Paint. The art of scam. Read Free Page B

it,’ she said, as she opened her
eyes from a convincing trance. ‘It is done!’
    It was, in
Seymour's eyes, a win-win situation. If he screwed up, he always had boredom to
fall back on, which sounded a lot easier to maintain.
    In the following
days he found himself working furiously on new paintings, building a makeshift
stall from forklift truck pallets and feeling strangely ambitious.
    Tracy watched him
with amusement. She could see the future.
    Seymour was
surprised at how well his work sold, mainly to the hordes of coach tour
pensioners temporarily released from their strict itinerary for good behaviour.
The most popular were small unframed paintings of pebbles, seascapes and
cartoon-like sun lounging figures, none of which he was particularly proud of, but
they captured a lazy seaside feel that was an antidote, Seymour cynically
suspected, to people's otherwise miserable existences. A questionable judgement
for someone living in a caravan that rats refused to occupy.
    He even began
enjoying the brief flirtatious encounters he had with his clients, where his
talent for charm didn't have to be maintained beyond a few minutes.
    Larger paintings
never sold, which puzzled Seymour until Tracy pointed out that nobody would
want to wrestle a canvas the size of a small spinnaker back to their car, bus
or bed and breakfast in a Force 8 gale, no matter how beautiful it was.
    One evening, as
he was packing up for the day, he noticed Polly studying the half dozen or so
large paintings strapped to the railings. It was the third time he had seen her
that day. Their eyes had met: they had smiled at each other. He had watched her
wander away, seemingly deep in thought, the breeze pushing at her skimpy cotton
dress showing the contours of her firm, fit body. He felt they had made a
connection, more so than with the countless other rambling women he had ogled
and temporarily fallen in and love with on an hourly basis.
    This time she
stood there longer, studying the paintings, her slender hands cradling her
perfectly honed chin.
    He watched her,
then looked at Tracy, who he sensed was watching him. Tracey winked, smiled and
muttered.
    ‘There's trouble
if you were looking for it.’
    ‘Like them?’
ventured Seymour.
    ‘They’re
beautiful,’ said Polly.
    ‘You can have
them for twenty quid apiece.’
    ‘Really? Why are
they so cheap?’
    ‘Because I want
you to have them.’
    Polly looked
embarrassed, but smiled.
    ‘Why?’ she asked,
suspiciously.
    ‘Because they
suit you,’ said Seymour. He glanced at Tracy again, almost for approval. Tracy
rolled her eyes and shook her bowed head in mock defeat.
    ‘I'm tempted, but
I'll have to get my boyfriend to look at them.’
    Seymour's flirt
gun dropped. It showed.
    ‘Is that OK? Can
you keep them for me?’ asked Polly.
    Seymour shrugged
his shoulders. ‘Sure. Whatever.’
    ‘Would you like
some sort of deposit?’
    Seymour busied
himself with packing up.
    ‘Nah, so long as
it's not for long.’
    ‘We'll come back
in the morning. Will you be here?’ said Polly to the suddenly-too-busy-to-talk
Seymour.
    ‘Yup.’
    ‘OK. I'll see you
about tennish then.’
    ‘Righto,’ said
Seymour to the pavement.
    Polly wandered
off, occasionally looking back at the paintings.
    Tracy watched as Seymour
impatiently stuffed his paintings into boxes.
    ‘Don't worry,
Seymour. She'll be back, alone.’
    ‘Oh yeah?’ said
Seymour. ‘Not bothered.’
    ‘Bollocks,’ said
Tracy.
     
     
     
    Dead on ten
o'clock the following day Polly returned, alone.
    ‘Told you so,’
muttered Tracy smugly.
    ‘Hi,’ said Polly.
    ‘Oh hi. Didn't
bring your boyfriend then?’ said Seymour, attempting to hide the childish grin
he wore.
    ‘No,’ said Polly.
‘He's left it up to me. He had to go away to London.’
    ‘That's good. He
trusts your taste, then?’
    ‘No, not at all.
It's just, well, he hasn't really got any.’
    Seymour thought
he detected animosity in her voice.
    ‘What's he doing
with