by C.A. Larmer
Chapter 4: The Artist
The sun struggled to peep out from behind a thick swell of gray clouds that had hijacked the sky and, by mid-morning, gave up the effort as rain began bucketing down. If there was one thing Heather Jackson hated it was the rain. Not because the thick drops slowed the traffic down or turned normally cheerful faces glum as they scurried for shelter. But because it turned her hair frizzy. And the only thing she hated more than the rain, was frizzy hair. Now curly hair, she could handle—although she forced her own into long, straight strands, spending a good half hour each day ensuring it was just right—but frizzy hair was altogether different. It was ugly, and unsightly. And out of her control.
My hair’s not even wet yet, and the bloody strands are starting to frizz up, she thought. Like a cheap check-out chick. And where the hell is this cafe Maria insisted she’d find, ‘no worries’? Maria Constantinople. What a classless piece of trash. She had been so smug about her little scoop, as if Heather had chosen the cheap rag for her. What a fool. And surprisingly self-assured. But her tone was still reverent, like most people’s now, respectful and excited, overawed to be talking to her. Once she could barely get a glance from the average Joe. Now she was an icon. And she hated people for it.
A neon sign flashed ‘Lockies’ and Heather pursed her lips together. The place looked like a hovel. She had wanted to do the interview at home but her agent/manager, Jamie, was right, she didn’t need a sniveling little reporter going through her things. Neutral territory was the best idea. But this dump? Briefly, she considered accelerating, but she spotted a parking spot out front and slipped her Mercedes into it. Then she wrapped her hair in a Hermes scarf, grabbed an umbrella from the back seat and stepped out onto the curb.
Inside Lockies, Roxy watched Heather park and felt her stomach lurch. She was not normally star-struck, but this one was an enigma. Roxy couldn’t correlate her poignant first portrait with the meticulously dressed woman stepping out of a luxury vehicle, struggling to open her umbrella as though the rain would turn her to jelly. She got to her feet as the artist entered the cafe, shaking her hair out frantically and turning her attention to a blue slip of paper. ‘Miss Parker?’ she asked, barely looking up.
‘Roxy. Yes, thanks for coming, Heather.’
‘Oh.’ She glanced back at the piece of paper. ‘But it is Roxanne Parker, right?’
‘Well, some people call me Roxanne.’ But how unusual, she thought, that Maria would refer to her that way. ‘I prefer Roxy. You can dump your umbrella there.’
Heather looked over at an old beer keg cluttered with umbrellas and then back at Roxy. ‘Let’s get this over and done with shall we? Where do you want me?’
They walked to the back of the cafe where Loghlen had set up a special table, far enough from the other patrons to ensure privacy and quiet enough to get the whole thing down clearly on Roxy’s old tape recorder. Apart from one or two half-interested glances from the other diners, no one seemed to recognize the infamous Heather Jackson. One black-clad woman glared at her Chanel suit and a young man darted a second look but Roxy sensed this was more out of curiosity than anything else. Heather certainly looked out of place in this artists’ cafe, and therein lay the conundrum. She was an artist after all.
Choosing the seat facing back into the cafe, Heather placed her jacket on the back of it and her umbrella below, then sat down and removed her delicate, diamond-encrusted Cartier watch, placing it on the table in front of her. She then picked up the menu and began scanning the list.
Roxy took the opportunity to scan Heather. Despite the designer threads and long, richly streaked hair, she was actually a pretty ordinary-looking woman, nose slightly askew, the beginnings of a double chin, a smattering of freckles barely visible behind the make-up, and it heartened Roxy a little. It helped explain all the glamour. She was clearly compensating.
‘Ready to order?’ Loghlen asked, beaming from ear to ear, his snowy skin blushing red, his hand shaking beneath his pen. He had been ecstatic when Roxy had announced the interview would be done in his tiny cafe—a small gift to an old mate—and she suspected he’d spent half the night scrubbing and preparing as though royalty were about to descend. Heather didn’t even bother looking up.
‘Yes a decaf skinny latte. And an ash tray.’
‘Coitinly,’ Lockie replied, conveniently forgetting the smoking ban. ‘And would yar like anything wi’ tha’? Some home-made cheesecake perhaps?’
‘No I wouldn’t.’ And then a more cordial, ‘Thank you.’
‘An’ you, Ro—, ma’am?’
‘Just the usual, thanks Lockie,’ Roxy replied smiling warmly at him. She turned to Heather. ‘You don’t mind if I tape record this?’
‘Tape record?’
‘Yes.’ She had only mentioned it out of politeness. ‘Well I can take shorthand if you like—’
‘Yes, better.’
Roxy brushed a strand of black hair back from her eyes and smiled. ‘No problems, Heather. Of course, it’s not as accurate a report of what was said. My shorthand is very sloppy. But we’ll get the basics down.’
‘Oh the tape recorder will be fine.’ Heather looked a little annoyed but, again, tried for a smile. ‘Don’t want to be misconstrued, you understand?’
‘Absolutely.’ She pushed the record button down, checked that the tape was rolling and in a clear tone said, ‘Heather Jackson interview, Lockies café, May 2nd.’
She could work for the bloody pigs, Heather thought as the journalist placed the recorder directly below her and smiled that, ‘Now this won’t hurt a bit’ kind of smile. She had seen that smile before. Too many times. And it always hurt. But this time she was prepared to pay the price. Everything depended on it.
‘Congratulations on your success since the Sydney Art Gazette competition,’ Roxy began and Heather bowed her head obligingly. Waiting for the kill. ‘Did you ever imagine you would end up where you are now?’
Ahh, there it is. She was faster than most, maybe even smarter. She had better watch this one. Heather shrugged her shoulders flippantly. ‘Of course not. How could I? I really have been very lucky.’ Oops, she shouldn’t have used that word. She had left the door wide open. Was out of practice, that’s all, but the sea-weed-eyed reporter did not take the bait.
‘What did you think when you first applied for the Gazette comp? Where did you think you would be?’
‘Be?’
‘Yes, as far as the success of your art was concerned? Did you always think you would make it eventually? Or did you imagine years struggling to no avail, like most artists do?’
‘Ahhh,’ Heather said. The modesty versus pride question. ‘I honestly couldn’t tell you. Twenty years ago did you have any idea where you’d be today?’
‘I think I did, yes,’ Roxy replied. ‘I always figured I’d be interviewing interesting people for worthwhile publications. It was a lifelong ambition.’
‘Then hurrah for you.’ She hoped it did not sound mean-spirited, but what was the four-eyes referring to? Instead of answering she asked, ‘So do you get much work, writing?’ Roxy was surprised by the question and nodded yes. ‘Interviewed anyone interesting lately?’
Roxy squished her lips up to one side and studied the artist’s eyes. She had seen this trick before but the clock was ticking and she was not about to waste time talking about herself. ‘Not as interesting as you,’ she replied casually. At that moment, Loghlen appeared with their coffees in hand and placed them down. He was grinning like a teenage boy and Roxy quickly thanked him, eager to pick up the pace.
‘The New York Times art critic calls your most recent work, “A delight in unpredictability and surprise”,’ she said. ‘Tell me what motivates you? What drives that surprise?’
‘Ahh.’ Heather knew how to respond to this one. It was as though the answer was written on the back of her hand. And indeed, she thought with smug delight, it once was. ‘When I first look at a person, nothing much comes from it. They are straight, tangible an
d, I’m sorry to say, rather uninteresting. But then I really look at them, and things start to jumble. The person becomes the puzzle and then, somehow, the portrait. It is as though I were not even in the room. Suddenly they have metamorphosed onto my canvas.’
‘And yet, sometimes what you paint is less a metamorphosis than an annihilation,’ said Roxy, very calmly, and the artist looked up from her coffee.
‘Annihilation?’
‘Green skin. Red eyes. Protruding necks. Hardly flattering.’
Her expression relaxed a little. ‘Ahh but there is a certain ugliness in us all.’
‘Even a handicapped child?’
This caught Heather completely off guard and she dropped her teaspoon against the china saucer so that it clunk loudly, forcing the other patrons to look up. The curious man began to squint his eyes. He recognized her now but couldn’t decide from where.
‘Ah, the winning portrait,’ she said, her composure returning.
‘A stunning piece of art,’ Roxy offered.
‘Some say the best yet.’
‘And you?’
‘Well I guess I will always have a soft spot for it, how could I not?’
‘And where is she now?’
‘Hmm?’
‘The young girl in the portrait?’
‘Oh, goodness, I don’t know. Can’t even remember her name.’
‘Yet she launched your career.’
‘No, darling.’ Heather’s voice was perfectly amiable, but there was a steeliness in her eyes. ‘I launched my career. The portrait is one of several hundred I have now completed. Have you seen any others?’
‘Of course I have.’ Roxy lied, realizing that Lockie’s textbook hardly counted. ‘Where is the portrait now?’
‘I still have it.’ I couldn’t sell that one, she thought, I’m not that stupid. ‘Do you only write about artists?’
Roxy glowered at her again. ‘No, I write about all sorts of people.’
‘What sorts?’
‘Look, Heather. I appreciate your interest but if we can just get through my questions I’ll tell you all about myself at the end.’
Heather shrugged and took a sip of her coffee.
‘I’m very interested to know what you were like as a child, Heather.’
‘What I was like as a child?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, um. Let’s think. Tall, skinny. Freckle-faced.’
‘Did you paint?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘As a child, did you paint?’
‘Of course I did. Incessantly.’
‘And your inspirations?’
Heather seemed relieved by the question and began rattling off a list of names, expressing their unique qualities as though reading aloud an essay. As she talked, Roxy wondered why the artist was so defensive. What had happened in the past to make her that way? She was about to ask when Heather’s iPhone began to ring. She excused herself, turned her chair around and answered. Lockie grabbed the opportunity to clear the cups.
‘How’s it goin’?’ he whispered excitedly.
‘Okay.’
‘Hey, I’ve got a bit of a soiree here on Monday morning, a new writer’s comin’ in. Your cup a tea, I’da thought. Wanna drop by? About 10ish.’
‘Would love to,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got an interview to do on Monday, and this one I don’t want to miss.’
‘Oooh,’ he said. ‘Sounds intriguing! Anyone interesting?’
‘Just a client who’s been quite dull to date. But I get the feeling things are going to liven up enormously.’
‘Good luck then!’ he said, and noticing that Heather had now finished on the phone, scurried away.
The rest of the interview went smoothly enough. Roxy asked all the questions she needed to ask and, for the most part, Heather delivered all the answers, her mood now mostly cooperative and congenial. But as she spoke, her eyes frequently darted about the room, sizing up the staff and customers as though she was checking for invaders. She fiddled with her hair, too, releasing it from its scarf from time to time and stroking it straight before tying it back again. During all of this she barely looked at Roxy, only focusing upon her when the questions turned a little deep or probing. Then, Heather’s eyes narrowed slightly and her lips pursed together as though sucking on a cigarette. She took her time answering and offered only monosyllabic responses. Yet these were the questions Roxy really wanted answered and, as the interview wrapped up, she felt as though she had learned little more about the elusive artist than when she had started.
Exactly an hour after they had begun, Heather picked up her watch, strapped it back on and declared, ‘Well if that’s all, I need to be off.’
‘Actually, there was one more question.’
‘Yes?’ Oh God, she thought, I’m nearly away.
‘In your Gazette application 20 years ago, you said that you wanted to paint people who matter. I quote, “Not film stars and fluff”. Why then have you gone on to only paint celebrities? Do you think now that only famous people matter?’
Heather’s lips tightened again and she reached for her jacket. ‘We all matter, Miss Parker.’ She pushed her chair backwards and stood up.
‘Just one other thing!’ Heather smiled stiffly. ‘Do you have a number I can call—in case I’ve forgotten anything or need to check something? I like to get my facts straight, I’m sure that’s important to you, too?’
Heather considered this for a second and then reached into her bag for a scrap of paper and a pen. She pulled out the blue piece she referred to earlier, and, turning it over, scribbled down the name Jamie Owen, adding a number below it. ‘My manager,’ she explained, dropping the paper to the table. ‘He can help you with anything you need.’
With a swish of her thick locks, she turned away and strode swiftly across the room, past the gobsmacked patron who had finally worked out who she was, and out the door. Within seconds she was speeding off up the road, leaving Roxy alone with her tape recorder and a bemused look upon her face. Loghlen watched his idol drive away and rushed back to Roxy.
‘So how’d it go? Get what you need?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Roxy said, feeling both relieved and rueful at the same time. She couldn’t recall ever having done a more difficult interview and was not sure she had got anything out of the acclaimed artist. But she was sure of one thing: that was clearly what the artist had intended.
‘What’s with the umbrella?’ Max asked as Roxy strolled into the bar. ‘Rain packed up shop hours ago.’
‘Yes, I know, it’s Heather Jackson’s. She left it behind after our interview, and now I have to take my own advice and get it back to her without running into her.’
‘Huh?’
Max was confused and Roxy was too tired to explain it all now. She wedged the umbrella into her handbag and dropped it to the floor, then took a seat, pulling her long scarf off and tucking her brown boots beneath the barstool.
‘Get us a drink will you, Max, I’m dying here.’
He motioned for the barmaid and ordered a glass of Merlot and a beer for himself. He didn’t push her to explain, that’s not what these weekly get-togethers were about. Instead, he dragged a bowl of peanuts towards them and, throwing a handful into his mouth, chewed loudly while asking, ‘So how was the meeting with your mum?’
‘Disastrous.’
‘Same old same old then?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘So, who’s she got you hooked up with this time?’
‘Oh some lawyer dude who’s no doubt short, fat and extremely dull.’
‘Ahhh, but he’d make a faithful husband.’
‘Which is more than I can say for most men.’
Max smiled. ‘So young and yet so cynical.’
‘Not that young,’ she corrected.
‘Which is exactly why she’s setting you up with drongos instead of dishes. Less chance of them running off with the secretary.’
Roxy gulped at her gl
ass. ‘God, do people even do that anymore? It’s so cliché. Anyway, don’t make excuses for her.’
‘Just making an observation, Parker, nothing to get in a twist about. You really don’t like your mum very much do you?’
‘Oh it’s not that. I just don’t respect her. That’s much worse. How’s your dad going?’
‘Grumpy old bastard as usual. I swear, we should be able to put them down when they get to a certain age.’
Roxy laughed and felt her shoulders relax a little. Max and Roxy met weekly at Pico’s, a small, candle-lit wine bar, where they left work worries at the door and sorted each other’s private lives out instead. They called it their ‘sanity date’ and often let it carry on into the early hours of the morning, drinking and laughing and forgetting their woes. Or at least making fun of them, which was almost as good. She ran her eyes over her good friend. He had a beaten up leather jacket on tonight, and baggy black jeans. No skinny jeans for this guy. It was too much like hard work. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, only managing to tousle it further and she thought she detected the slight scent of aftershave. Surely not, she thought? It wasn’t really Max’s style.
‘So did you get the jacket back okay?’
‘Yeah.’ He sounded glum.
‘She didn’t spot you cowering behind the light box?’
‘No.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ He drained his beer and ordered another. He was drinking fast, even for a Thursday night.
‘What? Spill!’
‘She wasn’t all that bad,’ he said.
‘What happened?’ Why this change of tune?
‘Well, I called her up again.’
‘After all that?’
‘Hey, it’s fine for you. You like being single. I hate it.’
‘Oh give me a break.’
Max sucked the froth from the top of his bottle. His mood had turned a little sour. ‘Tell me, Rox, why exactly do you like being single?’
‘Huh?’
‘You never need anyone, do you?’
Roxy sensed bitterness in his tone and wondered if he was drunk. ‘That’s the second time I’ve heard that in as many days. That’s absolute crap, you know that.’
‘No, actually, I don’t.’
‘Well, for starters, I need you or I’d go slowly insane.’
‘Bullshit.’
Roxy gulped her drink and felt her shoulders tense up again. But she softened her tone as she asked, ‘What is it? If you like this girl, then just see her. It’s not a big—’
‘Look, I know that.’ He was trying to control his anger. Unsuccessfully.
‘Good. So how’s work? Snapped any big fish?’
‘No work, remember.’
‘Well what do you want to talk about? You’re in such a filthy mood.’
Max swallowed hard. ‘So I’m gonna see her again.’
‘Good! Do it!’ What did he want from her?
‘I will!’
Roxy rolled her eyes and looked away. Above the bar a small TV screen was heralding the ABC’s 7:00 p.m. news. The lead story was dubbed ‘Horror Find Still Unsolved’ and, upon her instruction, the bartender turned it up.
‘The one-handed corpse discovered at Rushcutters Bay on Monday has still not been identified and Bay police are asking for assistance from the public,’ a harried voice declared. ‘According to forensics, the victim, whose right hand had been chopped off, was drowned late Sunday night or early Monday morning and they are appealing to any witnesses who may have seen anything suspicious in the area at that time. Please contact your local police station or the police hotline on—’
‘Horrible stuff,’ Max said, shuddering a little, and Roxy turned back to him, her eyes now twinkling again.
‘I read about it earlier this week. Why on earth would you chop a person’s hand off?’
‘Identification.’
‘Oh but there’s always the other hand, the face, the dental records ... it’s quite bizarre.’
‘Murder is always bizarre,’ Max insisted, crunching on some ice.
‘Not at all,’ Roxy replied. ‘Sometimes it’s downright dull.’
He stared at her like she had finally flipped, his thick eyebrows rising, his brown hair flopping down on top of them.
‘Oh, you know,’ she continued, ‘shoot-outs at a 7/11 or pub brawls. That’s all pretty ordinary stuff. But killing someone for their fingers, now that’s interesting!’
‘You have always had a macabre interest in death, haven’t you?’
Roxy smiled and picked up her drink. ‘Not all deaths,’ she replied. ‘Just the involuntary ones.’
He smiled at that, his large, all-consuming smile, and with it the mood of the evening lightened up. But as they ordered more drinks and a bowl of wedges on the side, Roxy couldn’t help a niggling sense of unease. Max wasn’t himself tonight, and for some reason—a reason she couldn’t even articulate to herself—she was too terrified to ask him why.