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

together at all and worked tirelessly to cause
trouble between them whenever she could. The rest of Kevin’s family and friends
quietly suspected Polly of gold digging and they, indeed, they had a point.
    ‘Yes well. Life is
full of surprises. Look I really have to go Rita,’ said Polly looking up to the
clock tower which had stopped at 4.32 three months ago.
    ‘Oh. You don’t
have time for a quick coffee or something?’
    ‘No, sorry. No I
don’t. I have a meeting to go to.’
    ‘Oh, what a pity.
Well let’s have lunch sometime. You still have my number?’
    ‘Yes, yes I do.
That’ll be great Rita. Look I’ll call you soon. OK?’ said Polly, as she
withdrew before Rita had the chance to give one of her legendary, consolatory
hugs, usually accompanied by whispered inane advice.
    ‘OK Polly, I’ll
look forward to..... Oh.’
    Polly was out of
earshot before Rita had time to finish her parting words. Quickening her step
to match her excuse, she headed down toward the East Pier and set off West
along the promenade back home to Hove. She was in no hurry; she still wasn’t
quite ready to see Seymour. Bumping into Rita like that had thrown her;
regurgitated something, as if it were a reminder of the last time she had
barged into other people’s lives and caused mayhem. Am I doing the same thing again? she thought. Am I really that bad? Suddenly, Polly was feeling like shit about
herself: guilty of something, and it was Rita that had put her there. How can she do that? She’d always
disliked Rita; right from the start and it was mutual. Kevin’s family were
Jewish. They wanted Kevin to find himself a nice Jewish girl: not some flighty
tart like Polly. They had made that perfectly clear many times at ridiculously
formal family get-togethers by using some sort of coded innuendo delivered in a
mechanical language that made Polly grimace . Kevin had
always said that he was above all that Jewish family shit and for her not to
worry about it; but he always kept that yarmulke handy,
just in case. Shit, even now, that
fucking family are making me angry! That’s what people like Rita do, they make
themselves feel good by making everybody else feel like shit!
    Polly ambled past
the old West pier: no Sean, no Tracy, nobody. She was relieved in some way.
That day, when she had first set eyes on Seymour and felt that strange tingle,
was firmly imprinted on her as one of the strongest moments of her life. To see
Tracy again would have been strange, awkward. Why? She wasn’t sure. Seymour often
talked about Tracy: her inspiring power, her wisdom, her honesty; an honesty
that she lived by and from. Seymour told her that Tracy had changed his life.
It was the tarot reading. He swore that Tracy had entered his head and flicked
a switch that had changed his mind. He couldn’t explain it, but, given that he
is so cynical that he thinks conspiracy theories are just a conspiracy theory,
it sounded credible and she had certainly affected him in a big way. Polly
smiled, I wonder what he was like before?
     
    Polly sat on a
bench, staring out to sea, watching the sun edge its way down to the West,
sending a rare, but glorious, ever changing light show across the horizon.
Pounding joggers thumped past with measured, hissing breath, vagrants shuffled
past, checking bins, cheeky seagulls swooped and lovers caressed on the pebbled
beach.
    ‘Polly?’ came a
voice behind her. Polly, startled, jumped from her thoughts and looked around
to see Tracy standing there: bulging canvas bags in each hand.
    ‘Oh. Hi. Tracy?
How are you?’
    ‘I'm fine, how
are you doing?’
    ‘Um. I'm fine.
Yes fine. Gosh. Haven't seen you for ages. Not since um...’
    ‘Since you gave
me that note for Seymour. How is the old fool?’
    ‘He's great, yes
great.’
    Tracy looked at
her with an amused suspicion, dropped the clearly heavy, near to bursting bags
and sat down next to Polly on the bench.
    ‘Not interrupting
you am I? You looked like you were miles