Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

“Better than not having one.” He laughed. “Oh, come on, Donald, you asked for it. It serves you right.”

I did not know which of his moods I disliked the most, sullen, aggressive, or playful. “Where is Anna?” I asked, a faint anxiety still lurking at the back of my mind.

“Safe and sound at home. We stopped off for a drink at a pub, and then I escorted her to her door. All very proper, don’t worry. I didn’t even give her a goodnight kiss.”

Reaction was beginning to set in. I lacked the energy to argue. “I trust you enjoyed your little joke?”

“Yes, I did, actually. But just think of it as a warning. Next time I won’t be joking. I’m tired of being messed around. I don’t like being treated like hired help, and if it happens again I won’t just leave Anna on her doorstep. So either tell me what you’re playing at, or you can shove your money and your pictures, and I’ll fuck her anyway. What’s it to be?”

I rubbed my eyes. I felt very tired. Suddenly, I could not wait to get him off the line. “I’ll meet you after I close tomorrow. At your flat.”

“What’s wrong with now?”

“Tomorrow,” I repeated. “I’ll tell you then.”

“There’s a Mr. Dryden on the line for you.”

Anna waited expectantly, but although I had heard the words they failed to register. I shook myself. “I’m sorry, Anna. What did you say?”

“There’s a Mr. Dryden on the phone. Shall I tell him you’re busy?”

“No. No, that’s all right, I’ll speak to him.” I was in the back room of the gallery, ostensibly to finish cleaning a tobacco-stained oil. But the materials lay almost unused at my feet, the canvas as dirty as before, except for one corner where the colours shone through more brightly. I had managed that much before my mind wandered.

“Are you all right?” Anna asked. She had been solicitous all day, concerned after my “chest pains” of the previous night. But I had been too preoccupied to feel touched. I smiled, reassuringly.

“Fine! Just daydreaming.” That was almost the truth. The meeting with Zeppo that evening was preying on my mind, but there was another reason for my distraction.

I had had the dream again.

Once again I was in the same room as before, watching my mother brush her hair in the firelight. But this time there was nothing comforting in the sight. The feeling of contentment and security had gone. Instead, as I lay on the sofa and watched her hair gleam in the flames, I was filled with apprehension. Each crackle of the fire, each brush stroke, seemed pregnant with impending catastrophe. I knew that something terrible was about to happen, but had no idea what. I could only lay there, my anxiety growing with each moment, waiting for the unknown disaster to arrive.

This time when the doorbell rang in the dream I did not wake up. I saw my mother put down her brush and come towards me. The white silk of her robe glowed in the half-light as she studied me for a moment before walking from the room. There was a pause. I heard the door being opened and listened in dread to the murmur of voices. My mother’s and one other. A man’s. A stranger’s.

Then my mother laughed and my fear became panic. I knew with awful certainty that the moment had arrived, and with utter terror heard her say, “It’s all right. He’s asleep.”

I woke. I was sweating. I stared around my room, heart bumping, until I realised where I was. Gradually, I calmed down. But I could not go back to sleep. I lay and stared at the ceiling, watching it lighten with the approaching dawn. I could not understand why the dream had been so disturbing. It was not as though it had been a nightmare. It was just a dream, after all. There was nothing in it to justify such a strong reaction.

But telling myself that had done little good. Even daylight had failed to lift the mood of foreboding it had instilled. I almost had another accident on the way into the gallery, and since arriving I had been unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes.

Now, with Anna watching me, I began to walk to the telephone in the gallery before I realised what I was doing and stopped.

“I’ll take it in the office.”

I went upstairs and closed the door. I picked up the telephone. “Thank you, Anna.” There was a click as she replaced the other receiver. “Donald Ramsey speaking.”

“Hello, Donald. It’s Charles Dryden here.” The voice was plummy and rather smug. “I thought I’d let you know that I’ve come by one or two new pieces you might be interested in.”

At one time, that would have been enough to make my stomach knot with excitement. Dryden was a specialist dealer in erotica. I had dealt with him several times in the past, although I did not particularly like the man. He had no feel for the pieces that passed through his hands. To him they were simply objects to be bought and sold, appreciated in direct proportion to their market value. But he had his uses. I had come by several beautiful pieces through him. And, indirectly, I had him to thank or blame for my present situation. It had been in the back room of his shop that I came across the examples of Zeppo’s less public modelling work.

Now, however, my customary excitement was diluted to a mild curiosity. “Oh yes?”

“Two Rowlandson prints. And a Fuseli.” The way he said this last implied a silent fanfare.

“A Fuseli? Authenticated?”

“Of course.” He sounded slightly indignant. Despite his merchant-like motives, he still had professional pride. “No doubt about it. I’d put it as one of his later courtesan drawings. It’s from the same collection as the Rowlandsons. They’ve all got unimpeachable provenance. But the Fuseli is quite exceptional. Absolutely exquisite.”

I distrusted this last piece of information, since Dryden’s aestheticism was purely monetary in nature. But he was rarely mistaken about the authenticity of his pieces, and a Fuseli, exquisite or not, was a find indeed. Any serious collector would be desperate to possess it. Not long ago so would I. Now I found myself completely unmoved.

“I appreciate your letting me know, but I think I’ll have to pass on them.” I said.

“Oh.” Dryden’s surprise was obvious. “They are all excellent pieces. Particularly the Fuseli. I’m sure that would be very much to your taste.”

“Quite possibly, but I’m afraid I’ll still have to say no.”

“Well, of course, that’s up to you. But I think you’ll regret it. Perhaps you’d like to see them before you make up your mind...?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. I’m really not interested in buying just now.”

There was a subtle change in his tone. “In that case, perhaps you might be interested in selling? I know you have a sizeable collection yourself. If you’re considering letting go of one or two pieces, I’m sure we could come to some arrangement.”

With shock, I realised he thought my reasons were financial. My dislike for him grew. “I’ve no intention of either buying or selling. I simply don’t want to add to my collection at the moment.”

He picked up the coldness in my voice. Now I was no longer a prospective client, he responded to it. “That’s your choice, Mr. Ramsey. I’m certain I don’t need to tell you what an opportunity you’re missing. But I’m sure you have your reasons. If you change your mind about anything you know where to find me.”

“Thank you. I don’t think I will.” I hung up before he could, furious that he should have the nerve to try to patronise me. The man was nothing more than a common trader. I had no doubt that Dryden had already made, or was planning to make, similar telephone calls to other possible buyers, hoping to play them off against each other in a blind auction. I was glad that I had robbed him of at least one potential bidder. But as I began to calm down, I began to think about what he had said, and wonder if he had not had a point. Although I had no financial need, perhaps I should consider selling some of my pieces. They no longer held any fascination for me, and there is no point in keeping anything once the passion for it has gone.