling. On the way to – who cares? Woo-whoo! We're on our honeymoon!'
He turned over, stroked her face and said: 'Let's make love.'
The telephone rang and a voice said: 'Buon giorno. I am Luigi, your personal servant. Do you wish for an American or a Continental breakfast?'
Shortly afterwards a young man wearing a smart uniform pushed a trolley into the cabin, laid a white cloth on a small, ornately-carved table and served breakfast.
The sea was already choppy. After eating muffins, pancakes and a semi-raw steak, Jack felt a little queasy. Nevertheless, he made love to his new bride enthusiastically, until she kissed his shoulder and pleaded 'Troppo tanto, troppo tanto.'
'I didn't know you speak Italian.'
'I don't. I'm quoting from the game you told me you played at Benny's night club.'
'My friends played it. I didn't.'
'You didn't look at all those beautiful girls' tits!'
'I may have peeked once or twice. But they weren't as nice as yours. Yours are like delightful twin budgerigars.'
'I'm not so sure I like that comparison.'
'King Solomon compared his bride's boobs with twin doves. Your twin budgies are nicer. That reminds me. I wonder how Joey is getting along.'
'I think you're in love with him.'
'Of course. Look what a miracle he helped bring about!' He kissed her and said: 'Let's get dressed and examine our kingdom.'
By the time they had arrived on deck the hills behind Cannes had disappeared entirely.
The crew were polite and deferential, as they explored the ship. The captain showed them the emergency procedures and led them into the control room, which he called "his office." It was a marvel of technical miniaturisation, controlling the twin diesel engines, the stabilisers and rudders. He showed them the radar, and communications equipment, all much smaller than Jack had imagined. He handed them copies of their itinerary which included visits to Ajaccio, Florence and Rome, assuring them that they could change the itinerary at any time, if they so wished.
Amanda invited him to join them for lunch.
Later, Jack remarked to the captain as they sat in the panelled state room that he had been surprised that the paintings on the walls were high quality prints rather than originals.
'Mr Shapiro has the originals in safe places at his homes. Too many thieves these days.'
'How do you like working for him?' Jack enquired.
'Is good,' Alfredo averred, chewing thoughtfully on a chicken leg. 'But 'e doesn't 'ava good sea legs. Always asking about the weather. I tell him to leave it to me to worry about the weather. You just 'ave a gooda time. But no, up he always is on deck. He looks at the waves and asks you think there's a storm coming, Alfredo? I tella him this ship can withstand strongest storm. But he no believe me. Is a very nervous man. And all the time on telephone checking business. Never relaxes on his holiday.'
Amanda said: 'It's a lovely yacht.'
'Yes, is good. But not big enough. Mr Shapiro ask me one day if it is possible to fit a long, canvas prow that could be dismantled once we were at sea to maka ship look bigger in port and save him from buying a bigger yacht. I tell him Signor, not possible. Besides, you would be laughing stock. No, he say. My competitors. would say what a smart fellow I am. But, of course, he took my advice and ita no happen.'
He poured out a generous quantity of Chateau Yquiem into their glasses and an even larger quantity into his own.
He drank it, said: 'Is good, yes?' then left them, saying he wished to check the ship's position.
Luigi served fruit and delicious ice-cream.
It was warm and sunny. They sunbathed on deck while Amanda browsed through a fashion magazine and Jack inspected the first few pages of a book by John Ruskin he had found in the ship's library. He had remembered seeing his name mentioned in the article by Julian Gillespie praising Art Tropo that Benny had given him to read.
He fell asleep with the book in his hands and dreamed he was in a lunar shuttle orbiting around his new bride. The sunlight shone brightly on two perfectly-formed hemispheres. He passed them on his way to a delicately-formed crater called Amanda's Navel. Passing over the Sea of Tranquility, he came to the Mound of Venus, which trembled with delight. He then reached the dark side of the moon and fell into a more profound sleep.
When he woke up, Amanda was lying beside him, her breasts appearing just as they had in his dream.
He kissed them lovingly and said: 'Just going below deck, sweetheart.'
He took the book with him and placed it on his bedside table. But as he was about to leave the cabin, he noticed a pencil-thin ray of sunshine, which ended in a blob of light on the duvet cover. Intrigued, he examined the wall of the cabin and discovered that a tiny hole had been drilled, allowing an observer in the corridor outside to spy on the occupants. Infuriated, he ran up on deck and called out to the captain, who was studying a chart in the control room, 'Can you spare a moment, Captain?'
Alfredo said with a cheerful smile: 'Whata can I do for you?'
'Captain, there is a Peeping Tom on board.'
'Pippingtom, what's that?' Alfredo looked mystified.
'A voyeur. Someone has been spying on us through a hole in the cabin wall.'
'Why should anyone look at look at you through a little 'ole when they can see you naked on deck?'
'I don't know the answer to that. But the hole is there. You can see it for yourself.'
'OK. I will check it myself.'
A few minutes later, he said: 'Yes. I have checked. I will have it filled in immediately.'
Alfredo walked away, his shoulders hunched. Suddenly, he turned on his heels, tapped Jack on the shoulder and said: 'Mr Henessy, I'm very sorry. But I know who is responsible. It is Enrico, the youngest member of the crew. He is a little weak in the head. He is my nephew. I will talk to him. It won'ta 'appen again.'
The following day the Margot anchored off a small port near Ajaccio. A tender came out from the harbour and took them ashore. Hand-in-hand Jack and Amanda roamed the beautiful forested mountain trails.
'Napoleon probably walked along these paths,' Jack observed. 'They say he had a very small penis and that impelled him to compensate by conquering the world.'
'Was it smaller than yours?' Amanda enquired, wickedly.
'Isn't it doing the trick?'
'Yes, darling. It fills me and thrills me.'
Edging her towards some dense shrubbery, he pleaded: 'Let's do it again now.'
'Wait till we're on board, lover-boy. I like the sound of waves while we're making love.'
That evening after dinner, he told Amanda about the spy hole, adding: 'Alfredo has assured me it won't happen again. He says his nephew is responsible. The young lad who looks about sixteen. His name is Enrico.'
'The one with the long hair and the slightly vacant look.'
'Why should he want to spy on us?'
'Perhaps he's been deprived of the opportunity to look at naked women.'
'Television is full of naked women, especially Italian television.'
'It's not the same as seeing women in the flesh.'
'We don't have to worry any more. As a matter of fact it has given me an idea for a painting.'
'I feel sorry for the boy.'
'I don't know, but I do.'
Enrico was standing by the taffrail when they went up on deck. Amanda announced that she was going for a swim, wriggled out of her bikini bottom and, totally naked, dived into the sea. Jack dived in after her. When he surfaced, she was floating on her back alongside the yacht, her legs spread, waving at Enrico.
'Amanda, what are you doing?' he gasped.
'It's about time Enrico found out what a naked woman looks like.'
'I'm curing him of his obsession.' She waved to Enrico, who was leaning over the rail, with a fascinated expression on his face.
He dived under the hull of yacht, feeling full of anger. When he arrived at the other side, Amanda was swimming steadily towards the shore. She ignored his repeated shouts.
Swimming at a furious speed, he finally caught up with her.
'Hey, are you emigrating?'
'Why are you making a fuss about something that is so normal and natural.'
'Of course I don't. But ...'
'You're such an old-fashioned prude.'
'It must be the way I was brought up.'
'Well, drag yourself into the fucking twenty-first century. I was only trying to help him.'
'OK. Let's get back before the boat sails without us.'
It needed all his strength to help Amanda, by now very tired, to swim back to the yacht and clamber up the ladder. Arriving on deck, dripping water, he directed a vicious scowl at Enrico and received a blank stare in return.
Amanda had recovered by the time they sat down for dinner that evening. As Luigi placed starters in front of them, she said to Jack: 'I've been thinking. Why don't you write your autobiography?'
'Age has nothing to do with it. It's the publicity that's important.'
'My stuff is selling well.'
'Yes, at the moment. But if you ease up, you'll soon be forgotten.'
'Rembrandt isn't forgotten.'
'You're not Rembrandt. You're a brilliant artist, but if we don't keep up the pressure, your popularity could fade. Several publishers have approached me. If we go ahead, it'll spread your fame even wider.'
'I wouldn't have the faintest idea how to go about it.'
We'll get a professional ghost-twriter.'
'Why didn't you tell me you had been approached by publishers.'
'We were too busy with the wedding.'
That night Jack decided that it might not be a bad idea to ask Coach to ghost-write his book. Eventually, after falling asleep, he dreamed that he and Amanda were making frantic love on the sea bed surrounded by shoals of inquisitive fish. He complained in the dream to his ghost-writer that he had broken the fragile thread of credulity. Coach replied: 'Don't worry. In the post-modern era you can choose to believe anything you like.'
He was totally baffled. Getting out of bed, he noticed that another hole had been drilled in the cabin wall next to the one that had been filled in. He threw on some clothes, stormed into the control room and shouted to the captain: 'I've found another hole. You'll have to get rid of your nephew.'
Alfredo held up his hands in despair.
'I am so sorry, Mr. Henessy. Leave it with me. I will handle the matter with great force. You willa see. Giva me one hour.'
'I'll be in the library.'
The ships's library was a narrow room, containing a coffee table and two leather armchairs set between bookshelves. Sitting there, his mind churning over yet another invasion of his privacy, he tried to absorb the works of John Ruskin. He was trying to gain some insight into what went on in his own mind when he was painting. Not that it mattered, he realised. The important thing was that he was being well paid for what he liked doing best.
He was struggling with the turgid Victorian prose when Alfredo entered and shut the door behind him, a triumphant look on his face.
Jack said: 'You've spoken to Enrico?'
'Yes, and I have spoken to Professor Antonioni, his psychiatrist in Roma.'
'What did he have to say?'
'It is not pippingtom disease. It has progressed further.'
'Yes, the professor say he has a compulsive obsessive disorder which makes him bore spy holes.
The professor believes that it will be possible to sublimate his obsession into something less harmful. He has hypnotised him over the internet, so that he will enjoy making holes in wood instead of looking ata naked ladies. He tell him that making holes with electric drills is much better than looking at naked ladies. We 'ave a small workroom. I set him to work making holes in pieces of wood. I only gave him job in the first place because my brother begged me to take him on board. You will not be troubled any more.'
'OK, Alfredo. My wife will be very relieved.'
'I shall tell Enrico to apologise for the trouble he has caused.'
'That won't be necessary.'
He went down to their cabin and found Amanda examining her face in the mirror. After telling her about his conversation, he added: 'We don't have to worry any more.'
'I wasn't all that worried. It was your stupid jealousy that got to me.'
'Hey, that's not fair. When we were living in the flat you objected to my painting Paula in the noddy.'
'That was different. I thought you were having it off with her. Nobody owns our nakedness, not even ourselves.'
'So if I took off my kit in Regent Street, would that be OK?'
'No, there are too many old frumps around there.'
'So where can I be naked?'
'In our cabin right now!' She giggled, then stripped off his T-shirt and shorts and made love in a manner that flattered and delighted him.
Afterwards, looking for some sun lotion, he opened a drawer and said: 'I see you brought your vitamin pills with you.'
'Yes,' she replied. 'But I've been feeling so good since we've been on board I haven't bothered to take them.'
He shut the drawer and took a shower.
The following day Jack asked the captain if the long-distance therapy appeared to be working on Enrico.
Alfredo beamed and said: 'It go OK. Professor Antonioni is old family friend. Enrico listen to every word he say with big smile. He nods all the time and says he understand he no spy on naked ladies any more. You bet your bottom dollar.'
After another day at sea they berthed at Florence. They explored the city by taxi. As Amanda photographed the replica of Michelangelo's huge statue of David, Jack, observing the pigeons perched on his head, whispered mischievously: 'They pooh on Michelangelo's work just like Joey poohed on mine.'
'Birds are not very discriminating. Let's go to the Uffizi. You have our tickets?'
'Yes.' He had pre-booked them.
Fabriano's Adoration of the Magi and Michelangelo's Doni Tondo made Jack regret that his own works lacked the spiritual quality that shone out of their paintings. Gazing up at Botticelli's Birth of Venus, he remarked on the striking resemblance to Venus he had noted on first seeing Amanda. 'You're just as beautiful, he told her.'
'Perhaps you will be some day.'
She pulled a wry face and marched rapidly towards another painting.
They returned to the port after eating lunch in a restaurant on the Ponte Vechio.
Jack paid off the taxi driver, and looked for the Margot. Unable to see the yacht, he muttered: 'Looks as though they've sailed without us.'
Several members of their crew were conferring on the quayside and they walked towards them. As they got nearer, they noticed that the mooring ropes attached to the bollards were straining downwards. All that could be seen of the Margot was her communications mast, covered with a few sodden newspapers and soaked towels.
Jack rushed over to the crew and said to the downcast-looking captain: 'For Christ's sake, what's happened?'
Alfredo said, with tears in his eyes: 'Issa a tragedy, yes? Enrico take it into his head to drill holes in engine room. He drilled so many the boat sank. He is totally and completely mad. Is better to spy on naked ladies. Yes?'
'Did he go down with the boat?' Amanda asked.
'No. The politzia take him away. Professor Antonioni will now change him back to spying on naked ladies. I hope so, yes?'
He gave a half-hearted grin.
'Have you informed Mr Shapiro?' Jack enquired.
'I call him on my mobile. He is angry but says nota to worry, because the boat is insured. He has asked me to say you have the choice to continue your honeymoon on land, or come home. Whatever, he will pay for it.'
Amanda started crying. Jack said: 'Let's go home, darling.'
She nodded and sniffed. He gave her his handkerchief.
Jack shook hands with the crew, explained that his money had one down with the yacht and promised to send them their gratuities.
'Don'ta you worry, Mr Henessy,' Alfredo said. 'Mr Shapiro will attend to that.'
Jack put his arm around Amanda and they went in search of a taxi to take them to the nearest airport.