Paint. The art of scam. (6 page)

‘Yeah. Bastards,’
said Seymour, unsuccessfully attempting to match her fury.

‘I canny believe
ut,’ shouted Sean angrily, taking a huge gulp from the bottle, ‘A fuckin' try
to earn a few extra quud ta gi ma sel a wee bitta pleasure in ma life be weldin
a few fuckin' bolts tagetha an tha bastards kick ya down back in tha fucking
gutter. . . I'll git the bastards. . .Just you wait an see. The fuckin'
bastards.’

They all looked
at Sean. He looked at them.

‘Well can ya
fuckin' believe ut, eh? I worked all ma fucking life. Payin' ma fuckin' taxes.
I pay those fuckin' bastards' wages. Ya know that? And then they fuckin'
crucify me for fucking trying to make a few extra bob. It's fuckin' ridiculous
that's what ut is.’

Tracy reached
across and touched his arm.

‘It's OK, Sean,
don't take it so seriously, at least you got a pension. We've got fuck all.
You could probably get a permit. Piece of piss, we can't: we'd lose our dole.’

‘Why the fuck should
I?’ said Sean.

Everyone looked
out to sea.

Tracy murmured, ‘I
knew this would happen.’

Everyone looked
at her.

‘Then why the
fuck didn't ya tell us?’ barked Sean.

They all looked
out to sea again.

As night fell
and the temperature dropped, they went back to Tracy's squat, a grotty but
spacious ex-bus station garage. They drank more of what seemed to be an
inexhaustible supply of the high octane liquid which Tracy, it transpired,
distilled from supermarket throw-away fruit.

‘You can make
booze from old socks if you know how,’ Tracy had told them later. If socks had had
a use-by date, she probably would have done.

Tracy was a
'freegan,' someone who only eats found food as a matter of principle. And it
was true, Seymour, in the short time he had known her, had never seen her spend
a penny on anything she consumed, except coffee, which according to Tracy,
didn't count. Seymour had put this down to her being either mean or just plain
broke. But in fact it was a philosophy that had sustained Tracy for over five
years. She was in perfect health and presented fantastically cooked food for
anyone at the squat, food which would put many a restaurant or cheeky chappy TV
chef to shame. She quietly did this with not a whiff of preaching pomposity. If
anyone chose to give her money for her excellent meals, she would accept it and
put it in her hidden 'stash,' along with her Tarot card takings and dole money,
which she would one day use to buy a camper van.

Tracy had not so
much a dream, more a plan, to travel to Spain for the winters. Her mother, who
died when she was just ten years old, was Spanish, which explained her strong
Latin features and scary man-eating character. She would do it, there was no
doubt. Tracy had no time for flippant dreams.

Seymour, now homeless,
spent the next two weeks at Tracy's squat, building up his stock, inspired by
the sparking energy that now surrounded him. He was amazed by the people in the
squat, some twelve of them, living together, but each with their own garage bays.
Tracy seemed to be well-respected in the squat and was some sort of a leader,
not through a contrived democracy but by a natural selection measured by
wisdom. It was just accepted. She was boss. If there was any problem, Tracy
solved it. If the police came, which they often did, it was Tracy who would
handle them, and they would leave almost apologizing for taking up her time.

They were fringe
dwellers living an urban tribal life that worked. They lived in a sub-world, a
fully functioning dynamic society smelling of incense and diesel.

Tracy and Sean,
determined not be beaten by the oppressive, capitalist, fascist state, returned
to the pier a few days later and set up shop again. Seymour, on the other hand,
content with his new surroundings, a nice wad of cash in his pocket and
inspired by the whole bizarre episode, chose to keep on working.

One evening,
Tracy came home and took Seymour aside.

‘That tart,
Polly,’ said Tracy, ‘she's been coming down every day to the pier to see if you
were there. Finally plucked up the courage to ask me where you were today. I
didn't tell her, wasn't sure if you wanted to see her again, especially after
the last time. Here's a note from her. Take my advice, Seymour, steer clear of
her. She's trouble, that one. Anyway . . . it's up to you.’

Tracy watched him
opening the envelope, his eyes lighting up and that stupid grin appearing, a
grin reserved only for whenever he spoke about Polly and 'that night,' which
was endlessly.

‘She wants to see
me!’ squeaked Seymour.

‘I know,’ said
Tracy

‘There's a phone
number! My God, she wants me to phone her!’

‘I know,’ said
Tracy

‘How do you know?’

‘I saw it in the
cards. And because I steamed it open.’

‘Why?’

‘I was just
checking.’

It took some time
for Seymour to discover how exactly one makes a phone call from a public phone
box. The last time he had done so, it was a matter of putting coins into a
slot. Now it seemed one had to first buy a phone card and then put the card in
a slot before you could make the call. An 85 year old lady waiting outside,
whilst he fumbled around trying to stuff a two pence piece in the card slot,
had showed him this amazing advance in technology. It struck him as an
unnecessary extra transaction and more evidence of the oppressive globalisation
that Tracy and her mates at the squat had been ranting on about. He was
beginning to see what they meant.

‘Hello. Polly?’

‘Yes, speaking.
Oh. . . Seymour is that you?’

‘Yes. How are
you?’

‘I'm fine, well
fine-ish. You got my note then?’

‘Yes, must say I
was a bit surprised. I thought, well you know.’

‘Yes it was all a
bit messy the other night, wasn't it.’

‘Yeah, well, a
bit. So what happened after I left?’

‘Oh, nothing
really. He just ranted on for a while, called me a whore, you know stuff like
that. I suppose it would have been more normal if he'd just beaten you up or
something, bloody wimp. I think he was scared of you. Anyway he didn't believe
a word I told him, of course.’

‘What did you
tell him?’

‘The truth.’

‘The truth? Why?’

‘That's just the
kind of gal I am Seymour. Anyway you'd have to be a bloody politician to get
out of that unscathed. It was a bit obvious wasn't it? I think he was more
pissed off that we'd used up all his coke than anything else. Still. I've moved
out.’

‘Oh. I see. Sorry
about that.’

‘Don't be, it
wasn't your fault. You did me a big favour really. I can't be with a man who
doesn't believe the truth. It's OK, in some ways I think I sabotaged it all
anyway, just like you talked about.’

‘I did?’

‘Don't you
remember? You told me that we all subconsciously destroy things that aren't
what we really want, but feel we just need.’

‘Oh yes. I
remember. Yeah, that's right.’

‘‘Mmmm . . . liar.
Anyway, I think that's exactly what I was doing.’

‘Right. So where
are you now?’

‘I'm at a friend’s
place in Hove. Quite lucky really, she's gone away to the States for a few
months. She offered it to me a while ago. Well, anyway, that's all history
now. So . . . ’

‘Oh, right. So. .
.’

‘Well?’

‘Well. What?’

‘So what have you
been up to then Seymour?’

‘Oh you know. Bit
of this, bit of that. Doing some more paintings. Trying to build up some stock.’

‘Oh good. Have
you been selling more work then, somewhere else? ‘

‘Uh well, not
really.’

‘Why did you
leave the pier?’

‘Time to move on,
I suppose.’

‘You sound a bit vague
Seymour. Has something happened?’

‘Happened? Uh.
No. Well yes, something always happens.’

‘Would you like
to meet for coffee or something?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes. Of
course. Where? Love to.’

‘Are you busy
tomorrow?’

‘Uh. I'll just
have to check my diary, uh, let me see. No, bugger all happening tomorrow.’

‘Good. How about
we meet at Donacello's at around ten. You know Donacello's?’

‘Uh yes. In the
Lanes isn't it?’

‘Yup. Well, I'll
see you there, then.’

‘OK. Right.’

‘I promise it
won't hurt so much this time. Bye . . . oh Seymour? Are you still there?

‘Yes.’

‘Do you really
have a diary?’

‘No.’

‘Good. ‘Bye.’

Seymour gently
replaced the receiver and grinned a grin that threatened to lock his jaw.

Polly replaced
the receiver and smiled to herself. She had hesitated to contact Seymour ever
since 'that night' and had gone through mental acrobatics to work out exactly
what had actually happened. She had come up with numerous conclusions, each
with their own sound logic. These ranged from a magic chemistry between them,
to a perfect device to get her out of an increasingly uncomfortable
relationship with the manipulative Kevin, which would relieve her of actually
having to make the decision to leave. After the chaos that followed that
night, her life had been turned upside down, and not for the first time. The
drugs that had been a large part of her life with Kevin had now dispersed and
things were feeling clearer. This was a watershed. She had declared several
times in the peace of her new home that that was it, no more, never again. She
was going to build a new life, independent of well-heeled men who wanted her as
an accessory to colour up their dull male egos and show her off to clients. No
more. Never again.

They met at
Donacello's, had coffee, then a long wine- soaked, giggling lunch, and walked
along Brighton beach, their arms intertwined like a ring puzzle. Later, back
in Hove, they returned to Polly's friend's converted clothing sweatshop, made
spine-arching love and hadn’t spent a day apart since.

Within days, they
were married at a registry office in Hove.

So much for no
more, never again. But this was different.

There was no
doubt. Seymour Capital had shaken Polly's tail-feather like no man had ever
done before, without the aid of copious amounts of cash. Gone were the false
smiles and duty sex that had paid her way before. No more false glee for the
unwanted gifts she had been showered with in the past. Nothing but the
unadulterated pleasure that only honest, toll-free passion can give.

Seymour too felt
an inexplicable satisfaction in Polly's company. He felt completely relaxed
with her. No false gestures of affection to earn his keep, no avoiding talking
about his dubious past for fear of sabotaging his future, no lies to keep the
peace or the struggle to remember them, no more covert handbag rifling to buy
tobacco and hashish that he had to pretend not to smoke.

No, this was
completely differen
t
from any relationship he had ever had before.

Both of them were
swimming effortlessly in an infinite sea of calm, blue love.

And yet the word
'love' was never said, possibly because both of them had said it falsely too
many times in their pasts. But to all intents and purposes, what they had,
however long it might last, was love. To declare it would have possibly killed
it.

But two weeks
later, just after Seymour had brought over his easel from Tracy's squat and
moved in with Polly, reality kicked in.

It suddenly
occurred to them - to Polly at least - that they actually had no money, nor
the prospect of any.

Their heads
resting on someone else's pillows, on someone else's bed, drunk and exhausted
from passionate, wrestling sex, the loving couple tried to find a way to
survive the cruel world surrounding them. Somehow, Polly had declared that she
would work to support them both, enabling Seymour to continue with his work. She
would then, when the time was right, try to find a gallery to show his work.

In the past, in a
brief spell as an art dealer's mole, Polly had witnessed obscene amounts of
money changing hands for what she considered to be crap with a concept.
Seymour's work was certainly not crap, that she did know, and, as far as she
could make out, it was concept free. But having heard various pompous artists
talk about their work and its conception, which to her seemed unrelated until
explained to nodding, chin- massaging heads, concept was just an idea. Polly
was sure that the concept of Seymour's work could be made up – once the
painting was finished.

It was true to
say, however, that her knowledge of art and its historic leap to commodity
status was limited. But that was irrelevant: she would somehow pull it off.