Short Stories

by Thomas Ryan

  ###

  In her early days as a budding dealer, enthusiasm waned to despondency as Claire learned the harsh lesson that the art scene was far more competitive than she had imagined. Being new to the business was difficult enough, but being deemed too young to be taken seriously by the creative fraternity was an almost insurmountable obstacle. Established artists gratefully accepted the free dinners and listened politely to her sales spiel as she explained why she should represent them. But by the time they were sloshing down the third bottle of over-priced wine it was clear they were keen to get into bed with her but for sex, not business.

  She had nothing to offer the artists, no gallery of her own and with limited finances that was not likely to change in the near future. But she had a work ethic. Sweat and calloused hands didn’t frighten Claire. She devised a business plan of sorts. But mostly she knew that her pathway to success was going to be a hard slog and it would mean dedicating her life to her work.

  Claire had always been a social animal and most of her friends were well off and therefore potential customers. She accepted every invitation to dinners and parties that came her way. She never intruded her paintings into conversations, but whenever asked about her work she took the opportunity to mention she was happy to deliver collections for relaxed home appraisal.

  Painstakingly, Claire built a base of suppliers. Mostly fringe artists that other dealers were not interested in, but sales were made and the rent was paid. After working long hours each night, she would return to her empty apartment and empty bed. Before she drifted off into a restless slumber she’d question if the sacrifice was worth it. In the beginning her response was always “yes”, but as each year passed she wondered how much longer she could continue eking out a living before she ceased to believe the lie.

  Then came the day that changed her life forever.

  ###

  Claire first heard of Jack Loxley through one of her clients. The client had kept a brochure from a Loxley exhibition. He liked Jack’s work and wanted to buy more to hang in the foyers of his expanding chain of corporate offices. The client, Claire knew had a discerning eye and if he thought Jack Loxley’s work was worth that type of investment then it must be so. Intrigued, she made some calls.

  It was confirmed to Claire, by the owner of the gallery that last exhibited Jack Loxley’s work, that he was indeed a talented painter. But he little understanding of the commercial realities of the art world and had displayed no desire to learn or to co-operate. He was independently wealthy so the selling of his work was not critical to him. When Loxley had agreed to an exhibition, the gallery worked hard to ensure a successful night. They discussed with him how he might best present himself. They explained to him he had a crucial role to play in the sales process.

  But Loxley displayed scant concern. He drank too much, abused patrons and assaulted one important buyer. The gallery washed its hands of him and when news of his behaviour spread, no one else wanted a bar of him. He faded from the scene.

  The gallery owner had not been seen or heard of him for a couple of years.

  Perseverance paid off. Claire tracked him to a studio in the Waitakere Ranges.

  Her information was he had become a recluse. Claire suspected it might be more a case that if the world did not want Jack Loxley, then so be it. He had shut himself away to sulk. She was becoming attuned to the eccentricities of artists. Most were temperamental and needed kid-glove treatment. And when it was needed, Claire could do kid glove.

  She stood to make a lot of money if she could secure Jack Loxley’s paintings for her client. Enough to open her own gallery. No sulking artist was going to stand between her and her dream.

  ###

  The driveway wound its way up through a forest of native trees and ferns to a multi-level natural wood home hidden from the road. Tyres scrunched loose metal as Claire drove across an unsealed turn-round before parking under the bough of an old Kauri.

  Three steps led her onto a cedar deck. She knocked three times. A few minutes passed. No reply. A quick scrutiny revealed a pathway running down the side of the house. Claire decided to follow it. Ferns flicked at the legs of her navy slacks and when she reached the clearing at the back of the house she spent a few moments removing seed heads imbedded in the weave of the fabric.

  The studio stood detached from the house and precariously poised a few metres back from the cliff edge. The view across the forested valleys to the ocean took Claire’s breath away. An inspirational panorama were her initial thoughts.

  She picked her way across a line of slate slabs to a glass paneled door. Muffled sounds of a gravelly-voiced Leonard Cohen came from within. She did not bother knocking. The tapping would never be heard above the music.

  The door was ajar. She pushed it open.

  Jack Loxley stood in the centre of the room, piercing grey staring directly at her.

  Claire found herself looking at a man with the physique of a swimmer. His six foot frame was clad in denims, track shoes and a black t-shirt. Long jet black hair fell just short of his shoulders. Tanned and handsome, he looked more like an Italian movie star than the obnoxious malcontent she had been led to believe he was.

  Loxley waved her inside and pointed to a table positioned next to a floor-to-ceiling window.

  The studio was much roomier than it had looked outside. Tall timber-paneled walls bore many paintings. More lay in piles on the floor. Jack Loxley’s talent was inescapable. His style unique. Claire knew she was looking at a collection of great value.

  She sat on one of the two chairs and looked through the window. With no solid ground features for reference the building could have been floating in space, and the voice of Leonard Cohen some disaffected angel. It occurred to her that any artist would be inspired to creativity in such a setting.

  Loxley took a bottle of Chardonnay from a small fridge in the corner. He pulled the cork then brought the bottle and two glasses to the table. He sat, filled the glasses then pushed one towards her. They sipped the wine in silence. The music stayed loud and Claire decided that whatever game was being played, she would play along.

  When the bottle emptied, Claire stood. She placed her business card in front of Loxley and left.

  Whatever it was that had taken place, Claire’s gut told her Jack Loxley would make contact. She prayed to God he would. They had to work together. He was a great talent and he had enough finished work for a number of exhibitions. He was attractive and that would go down well with buyers.

  Talented and handsome. A winning combination.

  ###

  Over the next week Jack Loxley was uppermost in Claire’s thoughts. By the end of the second week there had still been no contact. She felt herself becoming increasingly anxious but along with the nervousness an increased sense she must wait him out. All her instincts told her he would call.

  It was late Friday afternoon at the end of the third week when the sounds of stampeding horses came from her mobile phone. She tapped the answer icon.

  “What do you want from me?”

  She recognized Jacks voice.

  “I want to sell your paintings, to be your agent. You need to be seen, Jack.”

  She held her breath. Not daring to speak. The silence was excruciating but she was experienced enough to know not to force him.

  “I agree,” he said. “It’s been too long. Come to the studio on Monday.”

  The phone went dead.

  Claire leapt from her chair and squealed with delight.

  ###

  She rented premises for a week in the city centre. Close to a parking building. Nothing turned clients off attending an inner city exhibition faster than a lack of parking. No one wanted to walk any great distance, not these days.

  She well knew that in her line of business presentation was as important as the art itself. And next to hanging spaces, the most important part of presentation lay in the framing. She contracted the best framer in town and convinced him to make the trek to Jack�
��s studio.

  As the exhibition day drew near and the days turned into nights, Claire and Jack spent a great deal of time together. As they became more comfortable with each other, the conversation flowed, and an endless supply of Chardonnay kept glasses filled, yet despite the ever-increasing consumption of wine and their developing relationship, he had not tried to seduce her. She mulled over the idea that maybe he might not find her attractive. She had a nice figure and exercised to stay in shape. Friends said she was good looking, and she thought she was as well.

  To Claire’s surprise the real reason for his lack of interest was revealed at the end of the second week.

  When she heard the unaccustomed sound of heels on the pavers outside, she stopped what she was doing and focused on the door. She was so used to the idea that no one ever came to the studio the footsteps had startled her. She glanced across at Jack but he was disinterested and did not bother to look up.

  A wreath of smiles appeared at the door.

  “Hi guys.”

  One of the most beautiful women Claire had ever seen stepped inside. She was a genuine tall, leggy, shoulder-length-haired blonde bombshell.

  “Claire. This is my wife, Gillian. Gillian, this is Claire.”

  Jack made no effort to raise his head.

  “Jack. The tone of your voice. A little enthusiasm, please, hello Claire,” Gillian said.

  Claire, shocked, confused, taken aback, mouth open, reached out and shook the offered hand.

  “I can see Jack hadn’t mentioned he had a wife, Claire. Well he has and here I am.” She emphasized the statement by pointing to herself. “Now, what do you think of Jack’s dabbling? Is there a living here, do you think? I keep trying to convince him to get a real job. But Jack is Jack. He has to find himself. Boys will be boys.”

  Jack said nothing. He focused on trying to match one of the various types of framing to the painting he was holding. Claire finally remembered to close her mouth. She picked up a canvas, studied it, then carried it across to the table. Gillian followed chatting away, seemingly impervious to Jack indifference. The obvious friction between the two made Claire uncomfortable. As she half listened to Gillian, she kept an eye on Jack. He ignored both of them.

  ###

  The exhibition was a huge success. Claire then took Jack’s art to all the major cities of the North Island. Each canvas sold for many hundreds of dollars more than expected. His self-imposed exile meant his earlier transgression had fallen off the public radar. He was seen as a new and exciting talent and buyers couldn’t get enough of him.

  Over the next three months Claire travelled and had little contact with Jack. She wanted him to work. Produce more paintings. They were making a lot of money, and long may it continue. More importantly she had engaged a real estate agent to lease premises on Ponsonby Road.

  Her dream of a gallery was about to become a reality.

  And Jack’s paintings would guarantee her future.

  Her success with Jack spread throughout the art community and established painters began to make contact, asking her to represent them. She considered that at this rate she might need to employ staff.

  When she returned to Auckland she tried to make contact with Jack. After a few days of no response she drove out to the house. She found him in the studio sitting at the window. Two empty Chardonnay bottles sat on the table, and a third bottle sat half empty.

  He didn’t acknowledge that he had heard Claire enter but she knew he knew she was there. She looked about the studio. The walls and floor were empty. A knot formed in her stomach. But before she had gathered the wit to say anything, Gillian walked in behind her. The Norse beauty had dressed in a tight black satin pants suit that she must have been poured into. It showed her body to perfection and Claire could see how Jack might be besotted with her, even to tortuous distraction. But there was something else going on here. Jack’s gazing out the window appeared to be quite adrift from reality.

  “Claire, how wonderful to see you,” Gillian sparkled with her usual chirpiness. “As you can see the studio is emptied of those smelly paints. I’ve convinced Jack to turn it into a guest house. Such a wonderful view. A waste not to make use of it don’t you think?”

  It would appear Jack’s hard man image did not apply to Gillian. He was a blithering mess caught by a black widow spider, and the longer the nightmare continued, the more entangled he would become in her web. Claire knew Gillian’s type. She would break into tears anytime Jack broached the subject of his unhappiness. What a manipulative bitch. Right then Claire wished she had a mallet so she could drive a wooden stake through Gillian’s heart.

  ###

  Claire brooded. Despair turned to depression. Finally, when felt she had reached rock bottom, feral instincts took control and logic devolved to cunning. A plan formulated. After all, she reasoned, was it not her job to keep her client happy and Jack was far from happy.

  She sent a message asking Jack to meet her at the gallery. When he arrived she marched him down the street to an Italian restaurant. When the meals came Jack ate but Claire pushed at her pasta with a fork.

  Jack watched her. Bemused yet intrigued.

  “What’s on your mind Claire?”

  Looking about to ensure other patrons were not listening she leaned forward.

  “She has to go, Jack. Gillian. She has to go. You have to get rid of her.”

  Jack found a dot on the table and focused on it.

  “You have to tell her the marriage is over,” Claire went on. “You are a wonderful artist. A great talent. You’re not working. She is making you unhappy. That’s not a marriage. Not in anyone’s book.”

  Jack’s eyes rose.

  “You’re serious,” he said.

  “Very serious. She has to go and that’s an end to it.”

  Claire held his eye. She was determined not to look away. The waiter interrupted the optical showdown but she sensed a victory when she saw Jack was nodding as the waiter filled their glasses.

  “You’re right Claire,” Jack sighed. “But you have to understand. Gillian is a wonderful person. You’ve seen the worst of her but she isn’t always like that. She just doesn’t see art as a profession. To her it’s a hobby. Why she wants to be with me I’ve no idea. She would have been much happier with a lawyer or an accountant. She wants her man to wear nice suits and take her out to dinner. She was a model, a social animal, and I’m not. Chalk and cheese. I wish it was different but she’s not the sort of woman you can leave on the shelf, is she?”

  “No, she isn’t,” Claire responded.

  “But you’re right,” Jack said. “Painting is my life. I’ll do it.”

  ###

  But Jack procrastinated.

  Weeks went by and nothing happened.

  In the end Claire stepped in. She began by lunching with Gillian on a regular basis under the ruse of developing a friendship for Jacks sake. Lunches morphed into theatre openings and dinners. Claire ensured that Gillian and Jack’s relationship became a constant topic of conversation. She planted seeds of discontent. And having developed fertile ground she kept planting.

  When Gillian announced the marriage was over, Jack had mixed feelings. He was sad to have lost his wife but exhilarated that he could now fully focus on what he loved most and that was his art. He promised Claire he would keep her gallery full and was true to his word. Without the constraints of the demanding Gillian he found his way once more and produced his finest works.

  It was in that year that the tradition of Jack throwing a party to celebrate Claire’s birthday began. He always booked out one of the city’s best restaurants and ensured all her friends and her better-known clients attended. It was always a wonderful night and she was eternally grateful.

  And today was her birthday and she was forty. Tonight was her party and she was looking forward to it as she always did. Life didn’t get much better, she thought. She had money, success and a partner she was very much in love with. Her life was truly complete. She
looked down at the naked outline beneath the sheet. She affectionately reached across and stroked the exposed thigh. She heard a sigh and the bed creaked as she watched her lover turn and look up at her.

  “Happy birthday,” Gillian whispered.

  “Thank you,” Claire whispered back.

  No, life did not get much better. She had Jack’s art and she had Jack’s blonde bombshell.

  The End

  The Dementia Man

  At 4:30pm traffic slowed to a crawl. Exhaust fumes blanketed by an atmosphere of ninety percent humidity generated a noxious irritating cloud that made the old man cough. Unsteady, a rush of displaced air in the wake of a passing bus sent him reeling backwards. He managed to reach out and grab hold of a parking meter and stop himself falling. Asthmatic gasps hunched his shoulders and he stayed bent in half until his breathing recovered. Stronger, he returned to the spot he had occupied all morning. There, he fell into shuffling back and forth, all the time eyes fixed on his sandals and his unclipped fingernails scratched at his head of grey hair.

  The old man had come to the attention of Sanjeev Singh when he’d opened his dairy at 7:30am and refilled the cold drinks fridge near the door. Sanjeev concluded from the man’s unkempt appearance that he was homeless and this obvious sign of deprivation meant he was probably hungry. Throughout the day Sanjeev remained vigilant. He would be ready if the homeless man tried to steal from the display stand by the door. But the old man never came near the shop. He just stayed on the corner, walking back and forth. The day had been long and he was tired. Soon his wife would relieve him. He would go home and lie on the couch and watch the last hour of cricket. Still, he would warn his wife to keep an eye on him.

  When Sanjeev’s wife, Ava, arrived, she did not see what her husband had seen. Instead, she saw a frightened old man. Someone lost, disorientated, confused. She telephoned the police.

  ###

  Matt Bronson jiggled the handle to make sure the lock had caught, then removed the key. His shift now over, it was off to the refuge of the gym. In an hour he was meeting his brother-in-law Larry at the Irish tavern. Tonight was the Rugby League Semi-Final between the Warriors and Manly. Neither he nor Larry had cable television so whenever the Warriors played they went to watch the games on the tavern’s big screen. As he grabbed his sports bag he caught his reflection in the locker room mirror. Straightening, he patted where his t-shirt pulled tight across his abs. Firm and hard. The women that passed through his life said he looked good without a shirt. The extra ten minutes added to his workouts had done the trick. His trainer had told him abs were sexy, and he had been right.