Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Bess
Out in the street, a car roars as it gets closer then the noise dies abruptly with a short screech of tyres.
I don't need to look out the gallery window to know a Jag with the number plate WEPN is parked outside.
"Awesome," I say to no one in particular. I don't really have time to talk to him today. We had a record number of orders come in overnight and I have a lot of wrapping to do and sending to arrange. But talk to him I must, since he won't make ignoring him an option.
The door is open for the breeze and he bellows "Chica!" several swaggers from entering the gallery.
I don't bother to look up from my task. "Hello, Theo."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him throw his arms wide.
"Don't hug me. I'm too busy and I also don't want you to touch me."
He puts his hands up in surrender. "Hey now, sister. I'm all about the consent."
"No you're not."
The Odour laughs. "Bess, you have the wrong impression about me. Underneath it all, I'm actually a pretty decent guy."
"Say all men who touch women without asking and hold a gun to the head of their investment partners."
"What? I would never hold a jammy to anyone's temple."
"It's a metaphor for you forcing me into a position I desperately don't want to be in, Theo. Now get out of the way while I get the next product."
I push past him and a harried-looking, middle-aged, white man steps in behind The Odour, his arms cradling a large box. He wears a tweed jacket over a linen shirt. "Hi Bess, I stayed up most of the night and have the next two landscapes."
"You're a trooper, Phil. Put them behind the counter and I'll hang them this morning.
" Phil is one of the many Port Derrum artists the gallery supports.
Phil is also one of the many Port Derrum artists now struggling to meet consumer demand, which is a problem everyone is both delighted and despairing about.
Something comes over The Odour, like he's stepped through a portal into the Land of Nobs and has recognised his home planet language of 'Tweed'.
"Hello there, my fine man," he says, his vowels fattened and rounded to bursting.
"Hi," says Phil with a sideways look, because he's far too polite to say, "Who the fuck are you and why are you being a patronising dick?"
"Theo Pinkerton, co-landlord of this fine establishment." He gives a little bow and holds out his hand for a handshake.
Phil doesn't make a move. He raises his chin and eyes The Odour unblinkingly. All the artists who contribute work to the gallery know about the reneging of his charitable spirit due to financial stupidity. Because I called a meeting and told them. It didn't go down well, understandably.
After several seconds, Theo forces out a magnanimous laugh. "I guess I deserve that."
"You actually deserve a punch to the throat, but Phil is far too much of a gentleman to stoop to that."
"And am I glad about that. You're a strapping man. Ex-rugby player?"
Phil doesn't answer.
The Odour glances down at the paintings Phil's leaned against the wall. "Might I add, you're a very talented –"
Phil looks at me and cuts him off. "I've got some prints coming too. Should be here tomorrow."
"Excellent. I hope the auction piece is coming along."
Phil offers me a tired but happy smile. "It's coming." He turns and makes his way to the doors.
"And get some sleep," I call after him.
He throws a hand up in a vague wave and is gone.
The Odour turns from watching Phil go and rubs his hands together. "You look to be killing it, Bess. You'll be able to afford the new rate no prob."
"Yes prob, because it's unsustainable, Theo. You saw how exhausted Phil was. We're all feeling like that."
"It's a good issue to have."
I eye him. "Do you remember when I said the word 'unsustainable'?"
"Get more artists."
I sigh. "Why are you here?"
"To Oprah over Plan B. What's this auction you mentioned?"
Pulling bubble wrap from the bubble wrap roll, I place a pottery platter on top of it. "I'm holding one to raise enough money to buy you out."
The Odour raises his eyebrows. "Savage. I approve."
"Don't give me stuff I don't need or asked for, and I have no idea what 'Oprah'ing means so if you want a conversation with me, stop being cryptic."
He sighs like I've requested something unreasonable. "I'm here to talk with you about the 'Buying Me Out' schematic. Seems from today that's the way you want to head. We never agreed on the size of the tag."
"No. But I assume you will ask market price minus my thirty percent, because you entered into this whole thing in the spirit of charity and will now exit without being an arsehole."
"Well, chica, that's the thing. I'm only willing to let you buy me out if the hustle's worthy enough."
"If it's a profit that will please daddy?”
The Odour says nothing.
“Why the change of heart?"
He pauses before saying, "As you’re aware, I have a financial shortfall. It’s going to take some time before I recoup money if I keep to the rental plan. I’m beginning to wonder if having money now might suit me better."
Of course it would. "Go on then. What's the mark up?"
He raises a finger. "Hold that thought." Then he shouts through to the café. "Lutek, my hombre. One killer flat white to go." He settles his eyes back on me and pauses.
Three steps and I can make contact between his tension-building, smug face and my fist.
"Five hundred thousand."
"Five hundred thousand?"
The Odour crosses his arms, bedding in. "Five hundred thousand on top of the market price. Take it or leave it."
No bank in their right mind would lend me another five hundred thousand on top of the market price.
Unless A Lettered Man encourages a bidding war to end all bidding wars, we're screwed. Theodore Pinkerton just replaced the handgun he's holding to my head with a rocket launcher.
"One hundred thousand," I counter. "Take it or leave it."
He laughs. "I'll be leaving it, thanks. I've got one of the biggest commercial floor spaces on the high street. I can charge above market rate for rent and still get someone gagging to lease it."
I eye the pair of scissors in my hand. They are very shiny and very pointy.
Then I look back at him and wonder if I do actually have what it takes to kill a man.
The Odour must recognise the glint of insanity in my eyes, because he says, "Tell you what.
Seeing I still do have a charitable spirit, and seeing you own thirty percent of the joint, I'll take off thirty percent of the extra profit margin.
That leaves –" he casts his eyes to the ceiling.
"– roughly three hundred and fifty large ones. Final offer."
I could easily buy somewhere else for that price.
If there was anything available. I've been watching the real estate websites every day.
No commercial property that would accommodate a café and gallery and housing for artists has come up for sale.
Nor has anything like that come up in the last few years, according to the sales agents.
I force myself to take a deep breath, to slow the rising storm.
It almost works.
I hold up a finger to request a moment to myself, then march outside. Approaching The Odour's Jaguar, I take the shiny, little hood ornament in both hands and wrench with all my might.
"Bess! Come on. Don't do that."
I widen my stance and yank at it, left then right, with more effort than I've given anything in my life. It loosens.
"Bess!" The Odour's voice is near. Near enough to try and stop me.
He doesn't get a chance. The jaguar comes off with the satisfying crunch of screws being ripped from metal.
I turn around and slap it into The Odour's palm. "Terms accepted."