The Homeless Millionaire

It was a while before we left. Fiona went off to say goodbye to people she knew while I hunted down Chaz to make sure I could leave. He was engaged in a deep conversation with the Wilde raccoon when I found him, and I thought it would be prudent not to interfere. The crowd had thinned, I was standing not far from the entrance and someone was leaving every other minute. It was already getting dark outside, and when I looked at my watch I was greatly surprised to see it was already nearing four o'clock. These had to be the shortest three hours in my life.

Chaz ended his conversation with the Wilde raccoon just in time: Fiona had already taken station by the door and was throwing me enquiring glances. I quickly stepped up to Chaz, and said:

"Chaz. Is it all right if I leave? Or do you need me to stick around?"

He was flabbergasted.

"You want to leave? Your first show, and you want to leave? Has something happened?"

"Yeah," I said. "I invited someone who bought one of my pictures for a drink."

"Ah, that's different. Wise move. Who is that?"

"Her name is Fiona," I said. "She's by the entrance."

Chaz threw Fiona a glance and smiled and waved at her and said:

"Wow. Fiona McKay. Very wise move, Michael. She's loaded. Cultivate her. Cater to her every whim. Marry her if you can, you'll instantly become a millionaire. No, scratch that. Don't ever marry anyone, especially if you love them. Artists ought to be unhappy. That's when they do their best work."

"I'll try to remember that," I said.

"It wouldn't hurt if you came around a couple of times. Saturdays are especially good. I mean it's not strictly necessary, all your stuff's already sold. But it helps when people get to meet you in person, you know. I actually wanted to introduce you to a couple more people but what the hell, Fiona McKay ranks half a dozen other buyers. Just don't put your foot in it."

"I'll remember that," I repeated.

"Might be wise if you don't put other body parts in it either, know what I mean? Be a little cool and aloof. Friendly, but aloof. You're supposed to be a genius. Gotta live up to the image."

"I'll do my best," I said.

"Good. Keep doing your best, and you can't go wrong. Drop in next Saturday for a drink and a chat. If you can't, make sure to call me by the sixteenth. I'll have your cheque ready by then."

"Okay."

"See you, then."

"See you."

It took me a while to find and retrieve my outdoor jacket. I had taken it off and hung it up on a stand near the bar because it looked cheap and crummy compared to what everyone was wearing. I was painfully aware of that once again, when I approached Fiona in her elegant long leather coat.

She was slightly pissed off by then. She was rich, and most likely she was used to people snapping to attention in her presence. It made me angry, and I didn't apologize for the delay.

"Shall we go?" I asked.

"Where?"

"For a drink."

"Where?"

I shrugged.

"Maybe you could suggest a place," I said. "I'm new to Vancouver."

"Oh. Really?"

"Really."

"Okay," she said. She'd melted visibly upon learning I was new to Vancouver. Since I was new to Vancouver, I could be pardoned for not realizing how important she was.

"There's a place just a few doors down from here," she said, and walked out without waiting for my answer.

I followed her out and down the street feeling like her flunkey, which I probably was, in a sense. The place she had in mind was steps away and she went in without looking once in my direction.

It was a swanky place, a fucking expensive kind of place. I was intercepted by a guy who divested me of my Canadian Tire jacket and did a poor job of hiding his sneer. Under her coat, Fiona was wearing skin-tight jeans tucked into long brown boots and topped by an Irish-green jumper—nothing especially flashy or elegant, but she was like an emerald among pebbles in that restaurant. She ignored the maître d' who was rushing from the other end of the dining room to accommodate her; she walked up to a free two-seat table by the window and sat down.

I followed her, conscious of many eyes watching: it felt really uncomfortable. Probably at least a few people in the restaurant knew who Fiona was, and wanted a good description of her latest date for their next week's gossip. As I was sitting down, I had the thought that the drinks in that place would cost the earth.

They did. I was very relieved when Fiona ordered a screwdriver. Vodka and orange juice, that couldn't be too bad. It turned out later it cost more than three pints of Toby at my pub.

I ordered a coffee, making Fiona frown.

"Coffee?" she said, as if I'd committed a major faux pas.

"I drank a lot today," I said. "I'm not used to it. I feel drunk already."

"Wow," said Fiona. "An artist that doesn't like getting drunk. That's a novelty."

I thought about telling her that I was one of those artists who don't like the embarrassment of not being able to pay the bill. But she was rich, and she wouldn't even know what I was talking about. I came from a relatively well-off family, and a couple of years earlier I wouldn't have known that, too. Those two part-time jobs I had back in Toronto had really opened my eyes to a lot of things.

I tried to make the whole situation humorous.

"I have to be careful around you," I said. "You've bought one of my pictures. If I act out of turn, you'll never buy another."

It pleased her enormously to hear she had power over me. She said:

"In that case, I command you to have a proper drink."

The waitress chose that moment to arrive with Fiona's screwdriver and my coffee and the only thing I could order to go with that coffee was a small brandy. I didn't touch it when it arrived; I let it stand on the table next to my cooling coffee. I was regretting I had asked Fiona out for a drink. I had a bag of pot in my pocket and wanted to go home and smoke a joint and maybe draw something.

"Someone told me this was your first show," Fiona said. "Is this true?"

"Yes."

"You don't seem happy about it."

"Maybe it doesn't show, but I am very happy about it."

She thought that one over, and changed tack.

"So you're new to Vancouver? When did you arrive?"

"A few months back," I said. "But I almost immediately left to stay at a friend's cottage. I only moved into town a couple of weeks ago."

"Oh. Where are you from? Toronto?"

"Yeah, Toronto." I wasn't going to tell her about Montreal and Roch and least of all, about what I was up to over there.

"How did you meet Chaz?"

"Through a friend. Same friend who let me stay at his cottage."

"Wait. You said you were staying there until just recently? You were staying at a cottage in October and November?"

"Yes."

"Jesus."

"It wasn't bad," I said. "It wasn't that cold and it was very quiet and peaceful. I painted those apples over there."

"Really?"

"Yeah," I said. I was feeling increasingly irritated. My dick was sending me clear signals it wanted to get to know Fiona a lot better. My brain and heart were sending me clear signals that getting intimate with Fiona wouldn't be a good idea. I had an image of myself trotting alongside her in my Canadian Tire jacket, and it made me cringe.

"Can you do portraits?"

"Sure."

"I might have a commission for you," she said. "My father's birthday—he was actually born on Christmas Eve—is approaching. I was thinking about giving him a portrait of himself as a birthday gift. Can you work from a photograph?"

"Sure. But I ought to tell you something. I don't do oils. I use pencil and charcoal and watercolour. I'm saying this because people usually want an oil portrait."

"A drawing would be okay too," said Fiona, unexpectedly scoring a point with me. "Let me think about it."

"Sure."

I let her think about it, but she didn't like that. The silence quickly got heavy. I said:

"Can I ask you something? You came with a friend, with Jane. You two are friends?"

"Very old friends. We met in kindergarten."

It was my turn to say 'really', and her turn to say 'yes'. She didn't like the fact I was interested in Jane. I said:

"I met Jane when I was staying at that cottage. I met her brother, too."

"You met Dick?"

I nodded.

"You know," I said, "Quite often people have names that don't fit. I once knew a Venus who was so ugly she made dogs bark. But Dick—his name is spot on. It's just him."

Fiona threw her head back and laughed. She had very nice teeth. Most likely they were checked and polished monthly by a team of top dentists. She said:

"Dick is an asshole, that's a fact. Poor Jane! If I had a brother like that..." She shook her head.

I pulled out my cigarettes and she took one and I lit it for her before lighting mine.

"I like that," she said.

"What? The cigarette? Yeah, Rothmans are good."

"I meant the fact that you took your cigarette out of your mouth and actually raised your ass from your seat when you were offering me a light."

"I don't get it."

"Most Canadians, most North Americans are boors. Boors in baseball caps."

"I take it you've lived abroad."

"I went to school in Switzerland. The school was awful, but Switzerland was nice. Very nice. Then I spent a full year in England. London. Someone over there told me London isn't England."

"Were they from London?"

"You're a funny one," she said, giving me an appraising look. She wasn't laughing; she clearly meant that I was odd. I agreed with that. I was feeling more and more out of place with every passing minute. I said:

"I'm in shock. You know, I dreamed about being in a show many times, and it finally happened and it feels just like any other day."

"You said you were very happy."

"I lied. I mean I felt happy when I saw that orange SOLD sticker for the first time. But that was only because I'm broke."

"Oh."

There was another uncomfortable silence. I said:

"That birthday portrait of your dad—are you serious?"

"Yes, I am. It's pretty hard to find a good present for someone who has everything."

"Your old man has everything?"

"Pretty much. Half the town is sitting in his pocket."

"Are you sitting in his pocket?"

She laughed.

"Of course," she said. "Where else would I sit?"

"When is his birthday?"

"I already told you. Christmas Eve."

"I have to tell you something," I said. "This will be the first time anyone's commissioned a portrait from me. I want to do it, but I'm not sure how it will all turn out. So I'd like to get started early. I'll do a few initial sketches and if you don't like the way things are going, we'll just drop the whole thing. Okay?"

"Yes, sounds good."

"Can you get me that photograph sometime next week?"

"Sure."

"I work in a real estate office," I said, reaching for my wallet. I took out Klein's card and crossed his name out and wrote mine over it.

"I'm there from noon till six," I said, offering her the card. "Give me a call whenever you're ready. Or just drop off that photo at the office. It would be good if I had your phone number, too. Just in case."

"In case of what?"

I shrugged and drank my brandy and it was very good brandy, I could tell. I had been stealing nips from my father's bottles from the moment I turned ten, and I could tell.

I could also tell Fiona wasn't enjoying herself. I said:

"Listen, I'm really sorry. I got up at six today and had to go to the office for half a day before the show. I'm tired and a little drunk and I think I ought to go home and get some rest."

"That might be a good idea," she said coldly. "Shall we go?"

We did. Fiona tried to pay the bill, or at the very least put on a convincing show. Of course I didn't let her. The coffee, the brandy, and her cocktail cost as much as a full dinner and half a gallon of beer at the Park Pub.

There were sneers all around when I collected my jacket, and put it on after helping Fiona with her coat. I'd practiced that a lot recently with old Robinson, so I showed real skill. Fiona told the attendant to get a cab for her, and gave me a card—she had her own cards, of course, with her name embossed so that even the blind could work it out. She said:

"Is it all right if I call you middle of the week?"

"Perfect," I said. The attendant came in, and told Fiona her cab was waiting. She gave him a dollar and turned to me and said:

"Do you want a lift?"

"I think I'd like to walk a little to clear my head," I said. "Best way to avoid a hangover the next morning."

She nodded and said goodbye and that was that. I stood outside the restaurant for a short while, watching her cab disappear down the street. Then I walked for a few minutes, looking around for a cab myself and regretting that I hadn't asked Fiona for Jane's phone number.

I eventually came across a taxi disgorging its passengers and got inside and rode home, wondering what the fuck was wrong with me.