Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

“The sketch is on the table. Take it and get out.”

“Donald, Donald, that’s no way to treat someone you’ve just shared a beautiful experience with, is it?” He assumed a look of exaggerated concern. “You’re not jealous, are you? Is that what’s wrong? You didn’t like watching someone else shafting your heart’s desire. Is that it?”

“Do we have to go through this charade?”

He grinned. “Yes, I’m afraid we do. You got what you wanted, and since it’s pretty obvious you didn’t enjoy it, I think it’s only fair to tell me why. After all the trouble I went through I deserve to know that much.” I remained silent. Zeppo sighed. “Okay, since you won’t co-operate, on with the guessing game. Let’s see, if you’re not jealous, what else could it be?”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Only trying to help. If you’re not happy, I’m not happy. So why aren’t you happy?”

I wanted to dent his smug composure. “Why didn’t you tell me your real name was Crispin?”

His grin vanished. “Don’t try and be clever, Donald. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I seem to have touched a nerve.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Then it won’t bother you if I tell everyone what you’re really called?”

“I wouldn’t try and be a smart arse if I were you. You’re in no position to.”

“Really? I don’t see why not.”

He gave a hard little smile. “Because if you piss me off, I’ll punch you in the stomach until you piss blood.” His smile grew less strained. “But we’re getting away from what we were talking about, aren’t we? About why you didn’t enjoy the performance. Come on, Donald, what was the problem? Wasn’t it how you imagined it?” I turned away. “Ah-ha! I think I’ve touched a nerve there, myself, haven’t I?”

I told myself not to give him the satisfaction of responding. His face leered at me. “So actually seeing Anna shafted didn’t fit your sweaty little idea of how it should be, is that it? The event didn’t match the fantasy?” He smirked. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

I could not keep quiet any longer. “You did it deliberately, didn’t you?”

“Did what deliberately?”

“Debased everything! You deliberately set out to spoil it!”

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Spoil it? What are you talking about? How did I spoil anything?”

I knew I was making a mistake, but could not stop. “You made it as obscene as you could! The things you did! All that... that positioning, so I could see everything!”

“I thought that was what you wanted?”

“Not like that! It was disgusting!”

He smirked. “Personally, I thought it was pretty good. And your precious Anna didn’t seem to find it too horrible either.”

“You intended to ruin it for me from the start, didn’t you?”

Zeppo gave an indifferent shrug. “You wanted to watch me fuck Anna, and you did. It’s not my fault if it wasn’t how you imagined.”

“You didn’t have to make it like that!”

“I didn’t make it like anything. That’s what sex is.” His voice was heavy with derision. “What the fuck did you expect? Something like one of your pretty pictures?” He snorted. “Well, it’s not like that. It’s not all set poses in real life. Real people move around. It’s all sweaty and noisy and smelly. You should try it sometime.”

I turned away. Zeppo laughed. “It’s no good looking like that, Donald. It’s true. Here. Smell.”

He pushed himself out of the chair and thrust his fingers under my nose. I jerked my head back and knocked his hand aside, belatedly realising it smelt only of soap and cologne. But I remembered the taint that had been in the air the night before, and with that memory came other, even less welcome images. I quickly thrust them away and turned on him.

“You disgust me!”

Zeppo’s grin turned sour, “I disgust you? Christ, that’s rich! Who the fuck are you to be disgusted by anyone?”

This was exactly the sort of scene I had wanted to avoid. “I can’t see any point in continuing with this,” I said, but Zeppo was not going to be put off.

“No, I bet you can’t,” he jeered. “Mr. Goody-fucking-Two-Shoes Ramsey! You fucking hypocrite. How can you still act self-righteous after what you’ve done? Jesus, you make me sick!”

“The feeling’s mutual, I assure you.”

“Balls! You’re not capable of feeling anything!” His voice was thick with contempt. “You’re a fucking eunuch, Donald! You should have stuck to collecting all those nice, hygienic pictures. They’re much safer than the real thing. They don’t do things you don’t want them to. And you can still tell yourself it’s art, can’t you?” He sneered at me. “You might fool yourself, Donald, but you don’t fool me. You’re just another sad, dirty old man who get his kicks looking at pictures of other people doing what he can’t. Only you’re too much of a coward to admit it.”

His words no longer touched me. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” I said, calmly.

“I don’t recall giving a fuck.”

We stared at each other. “If you’ve finished, I won’t keep you. The Cocteau’s over there.”

He went over to the table and picked it up. “I get the frame as well, do I? I am a lucky boy.”

“Not really. It’s ugly and rather tasteless. Like the sketch. I imagine it will suit you perfectly.”

He smiled, relaxed again. “Now, now, Donald. Sticks and stones. Can I at least have a carrier bag? You forgot to gift-wrap it.”

“The arrangement was for the picture. Nothing else.”

“You really are a petty-minded old bastard, aren’t you?” He tucked it under his arm and went into the hallway. I followed him.

“Before you leave, I’d like my cheque back. It will save me the trouble of cancelling it.”

He reached into his pocket. “Slipped my mind.” He crumpled the cheque and threw it on to the floor. I opened the door, not out of politeness, but for the satisfaction of closing it on him.

“Will you be seeing Anna when you get back?” I asked.

He pretended to frown. “Who?”

“In that case I needn’t ask you not to come to the gallery again.”

“I can’t think of anything I’d like less. Except you.” Zeppo went down the steps. “Have a nice life, Donald.”

I shut the door.

I did not go into the gallery until the middle of the week. I telephoned Anna with the excuse that I was ill. It was strange speaking to her. She sounded the same as ever, unchanged. I felt as though she were someone I used to know well, but who I had now lost touch with.

By Wednesday I knew I could no longer put her off from visiting me, and went in. I preferred to face her at work rather than in the intimacy of my home. She was very solicitous. Smotheringly so. It was an effort not to be terse.

“What happened with your friend’s collection?” she asked. “The one who was burgled,” she added, when I looked blank. It took me a moment to realise what she was talking about.

“Oh... it wasn’t as bad as he thought,” I said, vaguely.

“Have the police found anything out yet?”

“No, not yet.”

As soon as I could, I shut myself in the office. Anna seemed to sense my mood and left me alone. But I could not stay there for ever. After a while I went back downstairs, forcing a smile as I reassured her that I was all right. She went back to her work, and I cast surreptitious glances at her as she bent over her desk. She had on a thin vest that did little to disguise her breasts. They hung loosely under it, swinging ponderously as she shifted her weight. Her thighs were flattened on the seat, meaty and ungainly. She wore shorts, and I could see the tightness of cloth at the crotch. I thought of the undignified patch hidden there, and looked away.