Paint. The art of scam. (9 page)

‘Mr. Arnold? Are
you OK?’

‘Get back to your
work, woman. I'm warning you. D-d-don't push your luck!’

‘OK, Mr. Arnold.
OK, calm down. You know, you shouldn't get so worked up over nothing! You'll
make yourself ill.’

Polly waited in his office until he seemed to recover, then went
to the toilet for a cigarette.

The sun seeping
through the toxic air felt good on Polly’s shoulders as she sat on the bench.
She still had fifteen minutes of her lunch break before she had to return to
the office and she wanted to relish every moment. This could be her last lunch
hour.

She hadn't
actually planned to try and get the sack before, but the tête-à-tête with
Arnold in the morning had inspired her. She had decided to leave anyway - so
why not go out with a bang?

The more she
thought about it, the more appealing the idea became.

Leaving
voluntarily would make it virtually impossible to receive social security and
all the benefits that would go with it. Given that she couldn't depend on
Seymour rushing out to get a job, they would need other means to survive.

The idea began to
develop into a plan. If Arnold didn't sack her that afternoon, he'd do it
tomorrow for sure: she was going to get to work by public transport, miss the
number three and get the number nine.

But Mr. Arnold
seemed to have calmed down after lunch and sat at his office desk all
afternoon, never once looking out through his window. Polly was furious with
him: she had been to the toilet seven times and smoked seven cigarettes, none
of which she enjoyed. Not once had he noticed.

She found three
more late clock-ons that afternoon, and ignored them. She knew Arnold would
discover her error as they were all double-checked by the supervisor who would
delight in busting her. That, along with being late tomorrow and more fags in
the toilet should do the trick.

Polly began to
get excited about her mission. During that afternoon she'd done her sums. If
she got sacked tomorrow, or rather when she got the sack tomorrow, she'd get
nearly seven day's holiday pay, a week in hand plus the normal week's pay.
That would be enough for her and Seymour to survive for a month or so if they
were careful. Bugger it, two weeks if they weren't, and certainly long enough
to have a few days lounging around in bed drinking champagne and screwing each
other stupid before Seymour would have to get his ass into gear and get a job.

Polly knocked on
the door of Mr. Arnold's' office just before finishing work for the day.

‘Um Mr. Arnold, I
wonder if I could have a twenty pound advance on my pay from petty cash? I -
um - seem to have left my purse at home and I need to buy some . . . you know .
. . things.’ She was only going to ask for a fiver, but her shopping list had
grown by now. Three quid for the bus to freedom in the morning, a bottle of
cheap bubbly, and a Chinese takeaway: twenty should do nicely.

Mr. Arnold looked
up from his desk over his glasses. ‘Mrs. Capita – um - ’

‘- I'm sorry, I
know you don't like giving advances but this really is important.’
Shit, he's going to fire me now
.
Go on. Say it, you miserable shit. Say it!

‘I'm - um - sorry
for snapping at you today. I've not been feeling myself lately. I'm on these
tablets now, you see. I don't like taking them you know, but the doctor. . . well,
he said if I don't . . . well . . . I didn't this morning. But now I have. So
. . . what was it you wanted?’

‘Twenty pounds.’

‘Of course,
twenty pounds. Um - I've got a key somewhere . . . it . . . um.’

Polly stood there
watching Mr. Arnold fumbling in his pockets. She'd never seen him like this
before; so disorientated, confused. Eventually he found the key, unlocked the
petty cashbox he kept in a desk drawer and handed her three ten pound notes.

‘Thank you Mr.
Arnold, I appreciate it.’

Polly didn’t wait
for a reply, nor did she point out that he had given her thirty instead of
twenty. By the look of the state he was in, it was unlikely he’d remember
giving her anything or even whether she was there or not. Sat back at her desk,
the sun beaming through the office windows, Polly looked up at the clock; it
was just two o’clock. She looked again at Mr. Arnold who was again searching
through his pockets: a puzzled look on his face.
Bugger it
thought Polly.
Might
as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.

Polly slipped out
through the factory gates and jumped on a bus to Brighton. She wasn’t ready to
go home yet though. She had some thinking to do, well aware, as she was, of her
propensity for spontaneous decision making without considering the
consequences: something she had promised herself to work on. She needed to
clear her head of all the things that seemed to be driving her crazy. When she
did eventually get home; she would need to be absolutely, crystal clear about
her decision to leave Hogarth’s and Seymour would need to be pinned down with
the reality of it: that was vital. Sitting up front, upstairs on the
double-decker bus helped, as she was able to passively watch the world and its
people go by, leaving her mind to wash around her muddled thoughts and doubts
that seemed so complex and confusing. The ferocity of last night’s argument with
Seymour still reverberated in her. She had considered the possibility that
maybe their relationship just can’t work after all. This was it: the limit. It
was true; she was at her wits end. Something had to give. She also suspected
that the power of their hate was equal to the power of their love: and that she
thoroughly enjoyed both. Polly kicked herself at the thought and pushed it to
the back of her mind where it belonged.
I
just wish he didn’t smoke so much fucking hashish: that would help. He’s been
smoking more and more lately. I don’t have a problem with hashish, I like a
good puff too, in the evening with a glass of wine, it’s fun. I even understand
why he smokes it. But Seymour starts the day off with a huge mug of hash coffee
these days and then smokes endless joints all day watching shit, daytime TV. He
even denies that he’s doing it. If he did the bloody washing up for once then I
wouldn’t be able to smell the stuff in the numerous mugs that he dumps in the
sink. Can you believe it? I’m sniffing his mugs to see if he’s making hash
coffee and feeling the TV when I get in to see if he’s been watching it! For
God’s sake. I’m turning into his fucking mother!
Not anymore. That’s it! And if he doesn’t like it? Well he can just
bugger off and live off somebody else, just like he’s done before. We had a
deal and he’s broken it. All that fucking talking about me trying to organise a
show for him. That was the deal and what does he do? Nothing. Well, that’s not
totally true. When he does get off his ass, he does some wonderful work. I
really do have great faith in him. Yes, keep saying it over and over Polly. You
have great faith in him. We can do it: together. God that bastard makes me so
fucking angry!
An elderly couple sat behind her a few rows back chatting
and laughing endlessly about nothing in particular. It was comforting somehow.
Although she couldn’t make out exactly what they were talking about, the sound
of them was enough, just normal people living, what sounded like uncomplicated
lives, saying things like, ‘Oh well mustn’t grumble. Plenty worse off than us.’
She wondered what that would be like; to have a normal, simple life with no
ambition, no expectation and never wondering whether you are happy or not. Just
getting on with your lot, and putting up with it.

That was an
absurd notion; Polly knew that. Having a normal, simple life is not a decision;
neither is being unhappy.

Polly got off the
bus at the Clock Tower and stood for a while, gently nudged by passing
pedestrians, surrounded by the chaotic sounds and smells of cars, buses, people
walking talking, people waiting, everybody going somewhere. That’s why she
loved Brighton. All those people: good looking people, exotic people from all
over the world, pulled in by the indefinable energy magnet that Brighton is.
You can just be there and soak it all up: she missed it.

‘Polly darling!
How are you?’

Polly snapped out
of her mild trance to see a bubbly, overdressed woman about to gobble her up
with over enthusiastic hugs and air kisses. It was Kevin’s sister, Rita. Rita
thought that everybody’s emotions should be in the public domain, whether they
like it or not.

‘Rita. Hi. How
are you?’

‘Fantastic! Yes,
everything is great. My God! It’s so good to see you! Wow! How are you?’

‘I’m great too.’
said Polly.

‘Well that’s
great! It’s been simply ages since I last saw you. You look, different,
somehow. Have you been poorly?’

‘No, not to my
knowledge.’ Polly quickly checked her reflection in a shop window. Rita was
right, she looked rough.

‘Been working a lot
lately, bit tired I suppose.’

“Oh? What are
doing these days?’

‘Um, well, this
and that, lots of projects on the go. You know how it is.’

‘Yes, quite. Are
you still with that artist chap?’

Here we go
, thought Polly. Rita’s going to start digging
the dirt. ‘Seymour? Well, yes actually.. I am. How’s Kevin?’

‘Oh not too bad,
up and down. You know he was really cut up when you left him. Still is if you
ask me.’ Rita suddenly dropped her head and looked worried for a second

This was Polly’s
cue to feed Rita’s appetite for drama. Polly chose to nod and smile. ‘Oh well.’

‘It all happened
so suddenly. It took us completely by surprise. We all thought you were so good
together.’

The ‘we’ that
thought Polly and Kevin were so good together was in fact; Rita, who, in fact,
didn’t want them to be good together at all and worked tirelessly to cause
trouble between them whenever she could. The rest of Kevin’s family and friends
quietly suspected Polly of gold digging and they, indeed, they had a point.

‘Yes well. Life is
full of surprises. Look I really have to go Rita,’ said Polly looking up to the
clock tower which had stopped at 4.32 three months ago.

‘Oh. You don’t
have time for a quick coffee or something?’

‘No, sorry. No I
don’t. I have a meeting to go to.’

‘Oh, what a pity.
Well let’s have lunch sometime. You still have my number?’

‘Yes, yes I do.
That’ll be great Rita. Look I’ll call you soon. OK?’ said Polly, as she
withdrew before Rita had the chance to give one of her legendary, consolatory
hugs, usually accompanied by whispered inane advice.

‘OK Polly, I’ll
look forward to..... Oh.’

Polly was out of
earshot before Rita had time to finish her parting words. Quickening her step
to match her excuse, she headed down toward the East Pier and set off West
along the promenade back home to Hove. She was in no hurry; she still wasn’t
quite ready to see Seymour. Bumping into Rita like that had thrown her;
regurgitated something, as if it were a reminder of the last time she had
barged into other people’s lives and caused mayhem.
Am I doing the same thing again?
she thought.
Am I really that bad?
Suddenly, Polly was feeling like shit about
herself: guilty of something, and it was Rita that had put her there.
How can she do that?
She’d always
disliked Rita; right from the start and it was mutual. Kevin’s family were
Jewish. They wanted Kevin to find himself a nice Jewish girl: not some flighty
tart like Polly. They had made that perfectly clear many times at ridiculously
formal family get-togethers by using some sort of coded innuendo delivered in a
mechanical language that made Polly
grimace
. Kevin had
always said that he was above all that Jewish family shit and for her not to
worry about it; but he always kept that
yarmulke
handy,
just in case.
Shit, even now, that
fucking family are making me angry! That’s what people like Rita do, they make
themselves feel good by making everybody else feel like shit!

Polly ambled past
the old West pier: no Sean, no Tracy, nobody. She was relieved in some way.
That day, when she had first set eyes on Seymour and felt that strange tingle,
was firmly imprinted on her as one of the strongest moments of her life. To see
Tracy again would have been strange, awkward. Why? She wasn’t sure. Seymour often
talked about Tracy: her inspiring power, her wisdom, her honesty; an honesty
that she lived by and from. Seymour told her that Tracy had changed his life.
It was the tarot reading. He swore that Tracy had entered his head and flicked
a switch that had changed his mind. He couldn’t explain it, but, given that he
is so cynical that he thinks conspiracy theories are just a conspiracy theory,
it sounded credible and she had certainly affected him in a big way. Polly
smiled,
I wonder what he was like before?

Polly sat on a
bench, staring out to sea, watching the sun edge its way down to the West,
sending a rare, but glorious, ever changing light show across the horizon.
Pounding joggers thumped past with measured, hissing breath, vagrants shuffled
past, checking bins, cheeky seagulls swooped and lovers caressed on the pebbled
beach.