The Homeless Millionaire

"Hi," I said. I sounded like a frightened kid. I took a big swig from my glass, and did my best to smile at Jane.

"I looked at your pictures. They're good. You've got talent."

"So they say."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you."

I didn't know what to say next. I knew that whatever I did say, it was bound to sound stupid in one way or another. So I just smiled and had another big swig of scotch. Jane turned and tugged at the elbow of the girl in the burgundy coat.

"Fiona," she said. "Meet the artist. One of them, anyway."

"What?" said Fiona, turning to look at Jane. I'd already noted she was a looker that time I saw her in a bar. Up close, she was stunning: big brown eyes, full lips, and chestnut hair whose monthly maintenance probably cost more than some people earned working all week.

"This guy here." Jane pointed a finger at me, and I noticed she had French manicure.

"He's the guy that painted your apples," said Jane, and I went totally stupid. What the fuck was she talking about?

Fiona seemed to know what Jane was talking about.

"My apples!" she said, glowing with pleasure. "So you're the one that painted them? You look it."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"You look the part. You look like the guy who painted those apples."

It took a supreme effort on my part to remember that the watercolour of apples I'd painted at Harry's cottage was among the pieces I gave Chaz for the show.

"You like them?" I said stupidly.

"Yes. I like them a lot. I bought that picture. I know just the place to put it."

It was the first time ever I had come face to face with someone who had paid for a picture of mine. I had no idea of how to behave, or what to say.

"I'm glad you liked them," I said eventually.

"They look alive. They look as if they're about to jump off that table and go for a walk."

"I didn't know that," I said. It was true. I had no fucking clue what she was talking about. I mean I had that picture in my mind's eye by this point and yeah, it was good, but apples going for a walk? I suspected Fiona was high. Jane's eyes were a little unnaturally bright, too.

"He's so modest," Fiona said to Jane, and they both giggled. Jane said:

"He's a quiet one, but don't be fooled. He pulls out a gun when someone pisses him off. Be careful."

"I'll be very careful not to piss you off," Fiona informed me. She looked down at her glass and said:

"I need a fresh drink." And she turned away and began to push her way through to the bar. Jane grinned at me. Maybe she was happy because her own glass was nearly full. She said:

"You'd better not piss off Fiona either. She's rich. Her father is one of the big shots in this town."

"Really? Who is he?"

"He's a businessman. A multimillionaire. Owns a couple of companies. International companies."

"Good for Fiona," I said. I needed a fresh drink, too. But I wanted to keep talking to Jane. The problem was, I had no fucking idea what to say.

I had no idea of what to say because I'd just learned another picture of mine had found a buyer. It felt totally unreal. I should have felt joy, but I felt nothing, no emotion at all. I had dreamed so often of something like that happening and when it finally happened, I felt nothing at all.

"Michael!" said Chaz, practically into my ear. He made me jump. He noticed, and put his hand on my shoulder to steady me.

"I need you to pose for the photographer," he said. "He wants to fuck off as soon as possible. Sick kids. What's your favourite picture?"

"What?"

"The picture you like most. From the ones here."

"I don't know."

"Hmm. Okay, we'll shoot you next to the hand of fate."

"What?"

"The hand. That hand drawing. It's great. It inspired me with the title for this show."

"Oh," I said. It was disconcerting to learn my drawing had inspired that shitty title.

"It's been sold. I sold every fucking piece of yours within the first hour. Corinne wants to kill you."

"Corinne?"

"Corinne Wilde. You saw her. She's on show, too. She's green with envy. Never mind. I'll introduce you to her and to Jimmy Carr later. Jimmy Carr, that's the third act in this show. Come on, let's do this photo."

"Well, I'll see you around," Jane said, and was gone before I could think of something to make her stay.

I followed Chaz through the crowd to a spot directly in front of the entrance. The drawing of my left hand hung there. I hadn't noticed it coming in because of the crowd. It too had a narrow black frame, and looked really sharp. But what I liked most about it now was the orange SOLD sticker.

It was fucking unreal. I was going to wake up in a moment in a white-walled room, with a concerned nurse handing me the medicine I'd forgotten to take earlier in the day. I felt dazed and remained dazed while Chaz and a small, wiry guy with a camera hung from his neck pushed and prodded me into the right stance beside the drawing. Everyone nearby stopped talking and looked at me. I wanted to run and hide.

"Smile, for fuck's sake!" said the wiry guy. I did my best to smile and he snapped a few pictures, blinding me with the flash each time. He lowered his camera and said:

"Smile, you sad sonovabitch, or put something up your nose."

I grinned when I heard that and he finally got his shot.

"I'm done," he said to Chaz.

"Good," said Chaz, and the wiry guy fucked off. Chaz grinned at me.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just not used to, to all this stuff."

"You'll get used to it. I promise. Hell, you'll learn to enjoy it. How about another drink? You look like you need one."

"Sure," I said, and followed him to the bar. I noticed that the serious-looking kid suspended all other operations to talk to Chaz, and made our drinks right away.

"Okay," said Chaz, once he'd pulled me away from the bar to make space for the numerous thirsty lovers of art. "Now here's the deal. I want you to get going full speed. I want you to have your own show in the spring. Just you and no one else. But I need a real good body of work from you for that. A cross section of what you're capable of. You understand?"

"Yes," I said, my heart thumping.

"You said you don't do oils. That's a great pity. That's a big hole that needs to be filled. You work in acrylic?"

"Acrylic paint?"

"Yes."

"I haven't tried," I said.

"It's easier to handle than oils. Listen, Michael, if you want to score, you have to have range. You understand? Your work has to stretch from here to the end of the fucking universe. That's what makes an artist. Any fool can learn how to work a single thing to perfection."

I nodded silently. I'd heard about acrylic: it was all the rage among painters, had been so for a few years. But I'd never felt tempted to try it. Thing was, any whiff of something chemical seemed to upset my concentration when I was drawing or painting something. It was the stink of turpentine that had made painting in oils completely impossible for me. Somehow, it seemed to shut down vital conduits in my brain.

"I can't paint in oils because the smell of the solvents fucks me up," I told Chaz. "I guess it's going to be the same story with acrylic."

"No. You're wrong. Acrylic paint is water-based. It hardly smells of anything at all. Listen, Michael, you can be the greatest artist in the whole fucking world and no one's going to give a shit if you limit yourself to drawings and watercolours. Hitler did, and look how he ended up."

"I saw a couple of his watercolours," I said. "They weren't bad."

"Yeah well," said Chaz, "Fuck Hitler. Will you try acrylic? At least try?"

"I will."

"Good man," said Chaz. "Now come along, I'll introduce you to the other artists. Just keep quiet about what I've just told you, I mean your own show. They'll want to kill you."

I followed his advice. Corinne Wilde was the raccoon chick I'd spotted earlier. She didn't like me. Jimmy Carr neither liked me nor disliked me. He was too bombed to care. He had long brown hair and a wispy beard and a glass of booze in each hand. He had to quickly finish one of his drinks in order to shake my hand. His eyes reminded me of pickled hard-boiled eggs.

Then Chaz pulled me aside for another pep talk. Basically, he wanted me to work my ass off to get as much stuff done as possible by spring, when he wanted to stage a show devoted exclusively to me. I told him I had a full-time job that I wanted to retain.

"You'll quit that job before next year's out," Chaz predicted confidently.

"I don't know. I make four bucks an hour."

"That's a good wage," agreed Chaz. "But tell me this: how long did it take you to draw that hand?"

I shrugged.

"I'm not sure," I said. "Maybe an hour, maybe two."

"It sold for two eighty. Okay, so you end up with about half of that. But it still works out to a hell of a lot more than four bucks an hour."

It did, and I was very happy about that, and said so.

"However," I said, "I can't paint for forty hours a week or whatever."

"Why not? Most artists do."

"I don't know."

Chaz patted my arm.

"But I do," he said. "I know. Once you get used to it, it will be a breeze. You will see. Anyway, we'll talk again before Christmas. You have a phone number?"

"Not yet. Wait, actually I think I can give you my work number."

"So that's where you work? Robinson and Klein?" Chaz asked, copying the phone number from the business card.

"Yes."

"I think that guy Klein, I've met him. Name rings a bell. Anyway. Let's get together before Christmas, somewhere around the twentieth. I'll have a nice fat cheque ready for you, and we can talk about future business."

"Sure," I said.

"Great. And great stuff in general Michael, it's turned out better than I expected and I expected it would turn out pretty good. Congratulations. Listen, I gotta go stroke some egos. We'll get in touch middle of the month, okay?"

And he fucked off. I got myself yet another drink and went looking for Jane. She wasn't there. I pushed my way from one end of the gallery to the other a couple of times. I really wanted to find her and I didn't. I felt as if Mr. Chance had farted right in my face.

I finally looked at the Wilde and Carr stuff. It was good and maybe I was being conceited but I really felt my stuff was better. Anyway, neither of them had sold more than half of their stuff. And everything of mine had been sold within an hour. That was good, that was more than good.

What wasn't so good was that Jane definitely wasn't around any more.

Fiona was still there, talking to two guys who competed to speak. I didn't want to be the third guy, but I had no choice except to hover nearby, in the hope of learning something about Jane's whereabouts.

Fiona noticed me about a minute into my hovering. She grinned at me and said something to those two guys that made them throw daggers with their eyes and stepped up to me. She said:

"I wanted to thank you again for my apples."

I realized she was a little drunk.

"I think I'm the one who ought to be offering thanks," I said. "I mean you've bought them."

"I like them a lot," she said.

"I like you a lot," I said, and that was when I realized I was as drunk as her, or worse.

She laughed, and said:

"I've just spent a lot of money on you. How about you spend some on me?"

It took me a while to work out what she meant. Her grin had mutated into a small smile while I was doing that. But it changed back into a grin when I said:

"Let's go somewhere else to get a drink."