AFTER THE SALE 2972

A MAN AND WOMAN IN AN ART GALLERY IN 1972.

PYPY

The Rossetti prints sell well, Abela said. Benedict looked at the paintings on the walls of the gallery. They would, he said in reply, taking in her thighs as she rose to adjust a painting frame, the black stockings tight and smooth. But not, the Constables so much, she added, pulling at her black skirt, as she brushed a finger along the Constable frame, eyeing it, peering at it closer, looking at the wagon and horse. Benedict raised his eyes to her neat bottom held in place by the black skirt. Constable's  a bore, he said, sends me to sleep. She turned and walked to the counter where Benedict stood. What we like is of no concern, it's the customer's taste we need to please, she said, eyeing him, his hazel eyes, that quiff of hair, that smile which reminded her of the Elvis Presley photo, on that album cover, Benedict had shown her one night, when she stayed to listen to music(his), and drink wine, and then have sex. But surely we can have one or two of Miro or Picasso? She looked at his open necked  shirt, at his Adam's apple moving as he spoke. They won't well, she said, we were stuck with that Miro for nigh on a year last time, and then we sold it off in a sale, and that tall man bought it with the twirly moustache and thin wired glasses. Benedict sighed, he eyed her face, her eyes, the snub nose, the reddish cheeks, her mouth, the lips, recalling when he kissed them last. Just one Picasso to make my time here worthwhile, he said. She looked at him seriously. No, not after last time. He doesn't sell around here, she said. Benedict pulled a face of disappointment. Coffee then? Shall I make us some? She eyed the gallery which was empty. All right, but do not be too long, she said. He walked off to the little area at the back of the gallery where there was a sink and draining-board, cupboard, and a lavatory for either gender. He took out two mugs and spooned in instant coffee into each one and added sugar for himself but not hers as she didn't have sugar. The bell of the gallery jingled. A customer. He gazed around the wall and saw Abela was there approaching the man and woman like a gazelle in mating season. He waited until the kettle boiled then poured water into both mugs and added milk. He stirred his mug. There was small talk from the gallery. He sipped his coffee, then walked out to assist in the sale if there was going to be one. Abela was pointing out a watercolour by a local artist. Benedict  approached from a different angle and eyed the man and his wife(or partner or mistress) ah, Benedict, this gentleman and his wife are interested in a rural watercolour and I thought maybe you could take them upstairs and show them the other collection of rural scenes. Benedict nodded and said, of course, which particular scenery are you interested in? The man said, something of Sussex, the Downs or maybe near the coast. His wife said nothing, but followed them upstairs. Benedict showed them the few Sussex landscapes they had. Are these by a local artist? The man asked. Yes, she lives nearby and paints rural scenes, Benedict said, eyeing the woman, taking in her low cut dress, the ampleness pushing outward. A necklace was hanging there sparkling. I recognize this area, the man said, yes, takes me back. She has captured well, the colouring, the smoothness. His wife gazed at Benedict and smiled. He smiled back, then said to her husband, yes, she does, nicely done, I think, he said, but didn’t like it himself, thought it boring as a wet Sunday. What do you think, Nessa? He asked his wife. It's lovely, she said, letting her eyes flow over the print, then back to Benedict, her smile still in place. Is that the price? The man said. Yes, £175, although I'm sure, my assistant will allow a small reduction, Benedict said, glad to be rid of the print. Well, that's good, we'll take it, the man said. Benedict took down the print finely framed and went downstairs with them and said to Abela. The gentleman will buy, I suggest a 15% discount. Abela looked at him. All right, she said, her voice cool, steady, and she watched as the man wrote out a cheque and Benedict wrapped up the framed print and tied with string. The woman eyed him. He returned her gaze. He wondered what she was like to wake up to, to see her beside you in bed, her low cut nightie welcoming. Abela rang up the sale and the man and his wife walked out the gallery. 15% discount? Why? Abela said. Get rid of the boring thing, he said. But it cuts our profit, she said. No sale, no profit, he said. It's been upstairs for nearly a year now and no bugger's even looked at it until today. Abela sulked and went and got her coffee and he followed her. They stood in the area sipping. I'd like a Rothko, he said, a big print along one of the walls. It wouldn't sell around here, she said, sulkily. He studied her lips. He liked it when they pouted. It made them look sexier than usual. He recalled the longest kiss. Had to break for air, his lips sore, almost numb. She walked back into the gallery. He watched her go, her swaying hips, her neat bum. Just one Pollack, he said, Jackson Pollack. She said nothing. He sipped his coffee and lit up a cigarette and took a long drag. It was going to be a long haul of a day. One sale, so far. Mondays were a drag. Few came on Mondays. Saturdays were best, that was when they sold well. Five Rossetti’s last week, and a Monet and that local artist's Surrey scene. He exhaled smoke. The bell jingled another customer, another sale, maybe. He recalled the night before: she and he at it as if on a wild wet sea.