Part 2 (2/2)

Peter sat back on a green leatherette chair and watched the girl sit at her desk and pick up a telephone. He could see under the desk, between the drawer stacks, the girls knees. She s.h.i.+fted in her seat, her legs parted, and he looked at the smoothstockinged inside of her thigh. He wondered if ... Dont be a fool, he told himself. She would expect pricey c.o.c.ktails, the best seats at the theater, Steak Diane and claret. He could offer her an underground movie at the Roundhouse, then back to her place with a two-liter bottle of Sainsburys Yugoslav Riesling. He would never get past those knees.

Would you like to go through to the office? the girl said.

I know the way, Usher said as he got up. He went through a door and along a carpeted corridor to another door. Inside was another secretary. All these b.l.o.o.d.y secretaries, he thought: none of them could exist without artists. This one was older, equally desirable, and even more remote. She said: Mr. Dixon is terribly busy this morning. If youll sit down for a few moments, Ill let you know when hes free.

Peter sat down again, and tried not to stare at the woman. He looked at the paintings on the walls: watercolor landscapes of no great distinction, the kind of art that bored him. The secretary had large b.r.e.a.s.t.s, in a pointed bra, under her loose, thin sweater. What if she were to stand up and slowly pull the sweater over her head ... Oh, Christ, shut up, brain. One day he would paint some of these fantasies, to get them out of his system. Of course, n.o.body would buy them. Peter would not even want to keep them. But they might do him some good.

He looked at his watch: Dixon was taking his time. I could do p.o.r.nographic drawings for dirty magazines-I might make some money, too, that way. But what a prost.i.tution of the gift in these hands, he thought.

The secretary picked up a telephone in response to a soft buzz. Thank you, sir, she said, and put it down. She stood up and came around the desk. Would you like to go in? she said to Usher. She opened the door for him.

Dixon stood up as Peter walked in. He was a tall, spare man with half-lens gla.s.ses and the air of a general pract.i.tioner. He shook hands without smiling, and briskly asked Peter to sit down.

He leaned his elbows on the antique desk and said: Well, what can I do for you?

Peter had been rehearsing the speech all the way up on his bicycle. He had no doubt that Dixon would take him on, but he would be careful not to offend the chap, anyway. He said: I havent been happy with the way the Belgrave is handling me for some time. I wonder whether you would like to show my work.

Dixon raised his eyebrows. Thats a bit sudden, isnt it?

It may seem so, but as I say, its been simmering for a while.

Fair enough. Lets see, what have you done recently?

Peter wondered briefly whether Dixon had heard about the row last night. If he had, he was not saying anything about it. Peter said: Brown Line went for six hundred pounds a while ago, and Two Boxes sold for five hundred and fifty. It sounded good, but in fact they were the only pictures he had sold in eighteen months. went for six hundred pounds a while ago, and Two Boxes sold for five hundred and fifty. It sounded good, but in fact they were the only pictures he had sold in eighteen months.

Fine, Dixon said. Now what has been the trouble at the Belgrave?

Im not sure, Peter replied truthfully. Im a painter, not a dealer. But they dont seem to be moving my work at all.

Hmm. Dixon seemed to be thinking: playing hard to get, Peter thought. At last he said: Well, Mr. Usher, Im afraid I dont think we can fit you into our roster. A pity.

Peter stared at him, flabbergasted. What do you mean, cant fit me in? Two years ago every gallery in London wanted me! He pushed his long hair back from his face. Christ! You cant turn me down!

Dixon looked nervous, as if fearing the young painters rage. My view is that you have been overpriced for some time, he said curtly. I think you would be as dissatisfied with us as you are with the Belgrave, because the problem is basically not with the gallery but with your work. In time its value will rise again, but at present few of your canvases deserve to fetch more than three hundred and twenty-five pounds. Im sorry, but thats my decision.

Usher became intense, almost pleading. Listen, if you turn me down, I may have to start painting houses. Dont you see-I must have a gallery!

You will survive, Mr. Usher. In fact youll do very well. In ten years time you will be Englands top painter.

Then why wont you take me on?

Dixon sighed impatiently. He found the conversation extremely distasteful. Were not your sort of gallery at the moment. As you know, we deal mainly in late-nineteenth-century painting, and sculptures. We have only two living artists under contract to our galleries, and they are both well-established. Furthermore, our style is not yours.

What the h.e.l.l does that mean?

Dixon stood up. Mr. Usher, I have tried to turn you down politely, and I have tried to explain my position reasonably, without harsh words or undue bluntness-more courtesy, I feel sure, than you would grant me. But you force me to be utterly frank. Last night you created a terribly embarra.s.sing scene at the Belgrave. You insulted its owner and scandalized his guests. I do not want that kind of scene at Dixons. And now I bid you good day.

Peter stood up, his head thrust aggressively forward. He started to speak, hesitated, then turned on his heel and left.

He strode along the corridor, through the foyer, and out into the street. He climbed onto his bicycle and sat on the saddle, looking up at the windows above.

He shouted: And f.u.c.k you, too! Then he cycled away.

He vented his rage on the pedals, kicking down viciously and building up speed. He ignored traffic lights, one-way signs, and bus lanes. At junctions he swerved onto the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians, looking distinctly manic with his hair flowing in the wind behind him, his long beard, and his businessmans suit.

After a while he found himself cycling along the Embankment near Victoria, his fury exhausted. It had been a mistake to get involved with the art establishment in the first place, he decided. Dixon had been right: his style was not theirs. The prospect had been seductive at the time: a contract with one of the old-line, ultrarespectable galleries seemed to offer permanent security. It was a bad thing for a young painter. Perhaps it had affected his work.

He should have stuck with the fringe galleries, the young rebels: places like the Sixty-Nine, which had been a tremendous revolutionary force for a couple of years before it went bust.

His subconscious was directing him to the Kings Road, and he suddenly realized why. He had heard that Julian Black, a slight acquaintance from art school days, was opening a new gallery to be called the Black Gallery. Julian was a bright spark: iconoclastic, scornful of art world tradition, pa.s.sionately interested in painting, although a hopeless painter himself.

Peter braked to a stop outside a shop front. Its windows were daubed with whitewash, and a pile of planks lay on the sidewalk outside. A signwriter on a ladder was painting the name above the place. So far he had written: The Black Ga.

Peter parked the bike. Julian would be ideal, he decided. He would be looking for painters, and he would be thrilled to pull in someone as well-known as Peter Usher.

The door was not locked, and Peter walked in over a paint-smeared tarpaulin. The walls of the large room had been painted white, and an electrician was fixing spotlights to the ceiling. At the far end a man was laying carpet over the concrete floor.

Peter saw Julian immediately. He stood just inside the entrance, talking to a woman whose face was vaguely familiar. He wore a black velvet suit with a bow tie. His hair was earlobe length, neatly cut, and he was good-looking in a rather public-school sort of way.

He turned around as Peter entered, an expression of polite welcome on his face, as if he was about to say Can I help you? His expression changed to recognition, and he said: G.o.d, Peter Usher! This is a surprise. Welcome to the Black Gallery!

They shook hands. Peter said: Youre looking prosperous.

A necessary illusion. But youre doing well-my G.o.d, a house of your own, a wife and baby-you realize you ought to be starving in a garret? He laughed as he said it.

Peter jerked an inquiry toward the woman.

Ah, sorry, Julian said. Meet Samantha. You know the face.

The woman said: Hi.

Of course! Peter exclaimed. The actress! Delighted. He shook her hand. To Julian he said: Look, I wondered if you and I could talk business for a minute.

Julian looked puzzled and a little wary. Sure, he said.

I must be off, Samantha said. See you soon.

Julian held the door for her, then came back and sat on a packing case. Okay, old friend: shoot.

Ive left the Belgrave, Peter said. Im looking around for a new place to hang my daubings. I think this might be it. Remember how well we worked together organizing the Rag Ball? I think we might be a good team again.

Julian frowned and looked at the window. You havent been selling well lately, Pete.

Peter threw up his hands. Oh, come on, Julian, you cant turn me down! Id be a scoop for you.

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