Paint. The art of scam. Read online

  So far, pre-Polly, his record duration for a relationship had been around six months before the rot set in. He had been with Polly for a year now. He or she was on borrowed time.

  Seymour opened his eyes again and studied a faithful crack in the decaying plaster ceiling. A tuft of horsehair, just visible, made it seem organic, yet dead and mummified. Sometimes when the windows were open the hair would move. He could have sworn it was growing.

  'Bitch,' he muttered as he slapped the quilt and caught a waft of Polly's sweetness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Meeting

  Seymour and Polly met in Brighton just after Madeleine Reece-Jones, a local minor socialite celebrity, had thrown Seymour out for attempting to shag her mother. In his defence, he claimed that it had been an accident. He'd forgotten she was staying with them, it was dark, he was drunk, she felt and smelt the same as Madeleine and besides, she didn't object. Madeleine just wouldn't understand. Still, it just went to show how ridiculously insensitive and selfish she really was. He was better off without her and her money.

  He had sworn to himself that that was it, no more relationships, no more lies, no more compromising, no more depending on other people to live. They always let you down in the end anyway. He would get a job, develop his work, make a bit of money, travel - whatever. The very idea of it all petrified him, but driven by the lack of options and imminent destitution, he answered a small ad in the Brighton Bugle, a small parochial newspaper that boasted headlines like “Parking space fury!”

  “Night watchman required, free accommodation, good rate of pay, must be experienced,” it said.

  With the help of the few tips on interviewing skills he'd picked up at the Job Centre twenty years before when he'd had a previous close brush with reality, the whole process of getting the job went surprisingly well.

  It was the perfect job for someone of Seymour's calibre and within two days he was living in a musty little caravan under the entrance section of the West Pier, recently destroyed by a mysterious but convenient fire that had turned it from a once majestic icon of the Victorian era into an embarrassing political hot potato.

  What he was guarding against, he wasn't sure. Vandals? A vandal could do nothing but improve its condemned, rusty frame. Thieves? Help yourselves, nobody wanted it. His job was pointless and matched his qualifications perfectly.

  The caravan was disgusting, having been inhabited by several of his predecessors in the past, all of whom had left their unwholesome mark in some form. The damp, dank stench of sweat, beer farts, rancid socks and cigarettes would live there forever, soaked into the itchy nylon upholstery and sticky plywood.

  Outside, the caravan was caged in a small fenced compound full of abandoned bad ideas and was sheltered by a decaying, dripping concrete structure that had once served as the entrance to the pier. The slightest breeze was amplified by sea walls and sea front buildings, and howled through the sides of the compound. A blessing on warm days, but cruel on cold nights.

  Just outside the compound, on the promenade, rickety stalls appeared in the early hours manned by various sub-culture characters selling their wares. Seymour watched as strolling punters suddenly found themselves becoming customers, drawn in, Seymour suspected, by the romantic whiff of the fringe dwellers who served them. It was here that Seymour opened his first gallery. He had never attempted to sell his work before, beyond exchanging it for long overdue debts. It had never occurred to him, but the opportunity, staring him in the face, was obvious even to him. He had managed to salvage a few paintings from Madeleine's house after her ridiculous outburst; some were lacerated beyond recognition by her lashing talons, others were repairable. But he needed more stock.

  The spooky environment that was now his home and workplace was strangely inspiring, possibly due to the groaning spirits that wandered around the old pier in the dead of night, the strolling masses that ambled past him by day, and the new-found liberation he had thrust upon himself.

  Within a just a fortnight he had pulled together a healthy body of work. He had set up shop next to Sean, a rough but amiable retired blacksmith from Glasgow, who sold bizarre metal animal sculptures fashioned by welding rusty nuts, bolts and cogs together. On his other side was Tracy, a large handsome gypsy- looking woman, who read Tarot cards.

  Tracy had been largely responsible for Seymour's newly found dynamic spirit. On his very first morning of waking up in the caravan she had knocked on the caravan door with a cup of disgusting flask coffee. He later learned that it wasn't because she fancied him, which of course was the conclusion that he had jumped to, despite the fact she had never laid eyes on him before. Which, it must be said, never occurred to him. No, the few stall-holders who set up there, as a matter of course, always welcomed the new night watchmen. They had no permits and were convinced that bribery would secure their immediate future. Truth was, the Brighton council didn't give a damn about them, provided they didn't cause any trouble. In fact they were unofficially glad of them, as it was possible they might divert attention from the embarrassing skeleton of a pier that was, and always would be, in the council's 'too hard’ basket.

  Tracy and Seymour became friends easily. Once Seymour had got beyond assessing her as a sexual possibility, he realised that despite her hairy armpits, abnormally sagging breasts and bulbous bottom, she was in fact a sound person. She was funny, intelligent and to his surprise unimpressed by his now ingrained, unfounded elitism. She had a way of grounding him with her honesty without using cruelty, a tool that he had both used and been a victim of in the past.

  Seymour, intrigued by Tracy's Tarot cards, asked her for a reading, which turned out to be uncannily, almost offensively accurate in its assessment of his state. This was, according to Tracy, a time for great change, a rebirth. An exciting opportunity awaited him that would lead him to a new level of achievement. If he listened to it when it arrived, great things would mysteriously occur, but if he didn't listen to it, the chance would pass him by and boredom would swallow his spirit. It all sounded quite exhausting the way Tracy had put it. It was a strong reading she said, very strong.

  ‘How will I know when it comes?’ asked Seymour, after allowing Tracy to calm down from her animated proclamation.

  ‘You will know,’ she intoned, staring deep into his eyes.

  She was deadly serious. She scared him. Nobody had ever pinned him down with words before, not that he had noticed anyway, and Tracy was visibly exhausted after the reading. Seymour, digesting what Tracy had told him, suddenly felt the uncomfortable weight of responsibility on his shoulders. It hurt, but Tracy had put his mind at ease in her final words: ‘It’s unstoppable. It will happen, and there is nothing you can do to encourage it or stop it,’ she said, as she opened her eyes from a convincing trance. ‘It is done!’

  It was, in Seymour's eyes, a win-win situation. If he screwed up, he always had boredom to fall back on, which sounded a lot easier to maintain.

  In the following days he found himself working furiously on new paintings, building a makeshift stall from forklift truck pallets and feeling strangely ambitious.

  Tracy watched him with amusement. She could see the future.

  Seymour was surprised at how well his work sold, mainly to the hordes of coach tour pensioners temporarily released from their strict itinerary for good behaviour. The most popular were small unframed paintings of pebbles, seascapes and cartoon-like sun lounging figures, none of which he was particularly proud of, but they captured a lazy seaside feel that was an antidote, Seymour cynically suspected, to people's otherwise miserable existences. A questionable judgement for someone living in a caravan that rats refused to occupy.

  He even began enjoying the brief flirtatious encounters he had with his clients, where his talent for charm didn't have to be maintained beyond a few minutes.

  Larger paintings never sold, which puzzled Seymour until Tracy pointed out that nobody would want to wrestle a canvas the size of a small spinnaker back to their car, bus o
r bed and breakfast in a Force 8 gale, no matter how beautiful it was.

  One evening, as he was packing up for the day, he noticed Polly studying the half dozen or so large paintings strapped to the railings. It was the third time he had seen her that day. Their eyes had met: they had smiled at each other. He had watched her wander away, seemingly deep in thought, the breeze pushing at her skimpy cotton dress showing the contours of her firm, fit body. He felt they had made a connection, more so than with the countless other rambling women he had ogled and temporarily fallen in and love with on an hourly basis.

  This time she stood there longer, studying the paintings, her slender hands cradling her perfectly honed chin.

  He watched her, then looked at Tracy, who he sensed was watching him. Tracey winked, smiled and muttered.

  ‘There's trouble if you were looking for it.’

  ‘Like them?’ ventured Seymour.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ said Polly.

  ‘You can have them for twenty quid apiece.’

  ‘Really? Why are they so cheap?’

  ‘Because I want you to have them.’

  Polly looked embarrassed, but smiled.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, suspiciously.

  ‘Because they suit you,’ said Seymour. He glanced at Tracy again, almost for approval. Tracy rolled her eyes and shook her bowed head in mock defeat.

  ‘I'm tempted, but I'll have to get my boyfriend to look at them.’

  Seymour's flirt gun dropped. It showed.

  ‘Is that OK? Can you keep them for me?’ asked Polly.

  Seymour shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sure. Whatever.’

  ‘Would you like some sort of deposit?’

  Seymour busied himself with packing up.

  ‘Nah, so long as it's not for long.’

  ‘We'll come back in the morning. Will you be here?’ said Polly to the suddenly-too-busy-to-talk Seymour.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘OK. I'll see you about tennish then.’

  ‘Righto,’ said Seymour to the pavement.

  Polly wandered off, occasionally looking back at the paintings.

  Tracy watched as Seymour impatiently stuffed his paintings into boxes.

  ‘Don't worry, Seymour. She'll be back, alone.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Seymour. ‘Not bothered.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Tracy.

  Dead on ten o'clock the following day Polly returned, alone.

  ‘Told you so,’ muttered Tracy smugly.

  ‘Hi,’ said Polly.

  ‘Oh hi. Didn't bring your boyfriend then?’ said Seymour, attempting to hide the childish grin he wore.

  ‘No,’ said Polly. ‘He's left it up to me. He had to go away to London.’

  ‘That's good. He trusts your taste, then?’

  ‘No, not at all. It's just, well, he hasn't really got any.’

  Seymour thought he detected animosity in her voice.

  ‘What's he doing with you then?’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ whispered Tracy.

  Polly smiled, attempted to ignore his clumsy compliment, and reached into her bag.

  ‘Here's the cash,’ said Polly, handing him an envelope.

  Seymour took it and massaged the bulging contents.

  ‘Blimey. Thanks.’

  ‘My name's Polly, by the way.’

  ‘Oh right. I'm Seymour,’ said Seymour, his eyes jumping between the envelope and Polly.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Oh? How?’

  ‘You signed the paintings.’

  ‘Oh right. Yeah, of course . . . um . . . so you want to take them with you?’

  ‘Bit tricky. I walked down, can you deliver them?’

  ‘Uh. . . I could if I could drive - or had a car, come to that.’

  ‘You don't drive? How unusual.’

  ‘I forgot to learn. Maybe . . ..’ Seymour looked across at Tracy. ‘Tracy? Have you got a car?’

  ‘Sorry Seymour, never had one.’

  ‘Oh, um well, how far away do you live?’

  ‘Just up at Kemptown. It's not far.’

  ‘Well I could bring them in a cab this evening if you like.’

  ‘OK, about sevenish?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Ok, great - here's my card. I'll see you at seven then. Do you do commissions, by the way? We're renovating our house, you see, it’s hard to find good work.’

  ‘Well not normally but, well, I could, I suppose.’

  ‘Good. We'll talk about it this evening, might even cook some dinner, Kevin should be back by then.’

  ‘Kevin?’

  ‘My boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh. Right. See you at seven then.’

  Polly offered her hand and Seymour took it, holding it a little longer than he should, studying it as a pawnbroker would. She didn't seem to object.

  ‘Can I have it back?’

  ‘Oh. Sorry, of course.’

  She slipped her hand from his, smiled affectionately again and sauntered off. Seymour watched her for a good ten minutes until she was out of sight.

  ‘Well,’ said Tracy, ‘that's you fucked.’

  ‘What?’ said Seymour still staring into the distance to see if he could catch a last glimpse of her. He turned to the grinning Tracy.

  ‘You be careful there, Seymour.’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ said Tracy.

  If he'd had a watch Seymour would have counted every second of that day. He was obsessed.

  He sold nine small paintings, almost his entire stock, mainly due to his unbearable enthusiasm. By six he had cleared away his stall and was frantically shaving and showering himself by pouring gallons of cold water on himself from a bucket outside the caravan and was dressed in an ill-fitting suit he'd bought at a charity shop at lunchtime.

  ‘Well don't you look a picture,’ said Tracy, straightening his collar. ‘Not sure about the sandals though.’

  ‘I'm an artist, Trace, I can wear what I want.’

  ‘Bloody fool. Don't forget Seymour, be careful, you're wearing blinkers.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘For Christ's sake, Seymour! Remember the “that's it, no more women for me, from now on it's just me, me, me. Stuff 'em all?” Now look at you, the first sniff of a woman and you're off like a fucking rat up a sewer pipe.’

  ‘No I'm not. I'm only going to drop some paintings off, for God's sake,’ flashed Seymour indignantly.

  ‘Yeah well, you make sure you don't drop anything else off or you'll find yourself in the poo, mark my words. She could do your head in from fifty paces.’

  ‘Nah, it's just business Trace, I gotta make an effort, haven't I? Jesus Christ, remember my reading?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  Tracy stood back and admired him. Her eyes fixed on his with an uncomfortable intensity.

  ‘Lucky bitch,’ said Tracey as she turned away suddenly and folded up her table. Seymour saw her sudden change of mood.

  ‘What's up Trace?’

  She carried on packing her things, her head bowed.

  ‘Go on Seymour, fuck off and have a good time. I'll see you in the morning, OK,’ said Tracy. She hurled the camping table and two stools strapped together with a bungee strap onto her back, and struggled off like a camel. Seymour watched her for a moment, puzzled, before slipping into his compound.

  He had to walk all the way up to Kemptown. No taxi would stop for him, possibly due to the fact that he looked like a madman.

  Seymour, after climbing the endless, near 45 degree hill, put the paintings down on the pavement and attempted to catch his breath. He reached into his pocket and retrieved Polly's card, now crumpled and damp with nervous palm sweat. Seymour looked at the smart terraced houses. No. 53 was by far the scruffiest, with paint peeling from its weathered wooden window frames, its rendered walls faded and cracked from years of salty sea winds and baking sun. He was disappointed: he had built up an image of some sort of mansion in his head, may
be a smart Jag in the wide, crunching gravel driveway. Polly had seemed classy, expensive and deserving of something more opulent. The houses in the rest of the street looked far more appropriate. He checked the card again. Maybe this is her second home. A weekender, or something.

  Struggling with his paintings up the crumbling steps to the dilapidated but grand front door, Seymour pressed the loose bell push with his only available elbow. Cocking his ear, he heard nothing from inside, no deep ding-dong, no buzz - nothing. Just as he was about to put his scruffily wrapped package down, the door suddenly opened and there she was, freshly showered, dressed in a minute black cocktail dress. Her hair was gathered up in combs with random strands dancing around her neck; her deep red lips beamed a smile exposing her perfect white teeth.

  ‘Hi Seymour! Come in. My, you look smart, who's the lucky lady?’

  Seymour's day-old cocky confidence crashed into a heap.

  He wanted to say something clever and flirty like ‘you,’ but instead muttered some alien word that tailed off with a stupid boyish giggle. Struggling into the hallway, grazing his knuckles on the doorframe and tripping on the step, Seymour attempted to look as cool as he could.

  ‘Here, let me help,’ said Polly bending down displaying her peachy cleavage.

  Seymour coughed nervously.

  ‘Blimey, they're heavier than I thought,’ said Polly.

  Somehow they managed to get the paintings into the hallway without actually touching each other. If he had so much as brushed against her body, God knows what would have happened to him.

  Immediately, Polly began ripping at the brown paper with her perfectly manicured nails, exposing the paintings one by one. ‘How exciting!’ she squealed. ‘This one's my favourite.’

  Polly lifted the painting up and hooked it on a nail already embedded in the freshly painted wall. Seymour watched her: speechless. Her taut tanned forearms held the painting with an erotic passion, as if it were a lover’s shoulders she was about to kiss.

  ‘Isn't it fantastic! Just as I imagined. Perfect for this house!’ she said, looking at Seymour for his opinion. His eyes were at the time studying her probably firm breasts.