Free Paint. The art of scam. by Oscar Turner

with being late tomorrow and more fags in
the toilet should do the trick.
    Polly began to
get excited about her mission. During that afternoon she'd done her sums. If
she got sacked tomorrow, or rather when she got the sack tomorrow, she'd get
nearly seven day's holiday pay, a week in hand plus the normal week's pay.
That would be enough for her and Seymour to survive for a month or so if they
were careful. Bugger it, two weeks if they weren't, and certainly long enough
to have a few days lounging around in bed drinking champagne and screwing each
other stupid before Seymour would have to get his ass into gear and get a job.
    Polly knocked on
the door of Mr. Arnold's' office just before finishing work for the day.
    ‘Um Mr. Arnold, I
wonder if I could have a twenty pound advance on my pay from petty cash? I -
um - seem to have left my purse at home and I need to buy some . . . you know .
. . things.’ She was only going to ask for a fiver, but her shopping list had
grown by now. Three quid for the bus to freedom in the morning, a bottle of
cheap bubbly, and a Chinese takeaway: twenty should do nicely.
    Mr. Arnold looked
up from his desk over his glasses. ‘Mrs. Capita – um - ’
    ‘- I'm sorry, I
know you don't like giving advances but this really is important.’ Shit, he's going to fire me now . Go on. Say it, you miserable shit. Say it!
    ‘I'm - um - sorry
for snapping at you today. I've not been feeling myself lately. I'm on these
tablets now, you see. I don't like taking them you know, but the doctor. . . well,
he said if I don't . . . well . . . I didn't this morning. But now I have. So
. . . what was it you wanted?’
    ‘Twenty pounds.’
    ‘Of course,
twenty pounds. Um - I've got a key somewhere . . . it . . . um.’
    Polly stood there
watching Mr. Arnold fumbling in his pockets. She'd never seen him like this
before; so disorientated, confused. Eventually he found the key, unlocked the
petty cashbox he kept in a desk drawer and handed her three ten pound notes.
    ‘Thank you Mr.
Arnold, I appreciate it.’
    Polly didn’t wait
for a reply, nor did she point out that he had given her thirty instead of
twenty. By the look of the state he was in, it was unlikely he’d remember
giving her anything or even whether she was there or not. Sat back at her desk,
the sun beaming through the office windows, Polly looked up at the clock; it
was just two o’clock. She looked again at Mr. Arnold who was again searching
through his pockets: a puzzled look on his face. Bugger it thought Polly. Might
as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.
    Polly slipped out
through the factory gates and jumped on a bus to Brighton. She wasn’t ready to
go home yet though. She had some thinking to do, well aware, as she was, of her
propensity for spontaneous decision making without considering the
consequences: something she had promised herself to work on. She needed to
clear her head of all the things that seemed to be driving her crazy. When she
did eventually get home; she would need to be absolutely, crystal clear about
her decision to leave Hogarth’s and Seymour would need to be pinned down with
the reality of it: that was vital. Sitting up front, upstairs on the
double-decker bus helped, as she was able to passively watch the world and its
people go by, leaving her mind to wash around her muddled thoughts and doubts
that seemed so complex and confusing. The ferocity of last night’s argument with
Seymour still reverberated in her. She had considered the possibility that
maybe their relationship just can’t work after all. This was it: the limit. It
was true; she was at her wits end. Something had to give. She also suspected
that the power of their hate was equal to the power of their love: and that she
thoroughly enjoyed both. Polly kicked herself at the thought and pushed it to
the back of her mind where it belonged. I
just wish he didn’t smoke so much fucking hashish: that would help. He’s been
smoking more and more