Shortly after the Summer Solstice I was catching up with work to be done on the local website, and trying to decipher an e-mail from a woman who wanted me to post it as a thank-you to the staff at a hotel in Fobbington she had recently stayed at. It seemed to have been written by somebody with a literary lisp: ’SPECIAL THANKD TO THE CLEANING SUPERVISOR TOO FOR THE ENTHUSIASM FORVISIT’.
I was in the middle of trying to figure out exactly what she meant when Mr Beresford rang up. Speaking in a hushed, excited tone, he said if I would pop into his emporium sometime in the near future, he might have some business to put my way. Well of course this isn’t news to be casually brushed aside, and as luck would have it I had some work of mine to drop off with him.
Misty was completely unmoved by the prospect of business coming our way, and said he wanted to stay at home and talk to Jason instead, and help him package up some ’ENTRANCE TO HELL’ coffee-mugs, which were due to be mailed out to customers.
When I got to Mr Beresford’s shop, he was too busy slating (behind their backs) a bunch of young lads standing out in the street to impart the exciting news I was longing to hear.
“Look at them”, he said, sorrowfully “What has happened to today’s fashions? Nothing but baggy trousers and hoods. Why do young people look so drab?”
“This is a bit ironic coming from a man whom I’ve only ever seen in black suits!” I said.
“Ah but I wasn’t like that at their age”, he said “When I was an art student in Brighton I used to wear bright pink jumpers”.
I was momentarily struck dumb at the thought of this vision of loveliness wafting around the streets of 1970s Brighton. He did have a point though. I too am getting increasingly bored with the morose shaven-headed member-of-a-chain-gang look that seems to be so dominant these days. I thought I’d better get him back on track though before a customer came in and interrupted us.
“You were saying on the phone about …?” I prompted.
“Oh yes”, he said “Now I hope you’ll like this one. There’s a man, a new customer of mine, who has been doing up an old 18th century house on the marshes. He’s opening it very soon as an exclusive B&B”.
(How I hate the word “exclusive” when used in a context like this. It has a smack of social apartheid about it).
“Anyway, he’s quite an artist himself apparently”, Mr B went on “Although I have yet to see any of his work. He says he dabbles in abstracts, which I know isn’t quite your thing. He compares himself to Picasso”.
“Does he”, I said, thinking this guy sounds a complete pretentious dick. And abstract art round here reminds me of that lunatic Tara Mitchell and her freaky sculptures.
“Does anyone else compare him to Picasso?” I added “Or is it just him?”
“Now don’t be like that, Gray”, said Mr Beresford “I know you have very strong views about art, but the world be a very boring place if we all liked the same thing”.
“Indeed”, I said “So where do I come into all this?”
“Well the little job is this”, said Mr B “He wants a portrait done of his wife. Although between you and me, I think it’s her who wants it done. If ever there was a woman who was in love with herself it’s that one!”
It’s rare for Mr Beresford to really get bitchy about anyone. Normally he adopts an annoyingly tolerant Lets Be Fair attitude to one and all. I could only assume this woman must be a complete monster to provoke such a reaction in someone like him.
“If he’s such a great artist”, I said “Why doesn’t he paint her himself?”
“Because as I said he mainly does abstract work. And somehow I don’t think she’d want herself portrayed as a broken old boot or what-have-you … although having said that it would be quite appropriate in her case!”
The last thing I wanted to do was to turn away money in these hard times, but I was starting to get bad vibes about this couple.
“You know I’m not really a portraits person”, I said “Landscapes are more my line”.
“Now Gray”, he said “Here you go again, doing yourself down. I have seen the pictures you have done of little Misty”.
(He’s seen the CLOTHED pictures I’ve done of Misty, or the head and shoulders shots. He hasn’t seen the nude studies).
“I would seriously consider it if I was you”, he said, and then he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper “Between you and me these people are loaded. He’s made a fortune out of something to do with websites, and she was some snooty restaurant critic, or was it wine critic, I can’t remember. They decided to go into property renovation, and then the bottom fell out of the market, so they’re opening it as a guest-house instead of selling it”.
“Jolly good”, I said, feeling that I disliked them more with each word that was spoken “But you’d better warn me, am I supposed to do a highly flattering piece on her? I take she won’t want stark realism?”
“I think you can use your own judgement on that one”, he sniggered “All I will say is that I think she’s nudging 50, and rather full of herself, so a certain amount of artistic soft-focus may be permissible to please this particular client!”
I agreed to Mr Beresford passing on my phone number to them, and then I drove home with the unsettling feeling that I had done the wrong thing somehow. I reasoned with myself that the money could undoubtedly be put to good use. Depending on how long it took, I should undoubtedly be able to replace the washing-machine at the end of it. After all, Summer wouldn’t last forever, and trying to do hand-washing in the depths of Winter is no joke. But even so, I felt far from at ease with the whole thing.