Paint. The art of scam. Read online

  ‘Glad you like it,’ mumbled Seymour, wearing the stupid grin of a pubescent teenager confronted with his first glimpse of a naked female.

  ‘I love it Seymour, you really have a talent.’

  Seymour shrugged, content to let the moment last forever.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Polly, gently touching him on the arm.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, that would be good, thanks.’

  ‘Come on through, excuse the mess, we're in the middle of decorating,’ said Polly leading him from the hall. Her eyes looked back proudly at the painting which Seymour had always thought was OK but lacked something.

  They entered a huge high-ceilinged room strewn with various antique and modern pieces of furniture. The acrid smell of fresh paint made his empty stomach contort, sending the butterflies that fluttered inside it into a frenzy. He followed her through to a large space-age kitchen and Polly yanked open the door of a huge American stainless steel fridge.

  ‘Let me see, I've got some champers open, would you like some?’ said Polly, looking back at Seymour under her arm.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Nice place.’

  ‘It will be when it's finished. It's a bloody nightmare getting builders,’ said Polly grabbing a champagne flute and placing it next to her half empty one, next to a dish of carefully displayed nuts and crisps on the long pine table.

  Seymour watched her pour the champagne, tilting the glass carefully as she did so. Despite her slick, efficient manner, Seymour detected a certain nervousness about her, as if she were eager to please him, and began to feel a warm smugness seeping in.

  ‘Nibbles? Help yourself. Have you eaten?’

  ‘No, no I haven't.’

  ‘I've got a chicken in the oven if you'd like to stay for dinner, or have you got something else planned this evening?’

  ‘No. No - that would be lovely. Thank you,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Great! You aren't vegetarian or anything, are you?’

  ‘Me? No, I eat vegetarians.’

  ‘Ha! Thank God. All my friends seem to be on some sort of eating fad lately. Can't eat this, can't eat that . . . “Oh, no, not for me thanks, can't eat carbohydrates on a full moon...Oh, that is gluten free isn't it?” Drives me bloody crazy.’

  Seymour grabbed a handful of peanuts as Polly passed him his flute, held hers up to him, and winked.

  ‘Well then. Cheers to you,’ said Polly.

  ‘Cheers to me,’ said Seymour, battling to keep the eye contact Polly made as they drank.

  ‘Mmmm nice, don't you just love champagne? Please. Sit down,’ said Polly, turning to check the oven.

  Seymour grabbed another handful of nuts and sat at the table noting the three places laid neatly and her perfect bottom as she gazed into the oven.

  ‘So where's Gavin?’ asked Seymour.

  ‘Kevin, his name’s Kevin. Oh, he's probably on the train back from London. Should be here soon.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Seymour lying. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He's a corporate lawyer.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘Are you kidding? Those people are about as interesting as a Japanese slide show.’

  Once again Seymour traced animosity in her voice. It fed his unstoppable delight in the hope that she was desperately unhappy with this bloody Kevin character.

  ‘Have you been together long?’ asked Seymour, nonchalantly.

  ‘It’s all quite new really; I used to work for him. God, I hated it. You ever worked in an office, Seymour?’

  ‘No. Well, once. As a cleaner, didn't last long, couldn't stand the smell.’

  ‘The smell? Of what?’

  ‘Cheap perfume, deodorant, sweat, air conditioning, crawling fear, everything really.’

  ‘My God, yes - I know what you mean. How long did you last?’

  ‘Couple of hours. I couldn't see anything worth cleaning.’

  Polly laughed, sat down opposite him, topped up his glass, then her almost empty one.

  ‘So Seymour, do you make a living from your work?’

  Seymour remembered his pledge to stop lying through his teeth.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘So what do you do then. . . to live?’

  ‘I'm a night watchman.’

  ‘Oh? Where?’

  ‘Down at the pier where I have my stall.’

  ‘Is it your night off then?’

  Seymour hadn't thought of that. He really should be there but, as yet, nobody had been to check on him.

  ‘Yes.’

  The phone rang and Polly grabbed the cordless on the table next to her.

  ‘Hello... Oh, hi. Where are you?’ Polly looked across at Seymour, then at her watch and smiled as she stood up and wandered into the front room.

  ‘Oh bloody hell, Kevin, not again. Are you drunk? Well, you sound it. What do you mean? Yes, Seymour's here. The artist, remember? Oh don't be ridiculous Kevin. So where are you going to stay? Who . . .? Who's he . . .? Oh, for God’s sake, Kevin. OK. I'll see you tomorrow. No - of course not. Don't start that again. That's not fair. No, it's not. Oh fuck you!’

  Seymour craned forward and watched her angrily stab at the cordless phone button, throw it on the sofa and storm upstairs. Seymour looked around the kitchen and smiled to himself. This was not a happy household. This kitchen was Polly's domain, straight out of Marie Claire magazine, everything in its place, expensive gadgets, dried flowers, post-it notes on the fridge: a kind of ordered country casual. The sort of atmosphere that tries hard to look happy-go-lucky, without actually having to be happy.

  A few minutes later the toilet flushed upstairs and Polly reappeared, descending the stairs with forced composure. She came slowly back into the kitchen, attempting to hide her fury.

  ‘Sorry about that, Seymour, that was Kevin. He's got to stay in London.’

  ‘Oh. What a pity,’ said Seymour, hoping he wasn't showing the delight he felt.

  Polly took a huge slug of champagne, topped up her glass yet again, drained the remainder of the bottle into Seymour's, clumsily wrestled a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit it all in one movement.

  ‘Still, all the more for us. Cheers.’

  They chinked glasses.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Sorry, do you smoke?’ said Polly, offering him the pack.

  ‘No thanks. Well, I do sometimes, just roll-ups. Look if you’d rather I left, I …’

  ‘Certainly not, Seymour,’ said a suddenly indignant Polly. ‘I've cooked a bloody great meal here. It’s his loss. He's probably getting drunk with some prat and crawling up his ass to get another brief to sue some poor idiot out of business.’

  ‘You paint a lovely image of Gavin.’

  ‘Kevin, his name’s Kevin,’ said Polly as she went to the fridge and pulled out another bottle.

  ‘Would you like more champagne?’

  ‘Sure, that'll be nice, thanks,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Unless you want to go, of course. You look like you’re dressed to go out.’

  ‘No no, not at all. I always dress like this. Well, when I'm seeing clients.’

  ‘Good.’

  In a matter of seconds she had expertly opened and poured the champagne.

  ‘You've done that before,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Couple of times.’

  Polly settled back in her chair and once again held up her glass to him. Seymour chinked his flute with hers.

  ‘So tell me about you. Who is Seymour Capital?’

  ‘Me? There's not much to tell, really.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Polly, looking at him with suspicion.

  ‘Are you in a relationship?’

  ‘No. Haven't got time.’

  Seymour launched into a brief synopsis of his life, designed to present himself as an autonomous, sincere man who was dedicated to his work, had been in only two long-term relationships that had ended amicably, and believed that love was probably the most highly abused word in the English
language, with 'sorry' coming a close second. A man who respected women and their rights to a fair share of everything. A man whose ambition was to not look for happiness, as most folk do, but to realise it is with us all daily and you should appreciate your responsibility to live a creative life and not give yourself to one person or thing like a God, but give yourself to the world in order to reap the rewards it has to offer.

  This declaration was formulated on an empty stomach, except for thoughtful grabs of peanuts and several gulps of champagne which felt as if they had been injected directly into his brain; along with several downright lies.

  ‘Well, Seymour, you sound like a very nice man, or a liar,’ smiled Polly.

  ‘I'm a very nice man,’ said Seymour. ‘How about you?’

  Polly presented herself as a disappointed woman who had forgotten to have a career and children for good reason. She had married twice, and endured several disastrous relationships, with Kevin shaping up to be yet another one. She wanted nothing more than a simple, uncomplicated life of occasional decadence; she wanted independence, enjoyed meaningful sex, and hoped one day to have her own business doing, well, something. It also transpired that Kevin was still married and was going through an acrimonious divorce for adultery, with Polly being the evil adulteress. The house was paid for by Kevin, but belonged to a newly-created limited company, of which both she and Kevin were directors. This was to protect him from his ex-wife's attempt to financially destroy him, the fine details of which were unclear to her.

  By the time Seymour and Polly had told their stories, both were delightfully drunk, and had between them somehow managed to serve and eat a delicious meal. They were now attempting to regain a semblance of consciousness with coffee, cocaine, hashish and brandy, which served instead to put them on a helter-skelter ride between sublime wisdom, idiotic burbling and occasional waves of paranoia.

  Polly was gracefully draped across the table, her dress straps sliding down her arms with every windmill arm-swing she made to accompany her excitable ranting. Seymour listened, slouched back in his chair, and attempted to stop himself from sliding under the table.

  After hours of amazing insights into the complex and often chaotic state of their minds, they concluded that virtually everything on planet Earth was fucking ridiculous. God doesn't and never has existed, and is only a dangerous idea as powerful as the number of people who believe in Him - or It, come to that. Superglue doesn't stick anything together except skin, the world, and relationships, and virtually everything is completely buggered and there is nothing on this Earth as satisfying as a glass of champagne and a fag.

  ‘And you know what Sleymour?’ said Polly ‘I bloody like you, you must be the most fucking intereshting bloke I've shpent time with for bloody years.’

  Seymour closed an eye to see if there really were two Pollys there. Yup, there were - not a bad thing. Her breasts were now fully visible and Polly either didn't care or had no idea. He had to say something.

  ‘You know what Polly?’ said Seymour.

  ‘What?’ said Polly.

  ‘Your titchs are hanging out.’

  She looked down: he was right. She attempted to shovel them back in but the straps had slipped through her arms and were tangled up somewhere too complicated to deal with. She gave up, stared at Seymour and suddenly launched herself across the table shoving plates, glasses, cutlery and everything in her path crashing onto the slate floor. Polly landed perfectly onto Seymour's lap, her legs somehow miraculously ending up astride him. She looked him straight in the eyes and slapped her full red lips onto his. Seymour, shocked, tried to pull back. Why? He wasn't sure. This stuff had, thus far in his life, only inhabited either movies, TV ads or lone fantasies of the night.

  His chair slowly leaned back with the mysterious combined forces of Seymour's retreat and Polly's enthusiastic advances. His chair reached the point of no return and fell backward sending both of them in a wrestling grapple onto the lounge carpet.

  Within seconds she was sat astride him, her face inches away from his. She again slapped her now smudged pouting lips onto his stupid clown-like grin and proceeded to suck out his digestive system.

  Seymour, attempting to breathe through his nose whilst happily being asphyxiated, ripped at her dress, tearing it clean in two as she pulled off his jacket Houdini style. She slithered down to his crotch, undid his flies and wrestled his vaguely enthusiastic penis into her mouth.

  The phone rang.

  They froze and looked up at the cordless handset warbling on the sofa. Climbing off Seymour, she slowly crawled on all fours towards it. Seymour watched her.

  The phone stopped. Polly dropped her head, let out a defeated sigh as she stood up, grabbed a throw from the sofa and wrapped it around herself.

  ‘Oh shit, what's the time? What the hell am I doing for God’s sake?’ whispered Polly, suddenly distressed. She looked up at the clock, then at Seymour, who was attempting to yank his trousers on.

  ‘God, I'm sorry Seymour, this should not be happening, please forgive me. Oh God. Fuck!’

  Polly looked around at the chaos, running her hands through her hair.

  Seymour stood up, his oversized suit trousers falling down to his ankles as he took a step forward and promptly fell like a tree, landing flat on his nose. After a moment of being stunned, he rolled over groaning, blood pouring out of his nostrils.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he moaned.

  Polly, snapped out of her desperate drug-numbed dilemma by the slow-motion crash of Seymour's fall, went over to him and knelt beside him.

  ‘Oh shit Seymour. What a mess! Hang on.’

  Polly shuffled over to the kitchen. Seymour, dazed, heard a tap running, then seconds later felt a cold tea towel smothering his face.

  Somehow Polly managed to negotiate him onto the sofa and threw a blanket over him.

  ‘Seymour, listen to me. Can you hear me?’

  Seymour nodded at her distant voice.

  ‘You stay here on the sofa until you sober up, OK? Then you have to go. Kevin will be back in the morning. I'm going to bed. I'll set the alarm for six and get you up. OK? Do you understand?’

  Seymour nodded. ‘Oi wona cumb wid you,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Forget it, Seymour! It's not going to happen. Now get some sleep. OK?’

  Polly quickly left his side and clumsily ran up the stairs whispering ‘Fuck fuck fuck.’

  Seymour didn't really sleep. It was more like a puzzling suspended animation, frozen in some timeless dark waiting room, his nostrils blocked with a mixture of congealed blood and remnants of dubious cocaine. It seemed dark, but slowly his raspberry eyes adjusted to the incidental light from the full moon, cruelly tinted by the yellow sodium street lamps outside. He could just make out the layout of the room and vaguely remembered the proximity of the stairs out there in the hall. The evening's events were just starting to take shape. He had to get out. He remembered Polly's final words. He also needed to pee urgently. The kitchen sink, of course. That was not far away. Yes. Yes, he could get there easily.

  Easing himself off the sofa, he slowly stood up and noticed he was wearing only his underpants. Where were his trousers? His bladder screamed at him. Bugger it. After taking a moment to get his bearings, he made his way to where he thought the kitchen was. There it was: he could just make it out from the moonlight shining through the skylight. Taking a step forward Seymour felt something prick his toe. He stepped back and tripped over backwards onto the sofa. The ceiling turned more slowly now and his bladder moved up to join his heart. More of the evening’s events began seeping through: snapshots appeared then faded, fantasy and reality merged in a post-drug numbness. Something tickled the sole of his foot; he shook it. It didn't feel right. He reached down and felt the warm blood oozing from his foot and he felt something sharp jutting from his toe's webbing. He pulled out a shard of champagne flute.

  His eyes had adjusted to the light now, or maybe it was getting light - he wasn't sure. He looked around and found t
he door. Easing himself up, he limped towards the door. Ah, there they were, the stairs. He looked up. It was dark up there. Where was the light switch? He ran his hands along the wall and found a wire hanging out the wall. Fucking builders. He could make it, stairs are easy once you get started. One step at a time. He made it to the top and into what seemed like a small corridor. He could just make out three or four doorways. One of them was open: it must be that one at the end. Yes! He reached it, felt around inside and grabbed a vacuum cleaner. Fuck. He noticed another door next to it, ajar. Pushing it open, he could see it. The toilet.

  Outside the house a purring Porsche 911 slowly pulled up. The passenger door opened and Kevin stumbled out, leant back into the car, steadying himself with his hand on the roof.

  ‘Thanks a lot, Steve. Sorry to put you to so much trouble. . . I'll see you later at the office. Oh, and by the way, it was a great night, eh? Good result,’ said Kevin.

  Kevin slammed the car door, and staggered up the steps, opened the front door, grabbed a torch from a table and quietly climbed the stairs so as not to wake Polly.

  Polly, meanwhile, had just woken up dying for a pee, having drunk a large glass of water before going to bed. She had edged out into the hallway naked and crashed head on into Seymour. This happened just as Kevin switched on the 500 watt quartz halogen work-light the builders had kindly left for them until the electrician had finished his community service.

  Polly, nude, and Seymour in his lipstick-smudged underpants stood interlocked to steady each other. They looked at Kevin. Kevin looked at them: and jumped to a conclusion.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Love hurts

  The next day down at the pier Tracy set up her table, as did everybody else, leaving a space for Seymour who had yet to emerge from his caravan. It wasn't until ten o'clock that Tracey became concerned about Seymour. The compound gates around the caravan were open and Tracy went in. She knocked twice and heard a groan from inside.

  ‘Seymour? Are you OK?’