Free Paint. The art of scam. by Oscar Turner Page A

lately. I don’t have a problem with hashish, I like a
good puff too, in the evening with a glass of wine, it’s fun. I even understand
why he smokes it. But Seymour starts the day off with a huge mug of hash coffee
these days and then smokes endless joints all day watching shit, daytime TV. He
even denies that he’s doing it. If he did the bloody washing up for once then I
wouldn’t be able to smell the stuff in the numerous mugs that he dumps in the
sink. Can you believe it? I’m sniffing his mugs to see if he’s making hash
coffee and feeling the TV when I get in to see if he’s been watching it! For
God’s sake. I’m turning into his fucking mother! Not anymore. That’s it! And if he doesn’t like it? Well he can just
bugger off and live off somebody else, just like he’s done before. We had a
deal and he’s broken it. All that fucking talking about me trying to organise a
show for him. That was the deal and what does he do? Nothing. Well, that’s not
totally true. When he does get off his ass, he does some wonderful work. I
really do have great faith in him. Yes, keep saying it over and over Polly. You
have great faith in him. We can do it: together. God that bastard makes me so
fucking angry! An elderly couple sat behind her a few rows back chatting
and laughing endlessly about nothing in particular. It was comforting somehow.
Although she couldn’t make out exactly what they were talking about, the sound
of them was enough, just normal people living, what sounded like uncomplicated
lives, saying things like, ‘Oh well mustn’t grumble. Plenty worse off than us.’
She wondered what that would be like; to have a normal, simple life with no
ambition, no expectation and never wondering whether you are happy or not. Just
getting on with your lot, and putting up with it.
    That was an
absurd notion; Polly knew that. Having a normal, simple life is not a decision;
neither is being unhappy.
    Polly got off the
bus at the Clock Tower and stood for a while, gently nudged by passing
pedestrians, surrounded by the chaotic sounds and smells of cars, buses, people
walking talking, people waiting, everybody going somewhere. That’s why she
loved Brighton. All those people: good looking people, exotic people from all
over the world, pulled in by the indefinable energy magnet that Brighton is.
You can just be there and soak it all up: she missed it.
    ‘Polly darling!
How are you?’
    Polly snapped out
of her mild trance to see a bubbly, overdressed woman about to gobble her up
with over enthusiastic hugs and air kisses. It was Kevin’s sister, Rita. Rita
thought that everybody’s emotions should be in the public domain, whether they
like it or not.
    ‘Rita. Hi. How
are you?’
    ‘Fantastic! Yes,
everything is great. My God! It’s so good to see you! Wow! How are you?’
    ‘I’m great too.’
said Polly.
    ‘Well that’s
great! It’s been simply ages since I last saw you. You look, different,
somehow. Have you been poorly?’
    ‘No, not to my
knowledge.’ Polly quickly checked her reflection in a shop window. Rita was
right, she looked rough.
    ‘Been working a lot
lately, bit tired I suppose.’
    “Oh? What are
doing these days?’
    ‘Um, well, this
and that, lots of projects on the go. You know how it is.’
    ‘Yes, quite. Are
you still with that artist chap?’
    Here we go , thought Polly. Rita’s going to start digging
the dirt. ‘Seymour? Well, yes actually.. I am. How’s Kevin?’
    ‘Oh not too bad,
up and down. You know he was really cut up when you left him. Still is if you
ask me.’ Rita suddenly dropped her head and looked worried for a second
    This was Polly’s
cue to feed Rita’s appetite for drama. Polly chose to nod and smile. ‘Oh well.’
    ‘It all happened
so suddenly. It took us completely by surprise. We all thought you were so good
together.’
    The ‘we’ that
thought Polly and Kevin were so good together was in fact; Rita, who, in fact,
didn’t want them to be good