The Homeless Millionaire

I woke up after nine the next morning with a hangover that deserved a monument in a widely frequented public space, with an inscription specifying the date and the place though maybe not the person involved, for personal reasons. I medicated myself with three glasses of scotch and water and got my breathing right with the help of a couple of cigarettes.

The Noyces were up and around. Clearly they were returning to health, which was bad because I had to wait until eleven before the bathroom was free. I didn't run into anyone on the way there and back, and I began entertaining the hope that Mr Chance was about to give me another good run. I really hoped he would, because this was going to be a very important day.

Fiona had told me to expect her around half past twelve. After I'd dealt with her, I'd go to the gallery and see whether there was a check waiting for me. Both occasions would benefit greatly from a positive involvement by Mr Chance.

I was ready and waiting in the street outside the house by a quarter past twelve. The day was grey and cold and moist but at least it wasn't raining. I felt a little stupid, walking up and down the street to keep warm, with the tube containing the portraits bouncing on my back.

I took utmost care to stay out of sight of the house. I didn't want the Noyces to see me because it would likely lead to questions later on, and one of those questions would be why didn't I wait inside the house, by the front door. The honest answer would have to be that I didn't want to talk to them. I was sure that wouldn't go down well, and I was fucking tired of lying. The phone conversation that I'd had the previous night with my parents had used up my quota of lies for the entire month.

I heard Fiona's car before I saw it. It sounded like one of those small English sporty jobs, and it was - a Sunbeam coupe painted British racing green. I was sure it was Fiona even though I couldn't see the driver, the slanted front windshield was reflecting the sky. So I stepped to the kerb and waved and suddenly felt stupid, because I still couldn't see who was behind the wheel.

It was Fiona, all right. She stopped right beside me, making her tires squeal. I stepped up to her window and motioned for her to wind it down. When she did, I was hit by a combination of cigarette smoke and very nice, expensive-smelling perfume. I remembered Robinson's comment and made a show of sniffing and said:

"Chanel?"

Fiona smiled, and said:

"Number five. What's happening? I thought we were going to look at the portrait."

"We definitely will," I said. "More than one, in fact. But we can't do it at my house. It's a disaster area. All four members of my landlord's family are down with a flu that makes you regret you were ever born."

"I heard something like that was going around," she said. "Okay. Hop in, I think I know where we could go."

I went around the car and inserted my tube onto the tiny backseat. When I sat down in the front bucket seat, it felt as if my ass was practically grazing the pavement. This definitely wasn't a car for Canadian winters, a single snowfall would disable it. Winters were much milder on the west coast; Roch had told me that Montreal was already buried under a foot of snow. But there was bound to be some snow sooner or later, even in Vancouver.

"Nice car," I said.

It was. The upholstery was brown leather and the dashboard walnut, tastefully decorated with round dials rimmed in chrome. Fiona didn't answer. She glanced back to check for traffic and took off like a witch late for a midnight meeting. She managed to shift gears up and down a dozen times before we got to East Hastings, the engine snarling like an aroused dog every time she did that. I stole a sideways glance at her whenever that happened.

She looked beautiful and rich. Her long leather coat was unbuttoned but the collar was up - was she expecting guys to go crazy with desire, and bite her neck? She was wearing professional driving gloves, with string on the inside and the leather on the back of the hand cut out in a half moon and perforated over the knuckles. And she did drive like a fucking pro, fast but not crazy, and very skillfully. I watched her moves out of the corner of my eye and they were smooth and swift while carrying that hint of laziness which marks expert drivers. She was in love with her car, if there was a heavy snowfall she'd probably carry it on her back if she had to.

We drove through what seemed the bigger part of Vancouver in less time than it had taken me to walk to work. We didn't talk, I had no intention of disturbing her concentration, we were going too fast for that.

Fiona finally pulled to a stop on an expensive street all lit up for the Christmas season. It was pretty crowded with people and vehicles and she double-parked, making the car behind us hoot threateningly before changing lanes. She put the car in neutral but left the engine running and began to get out of the car and I wondered what the fuck was going on. Then my jaw dropped because I saw a guy wearing the type of uniform that identifies flunkeys run out from under an awning, and approach the car smiling at Fiona as if his life depended on it.

She was already on the sidewalk and looking somewhat impatient by the time I'd gotten out of the car and retrieved my tube.

"Let's go," she told me when I joined her, and without waiting for an answer she turned and walked toward the entrance under the awning. There was another flunkey standing to the side of the double black-and silver doors, and he sprang to open them for her when she drew near. He was shocked to see me and my Canadian Tire jacket follow Fiona inside. I felt his sneer hit the back of my neck before the doors swung shut.

Another uniformed bird sprang forward to attend to Fiona. He looked well over sixty, with a carefully trimmed snow-white mustache and beard, and he really shouldn't have been doing things like that at his age. He helped Fiona with her coat, studiously ignoring me until I held out my jacket to him, practically pushing it in his face. He was very unhappy when he found out he'd have to hand the coat checks to me: Fiona was already conferring with the maitre d', who strongly resembled the guy shown on tins of Prince Albert tobacco.

I caught up with her with her just on time to hear her say she wanted a room. For a moment I didn't know what she meant by that, then remembered that my father sometimes reserved a private dining room for particularly momentous occasions.

There were quite a few people in that restaurant, and when we crossed it to our room they had a hard time deciding whether to look at Fiona and at me: Fiona for her beauty, myself for curiosity value. They were probably making beauty-and-the-beast comments in their heads and among themselves, thinking that they were highly original.

Prince Albert showed us inside the room and announced someone called Gregory would be with us soon. Then he fucked off, leaving us alone in a room that was meant for eight people - that was the number of chairs around the table. I was glad about that: the table was large enough to spread the pictures wide apart. I wanted Fiona to view each in turn without others intruding on her field of vision.

I complimented her on her driving while I was taking the pictures out. Then I said:

"Can you give me a hand? They need something to weigh down the corners. Those tumblers there on the table will handle two pictures, then we'll switch."

"You've brought more than one picture?" she said, somewhat stupidly; I mean, she could see I'd slid several out of the tube.

"Four," I said, unrolling portrait number two, the one I'd chosen as the Christmas gift.

"I can choose?"

I shrugged.

"You don't need to," I said. "They're all yours anyway. I have no use for them. Use the ones you don't like to kindle a fire, or something."

She didn't say anything and she didn't move and I said:

"Can you help me? Grab a tumbler and put it down there." I tilted my chin at the corner I was holding down.

She did what I asked and I removed my hand and secured the other top corner with a tumbler, and just then the advertised Gregory showed up. He was wearing a white jacket and a white bow tie and had a pale face that had seen much it didn't like. He had dyed black hair slicked back and very dark eyes and looked like Dracula suffering from a fit of remorse.

He gave us a sad smile and put a couple of menus down on the table while asking Fiona if she'd like anything to drink: I didn't exist. She ordered a couple of brandy and sodas without asking me what I'd like.

"Of course," said Gregory, and fucked off. By that time, I'd secured the bottom corners of the picture and it ready for viewing. I stepped back from the table and got out my cigarettes and lit one.

"That's the one I think makes the best Christmas present," I said, and plugged my mouth with my cigarette. There was nothing more for me to say. I realized, with a slight shock, that I didn't give a flying fuck what Fiona thought about the picture. I had no money riding on her approval, and I knew the portrait was good.

She stepped up to view it better, hiding it from my view. I smoked my cigarette, looking at her hands clutching the edge of the table and at the set of her shoulders and the back of her head, a forest of rich chestnut curls. She was silent for a while. She either loved it or hated it. I didn't care: it was hers anyway, and I knew it was really good. That was what truly mattered.

She loved it. She said so. She said:

"I love it. He'll love it, too. Michael, it's perfect!"

"That's nice to hear," I said, and Gregory chose that moment to enter with the drinks. When he'd left after Fiona'a assurance we won't need him for the next fifteen minutes, I added:

"Do you want to see the others now? They're for you."

"What do you mean, they're for me? This one isn't?"

"I meant that's the one for your father," I said, "And the other three are exclusively your property. Of course you can give them to him too, if you like. But I'm not sure whether that would be a good idea."

"Why?"

"I'll show you."

I took the second watercolor and she was so eager to help me display it she got three tumblers down to my one.

"That's the best one," I said. "But it doesn't make a good present."

I glanced at her. She was staring at the portrait with the fucked-up eye as if she was experiencing a revelation. It made me feel uneasy and I turned away and got busy with my glass and my cigarette. My drink was very good: it had been made with very good brandy. I hoped I wouldn't have to pay the bill. I had a single, really tired-looking two-dollar note in my wallet. That was all that remained from the two hundred bucks plus I had just a few days earlier. Suddenly, I realized that banks closed early on Saturdays and that I had only an hour or so to cash the check I'd written out and put in my wallet before leaving the house to meet Fiona.

I said:

"Listen, I'm really sorry, but I need to go to my bank. Royal Bank to be precise. I hope there's a branch nearby. Can I leave you alone for a little while?"

She was shocked.

"You have to go?"

"I need to cash a check," I said. "Do you know if there's a Royal Bank branch somewhere close? I'm not familiar with this part of Vancouver."

She told me there indeed was a Royal Bank branch nearby, and told me where. I promised to return quickly and told her there were two more pictures for her to look at in the meantime. The cloakroom prince was pleasantly intrigued to see me leave so fast, and disappointed to hear I'd be returning soon.

It took me less than five minutes to find my bank but there was a lineup inside, and I returned to the restaurant only after half an hour had passed. There was a half-empty bottle of Chablis on the table in the private dining room, and Fiona's eyes had acquired a new shine.

I'd expected to catch some flak for being away for a while, but Mr Chance was firmly on my side. Fiona began by announcing that she felt honored, which sounded very promising: it came from a person who expected other people to feel honored just by her presence. She followed up on that promise by informing me that she knew what I'd meant when I said the best portrait didn't make a good Christmas present, but that it was brilliant, and that she was going to keep it for herself for the rest of her life. But she wanted to give the pencil and charcoal portraits to her father, too. She said:

"He'll be thrilled. It will be a full set: color, pencil, charcoal. He never got anything like that before. I don't know how to thank you."

"You already did," I said.

She told me she really wanted to pay me, that I deserved it, and I said no. She bounced back by saying that in that case, she was going to treat me to lunch. There was a brass bell push by the door and I'd wondered what it was there for, and discovered the reason when Fiona used it to summon Gregory. I ordered veal escalopes in a white sauce with rice: my stomach had been sending me mixed signals. I didn't want an appetizer and dessert, which made Gregory smirk, so I said to Fiona:

"I got really bombed last night, and I'm on a diet."

She laughed. Gregory was impressed, I could tell. If Fiona laughed at a remark like that, the remarker truly had to be a strategic bomber.

I poured myself a glass of wine and reached for one of the breadsticks Gregory had brought and Fiona asked:

"Are you doing anything later tonight?"