The Late Hector Kipling (19 page)

‘You know,’ I say.

Lenny breaks out into a big grin. Sharp white teeth. ‘I’m not fucking her, Hector. Christ, she’s like twenty-one or something.’

‘I didn’t say you were, did I? Did I say you were?’

‘You implied it.’

‘Did not.’

‘Well, what’s she a bit young for?’

‘Er . . .’ I mutter, ‘. . . her age? I meant she was a bit young for her age.’

‘That doesn’t even make sense,’ says Lenny.

‘Who’s a bit young for her age? Who are you talking about?’ says someone else. Lenny didn’t say it, and Kirk didn’t say it. My skull is aglow. I turn around.

‘He was talking about you, Rosa,’ says Lenny, and I nearly throw my drink over him, but I don’t cos that wouldn’t really help the situation right now. She’s right at my side and she smells of jasmine and musk. Sky black hair and impossible eyes, sullen, crucified.

‘What were you saying about me?’ She puts her hand on her hip and sniffs.

‘I wasn’t saying anything about you,’ I stutter. ‘Er . . .’ and the circumstances of my whole life – and several past ones – gallop through my brain. ‘I meant that I thought you were amazing the other night.’

She looks to Lenny for advice. Lenny just smiles and swigs at his bottle.

‘The other night at the poetry thing,’ I continue, like a kite out of control, ‘I thought your poems were . . .’ Silence. ‘Beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ she says and bows her head. I might have defused the situation. Oh God, please let me have defused the situation. ‘That’s very sweet of you.’

Sweet! She called me sweet. Or she said that something I said was very sweet. Whatever, it’s not a total disaster.

I can still see Bianca. God, I think she’s drunk. She’s plucking at David Baddiel’s chin as though she’s got a problem with his beard.

‘Hector Kipling,’ says Lenny, ‘Rosa Flood.’

I hold out my hand. Rosa steps back and puts her glass on the floor.

‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘Oh myyyyy Gaaahhhd! You’re Hector Kipling?’ she says and her lips fill up with teeth, and at one point a tongue. Whatever, she’s smiling. Laughing, even. ‘Oh my Gaahhd!’

Things are looking up.

‘You painted all this?’

I look around. ‘Yes,’ I mutter.

She puts out her hand and I take it in mine. I’m not sure what to do. Since Kirk has already kissed her on the back of the hand I decide against it and look into the possibilities of kissing her somewhere else. But it’s no good, anywhere other than the back of her hand would be
either over zealous or indecent. I seize the moment and kiss her on the back of the hand and bow, just like Kirk bowed.

She laughs in my face. ‘Jesus, you guys are so fuckin’ English!’

I pull away and straighten up. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ she says, ‘I’m totally fucking honoured. You are a total fucking genius.’

I want this moment to last for ever. And when forever’s over and done with I’d like it to last for whatever they can come up with next that’s better than forever.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that,’ says Lenny.

Cunt.

‘You are a god!’ says Rosa.

Rosa Flood just called me a god! What a girl.

‘A god?’ splutters Kirk, spraying his beer.

‘Which one?’ says Lenny.

‘Horus,’ says Kirk, ‘the Egyptian bird god.’

‘Well, he’s got the beak for it.’

I will kill them both. Sometime in the near future when I get them both together in more suitable conditions I will slowly and messily kill them both. I scratch at my forehead holding my hand across my nose.

‘Ganesh,’ says Kirk, ‘the elephant God,’ and doubles over.

Rosa laughs too. Perfect laughing teeth. She can hardly light her joint for laughing.

Kirk – I hope you die. I hope your tumour bursts open all over your fucking pillow tonight. I hope the surgeon’s wife leaves him that morning and he hits the sodium pentathol.

‘Did you see the one of you?’ says Rosa.

Lenny shakes his head and looks at me. ‘The one of me?’

Oh fucking fantastic.

‘The one of you. This guy is so on it. It’s fuckin’ perfect. Come see it,’ and she takes him by the hand and leads him across the room. They don’t walk side by side; Rosa’s well ahead leading him on, like a child
pulling a great Dane (or should that be a Mexican hairless?). Kirk tugs at my sleeve but I ignore him.

It’s not a great painting. If I had to position it in the league of the twelve paintings here I’d place it about number ten. But then I painted it from memory. It might even be read as a departure. And it’s not that I’ve diminished Lenny in any way. I never set out to insult him. I’ve made the head a little shinier than it is and one of his eyes is not quite like the other, a bit skew-whiff, a bit boss and puzzled. He’s wearing a dog collar, like a vicar’s dog collar, and he’s sat back, leaning his head against some old purple silk gazing down at the viewer as though they’ve just snotted on his shoe. I never set out to piss off Lenny. And I never set out to hide it from him. He was away in Amsterdam at the time and when he came back I never found the moment to mention it to him. I knew that one day the moment would arrive, of course I did, but I’d deal with it then.

I’ve never seen Lenny so still. I’ve never seen anyone so still (the dead florist in the van maybe). He’s stood about four feet away, swallowing, grinding, taking it all in.

Kirk’s looking at it like a plasterer confronted by a damp patch.

Silence.

And then: ‘When did you do this, Hector?’ says Lenny.

‘When you were away,’ I say.

‘You never told me you did this.’

‘Isn’t it incredible?’ says Rosa.

Another unspeakable silence. Endless fucking chatter, coughing, laughing. Everybody’s shoes on the factory floor.

‘Why am I wearing a dog collar?’ says Lenny.

‘Cos I was gonna paint a vicar,’ I say, ‘but then I painted you.’

Lenny thinks about this. I think we all think about this. I know I do.

‘So what . . . er . . .’ says Rosa, ‘you start with the clothes?’

‘Does he fuck start with the clothes,’ says Lenny.

‘Did this time,’ I mutter, and drain my glass.

‘I look weird,’ he says, and twizzles his finger in the direction of his painted eyes.

‘You look like a Nazi,’ says Kirk.

Cheers, Kirk.

‘He looks beautiful,’ says Rosa.

‘An emasculated Nazi,’ says Kirk.

I panic and pull round in front of them with my back to the painting, ‘Kirk, he does not look like a Nazi.’

‘I look dead,’ says Lenny.

‘No!’

‘What’s with all that purple silk? I look like I’m lying in a coffin.’

‘Ha!’ I say. ‘A coffin?’

‘Yeah, that’s what it is, that’s exactly what it is,’ says Rosa. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘You’ve never painted me,’ says Kirk.

Lenny turns. ‘Why would you want him to?’

‘I don’t want him to.’

‘Paint me,’ says Rosa and takes hold of my hand.

‘I’d love to,’ I say.

‘Oh Christ,’ says Kirk and gives Lenny a look.

Lenny looks away, like he’s seen enough. He takes a drag on his cigarette, exhales into my face and asks Rosa if she has the wrap. She goes into her pockets and hands it over. He invites Kirk off to the bog, leaving me alone with Rosa. Strange chess, Lenny mate, strange chess.

‘What was all that about?’ says Rosa.

‘No idea,’ I say, ‘I think he’s losing it. It’s the pressure.’

‘Of what?’

‘Hasn’t he told you? He’s up for the Turner Prize.’

‘Oh yeah, he mentioned that. So is that some big deal?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘not really. But he thinks it is.’

She takes out another cigarette and offers me one. She pulls out a battered old Zippo and ignites it with a flick of her knuckle. As I light
up I catch her eye and even think about winking. In fact maybe I do wink. Who’s to say?

‘Would you really paint me?’ she says.

I look into her eyes. It feels like I have the right to look into her eyes; after all, I’m an artist. I’m a major artist making a major decision. I can see myself in them, tiny and bloated. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I’ll paint you.’ She smiles and squeezes my hand. I squeeze back and then she lets it go.

We walk over to
Aunty Pat.
The smell of Rosa is making me blink.

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s my Aunty Pat.’

We’re almost touching and I imagine that at least eighty per cent of the people here must think we’re together. I imagine that we live together and that she’s smart and strange and wild and funny and the sex is great and sometimes I cook for her and sometimes she dances around the bedroom in nothing but a wet orange sarong.

‘That is my favourite so far.’ She says it quietly, almost a whisper, sincerely, almost in awe.

‘Thank you,’ I say, almost not pompous.

My phone rings.

‘Hello?’

‘Hector?’

‘Hello?’

‘Hector, it’s Eleni.’

I hold it away from my ear and look at the buttons. All those buttons. Numbers, arrows, stars, letters. ‘OK’ it says on the big round button. ‘OK’ in green capital letters. No, no, no it is not OK. It’s the opposite of fucking OK. ‘Off’ it says in red. My thumb shifts across the keypad like a metronome.

Err . . . I turn it off.

I know that’s a monstrous thing to do, but that’s what I do. That’s the choice I make. I turn it off and put it back in my pocket.

‘Who was that?’ says Rosa, not really interested.

‘A dead line,’ I say.

Silence.

Marc Quinn comes through the door and then some ugly actor with a pretty girlfriend.

‘I feel lost in her eyes,’ says Rosa, gazing up at Aunty Pat. ‘I feel buried alive by those eyes. She’s too beautiful.’

‘Yes.’

‘And her hair, has she really got hair like that?’

‘Yes, she had hair like that. She’s dead now,’ and I run my hands across my eyes.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ says Rosa.

‘No it’s OK,’ I say, sniffing ‘it was a few years ago. It was quick. God bless her.’

Rosa steps way back, almost to the other side of the gallery, to get a better view.

Why did I do that to Eleni? For fuck’s sake, Hector! You haven’t spoken to her for four days. You have no idea what’s going on, how she is. She may be in tiny pieces. Her mother may be dead. Her father may be dead. She might even be dying herself. You didn’t just hang up; you hung up and then turned it off. Turned her off. Flicked her out of existence like a light switch. For fuck’s sake! Turn it back on. Turn it back on right this minute, you fucking robot.

‘And who’s this?’ says Rosa, moving over to the next painting.

‘Erm . . .’ I say.

‘
Eleni
’, says Rosa, peering at the label. ‘Who’s Eleni?’

All the blood in my body is summoned to my head. My feet turn blue. ‘She’s er . . . she’s my sister.’

‘Your sister?’

‘Yep. She’s a . . . a dentist.’

‘A dentist?’

‘Yeah, teeth,’ I say, and point at my teeth.

‘She doesn’t really look like you,’ says Rosa.

‘Well –’ and I hold up my hands – ‘who does?’ and I laugh like I’ve just come out with something really quite magnificent.

Suddenly there’s a whiff of patchouli and a little tanned hand on my arm.

‘Hector, I have to go,’ says Bianca.

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘Bianca, do you?’

‘I do, dear, but I think it’s all amazing, it’s all so . . . fucking . . . amazing.’

Christ, how many has she had?

‘And you are . . .?’ says Bianca, holding out her hand to Rosa.

‘Rosa,’ smiles Rosa, curtsying and shaking her hand, half expecting Bianca to kiss it.

I wouldn’t be surprised.

‘Ah, yes, Rosa. I see. I’m Bianca.’

‘My osteopath,’ I say.

‘Osteopath?’ says Rosa, and frowns. I think the Americans must have different words for all these jobs I’m plucking out of the air.

Bianca smiles and squeezes up her shoulders. ‘Yes, that’s right, I straighten him out,’ and she winks at me.

‘Rosa, Bianca. Bianca, Rosa. Well, see you, Bianca. See you on Monday,’ and I kiss her on the cheek, pushing her towards the door with my lips. We hug. We’ve never hugged before and it feels disgraceful.

‘Goodnight,’ calls Bianca over my shoulder.

‘Goodnight,’ calls Rosa.

After a brief scuffle and a volley of platitudes I see her off.

Matt Collings is watching my every move as though it’s all one complex piece of performance art – I think he’s impressed. Stuart Pearson Wright’s explaining to Jenny Saville the genesis of his cane. Gilbert and George are doing something strange with each other’s fingers.

I wander back to Rosa, smiling at my people. It’s filling up nicely.

Rosa just stands there gazing at
Eleni
. I draw alongside and stare at
Eleni
too. We stand in silence for a long time. Well, look at this, just look at this: Hector Kipling and Rosa Flood gazing at Eleni Marianos.

‘You know what?’ says Rosa. ‘I don’t like this one as much as the others.’

I look deep into Eleni’s eyes. ‘Oh?’ I say. ‘Why not?’

‘I dunno.’

I see Lenny and Kirk emerge from the bog.

‘I think . . . ’ says Rosa and fiddles with her rings, ‘I think it’s that all the others are so powerful and jarring cos they’re kinda grotesque, but this one has no adrenalin, no thunder and lightning. It’s just beautiful, so it kinda lacks something.’

I look deep into Eleni’s burnt-bronze eyes. Life’s a terrible thing.

‘The ugly may be beautiful, the pretty never,’ I say.

‘What?’ she says.

‘Paul Gauguin,’ I say.

‘Ah,’ she says.

Silence.

For some reason all this has given me an erection. The feeling that I have just betrayed Eleni so horribly, so completely – first by turning off the phone, and then by denying her identity – the feeling that I have mortally insulted her soul, the feeling that I’m in the pay of the devil, has given way to a dark and lurid arousal. How can that be? I look deep into Eleni’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘you’re right; I have a problem painting beauty.’

Silence. I concentrate on swallowing. I wish everyone else would just leave now. After all, I feel that I may be about to say something.

I swallow and turn to look at Rosa. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t paint you after all.’