The evening that had been earmarked for met to meet the pretentious couple out on the marshes came round all too soon. My dim hopes that something cataclysmic, such as an outbreak of bubonic plague or a nuclear war, would intervene to save me didn’t materialise. Misty wisely stayed at home to watch a dvd with Xanthe, and so on an oppressive, humid evening at the beginning of July I drove out alone to the marshy area on the approach to Darklight Cove.
The house was already up and running as a bed and breakfast, but as I approached I didn’t see much evidence of guests. There was an enormous Range Rover with a personalised number-plate parked inconveniently right across the front door, which I took to be the owners’ (it was), but other than that there were no vehicles there at all.
Clutching my sketch-pad and some nicely-sharpened pencils, and feeling like a nervous school-boy, I sidled my way round their expensive gas-guzzler and rang the doorbell. I was mentally prepared for anything, which was just as well considering the vision that greeted me. Mein host was a softly-spoken Irishman with iron-grey hair, and wearing an absurd outfit of check shirt, tie, and purple velvet bell-bottom trousers. It was as if his top half was a member of the Countryside Alliance, and his bottom half was Ken Russell!
His house was wonderful, one of those square, solidly-built early 19th century efforts, with a magnificent broad staircase and high ceilings. He should have been immediately taken out and shot for what he had done to the interior of it though.
Mr Beresford had told me that this guy had aspirations to be another Picasso, but even so I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Every available square inch of wall space was covered with his “masterpieces”, and by golly they were bloody terrible. From what I could tell they seemed to be nightmarish depictions of giant insects, all done out in psychedelic colours. Any guests he must have staying there must have suffered from nightmares, seeing this lot on the way up to bed!
I don’t know about Picasso so much, they reminded me more of a sort of talent less version of Salvador Dali. To add insult to injury he had stuck price stickers on each and every one of them. Those big, colourful cardboard star stickers you see on market stalls and bargain bins. Perhaps even this wouldn’t have been so bad if he had charged bargain bin prices, but his pricing was every bit as eccentric as the artwork! Many were in the thousands of pounds league, and - you’ll think I’m pulling your leg - but I swear one of them was priced at a cool £1,000.000. You have to give him 10 out of 10 for sheer barefaced nerve I suppose.
I could only stand there, speechless with horror at the whole exhibition. Everybody is entitled to their moments of self-deception. To face life in all its stark reality ALL the time would be intolerable, and sometimes those little moments of self-deception keep us going. Dreams and fantasies are important. But what I saw here had crossed over from harmless fantasy to outright lunacy.
He took my speechlessness for admiration (well he would wouldn’t he!).
“I see you charge an average of 60 pounds for your work”, he said, and he inference was obvious - I was a much more inferior artist.
“Well Mr Beresford does all the pricing”, I said “And we find that that’s what people are prepared to pay, particularly in these hard times”.
(I have on occasion sold one for more than £200, but such glorious instances are sadly rare).
“People will always pay more for quality”, he said, getting more and more insulting by the second.
“Do you sell many then?” I asked, out of genuine macabre fascination (who the bloody hell would actually shell out money for this trash????).
He pointed proudly at a pile of flat-pack parcels stacked on a chair. The top one had a yellow post-it note stuck to it with the instruction “MAIL TO …” and then some address on the other side of the world. I wasn’t remotely taken in by this. It’s a hackneyed old marketing ploy: make it look as though your work is in great demand. Those (I strongly suspect) empty boxes were for the benefit of his longsuffering guests, to try and persuade them to buy one of his horrible pieces.
He took me into the living-room (or drawing-room as he insisted on calling it), and there was another abomination hanging over the fireplace. This was a straightforward non-abstract seascape of the beach at Darklight Cove. Think of the standard of a really atrocious painting-by-numbers, and you get the idea of it. It wasn’t just that the painting was technically very amateur, it had no soul to it. None whatsoever. It was production-line painting.
“My wife’s”, he said “She does the landscapes. Seascapes are very popular these days I understand”.
“Yes they are”, I said “They always have been”.
I was almost reeling from shock. I tried to rally myself and be more tolerant by thinking what Jason would say in this environment. Probably something along the lines of “It’s his house, mate, he can put what he likes on the walls”. True. And I was here to do a job after all.
“Is your wife here?” I said, adopting a more brisk and businesslike tone, as though I was about to operate on her. This seemed to throw him for a moment. I think I was really supposed to spend all evening admiring his works of art.
His wife was dug out of some other room and presented to me. I don’t’ know why at all, but I had formed some image in my head of some gargantuan old bag, with a massive bosom, sort of a bit like Jim Royle’s Big Bride From Hyde. I had kept reminding myself of Beryl Cook’s advice that fat people are fun to paint, as you don’t have to do so much background. I couldn’t have been more wrong if I’d tried. Mrs Pretentious Twat was tiny. Under 5ft tall and very slender, she was so immaculately-dressed and (somewhat lavishly) made-up that she reminded me of a dainty porcelain doll. She was also wearing a tiara, the sort of thing I’ve seen young women wear when out on hen-nights. It was a silly affectation that made her look like a prize Chihuahua in a dog show.
But I suppose it all fitted, as Andrea was affected all the time. Her whole life was some kind of arty-farty one-woman show. Everything she said and did was engineered for maximum effect on her audience. She didn’t care who she was talking to, as long as you were an attentive audience. I saw at once why Mr Beresford thought it was her, and not her husband, who wanted the portrait done. I just prayed that she didn’t want the ultimate ego-trip: a nude study of herself sprawled reclining on her bed.
“Welcome to my little house”, she said, in that twee way some dainty women have.
“Not exactly little”, I said, trying not to sound too gruff.
“No it is a big house really”, she said “And I am such a little person to be living in it”.
I thought I would throw up if I had to listen to much more of this rubbish.
“So what sort of portrait did you have in mind?” I asked.
She bustled over to high-backed throne-like chair by the fireplace. When I had first seen it I had thought it looked like a cheap prop from an amateur Shakespeare production.
“This is my throne”, she said, sitting on it “Because I am Queen of this house”.
If I had had any lingering doubts that I was in a nest of nutters then this effectively banished them. I wished I had never heard of this couple, was wondering just how quickly I could be shot of the whole thing, and that any outstanding debts of obligation I owed to Mr Beresford were now paid in full. I mumbled that I would do some preliminary sketches, and she could see how she felt then.
It was one of the longest evenings of my life. She coyly fished for details on my Other Half, asking the usual question of “Is there a Mrs … or a Mr?” She thought it was very “sweet” that I was living with a man (they always do), and asked me why I had left him at home alone. I thought this was an odd thing to say, (as if Misty was a child or a dog) and replied that he wasn’t alone, he had a friend over. She didn’t reply to this, her doll face remained impassive.
I was going now from feeling bored and irritable to uneasy, and I wanted to speed the evening up even more. It was feeling more surreal with each moment that passed. At one point I heard voices out in the hallway, and I turned to look out of curiosity. I caught a brief glimpse of several people (men and women) all wearing long white druid-like robes. Andrea’s husband was busy hustling them down the passage to the back regions of the house.
“They are members of a King Arthur thing”, Andrea explained “They like to do Arthurian re-enactments, that kind of thing. They are staying here”.
“Strange”, I said “There are no associations with King Arthur in this area, that’s more West Country way”.
She shrugged, a though the subject was of no importance to her. One thing I’ll give her credit for is that she was easy to sketch, she didn’t fidget and constantly demand to see what I was doing, as some people do. When she did look at the preliminary sketches she said she was pleased with them, and (to my relief) said she would leave me to work on the picture at home, if that was all right with me.
We shook hands on the deal, and as I packed up my things I noticed a pile of tatty old second-hand paperbacks on a side table. On the top was a copy of Whitley Strieber’s ’Communion’, the controversial book about his claims to have been abducted by aliens.
“Have you read that?” she asked me.
“A long time ago”, I said “I don’t think I finished it though, I couldn’t really get into it”.
“It’s full of mistakes”, she said “You wouldn’t believe the amount of things he gets wrong”.
I left the house in a hurry, and threw my kit onto the passenger seat of the van. At the first lay-by I could find, I pulled over and rang home on my mobile. I was more pleased than words could say when Misty answered.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
“I’m fine”, he replied “When are you coming back?”
“I’m on my way”, I said.