Time – what the hell kind of name for a colour was that? ‘Maybe we should err on the safe side and go for Rocky Creek,’ he suggested, sliding over the catalogue.
Shorelle looked at it without much interest. ‘That’s grey.’
As soon as she’d said it, it was true. ‘Bay of Fundy?’ he suggested, tapping the card.
‘Urgh.’
‘You barely looked at it.’
‘It only takes a second to hate something,’ she told him. ‘Imagine living with that for the next however-many years …’
Leroy consulted the couple of neighbours he knew to say hi to; they all agreed the current patch of Evening Sky was an eyesore. Several suggested cream; he had to be polite enough to pretend to be considering it. He asked a guy going by with his short-haired poodle, and a woman from FedEx. Shorelle came out with Africa on her hip. ‘Timothy’s going to drop by Monday morning,’ she announced.
‘Oh yeah?’ he said neutrally.
‘I thought, if you’re polling every passing dog, it’s time to call in an expert.’
‘Rod’s an expert,’ Leroy pointed out.
‘No he’s not; he’s just some guy who happens to paint houses for a living. Décor is Timothy’s business.’
‘Interiors,’ said Leroy, aware he was quibbling. ‘He’ll probably suggest pistachio or cerise.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ She mouthed the swearword, so Africa wouldn’t hear it. ‘You have got to get over your gay thing.’
‘Since when have I had a gay thing?’
‘Since forever. You get all sulky like some rapper thug.’
Leroy chewed his lip.
‘Timothy’s in the business; he knows about colour. We’ve got so stuck on this, I thought we could do with an objective opinion.’
But there was no such thing as objectivity, Leroy was coming to realize. Colours were private passions and weaselly turncoats, bland-faced losers and enemies in disguise. His head ached from pursuing, through a forest of azures and cornflowers, cyans and midnights, the perfect slate blue.
On Monday he was sitting waiting for Rod on the gritty primed porch. ‘Hey,’ said the painter, getting out of his van. ‘You picked a colour?’
‘I think so.’ He scanned the strip in his hand nervously, checked that he’d folded it so the right one showed. ‘It’s not absolutely what we had in mind, but it seems the nearest to it, at least as far as we can tell.’ The
we
was a lie; the last time he’d brought out the brochures for a discussion, Shorelle had screamed and said she was going to put them down the Garburator.
The painter adjusted his baseball cap.
‘It’s called Distant Haze,’ said Leroy as he handed it over, immediately wishing he’d used its number instead.
Roy glanced at it and put it in his back pocket.
Was that it? No endorsement, after all this work? Leroy heard a car door open and looked over at the slim guy getting out of a black PT Roadster convertible. ‘Timothy!’ he called, over-doing the enthusiasm. ‘Friend of Shorelle’s,’ he told the painter in an apologetic undertone. ‘This’ll only take a second—’
‘Rod, my man!’ Timothy and Rod were embracing.
Leroy blinked. Well, it was a bear hug, he supposed. ‘You know each other.’
‘Rod’s done a lot of great work for me over the years. Looking good, man,’ said Timothy, giving the painter’s shoulder something between a whack and a rub. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Busy,’ said Rod, with a brief grin.
Leroy hadn’t known the painter was capable of cracking a smile.
‘I’ve got half an hour, you want to grab a coffee?’
‘Why not,’ said Rod, heading for the convertible.
Leroy’s jaw was throbbing. They weren’t even going to ask him along. ‘Hey, what about the house, Tim?’ He knew the guy hated to be called Tim. ‘That’s the colour Shorelle likes,’ he added mockingly, pointing at the upper section of paintwork.
Timothy shook his head. ‘Stylish in itself, but not on a west-facing street.’
Leroy should have felt vindicated.
Rod
Shorelle looked at it without much interest. ‘That’s grey.’
As soon as she’d said it, it was true. ‘Bay of Fundy?’ he suggested, tapping the card.
‘Urgh.’
‘You barely looked at it.’
‘It only takes a second to hate something,’ she told him. ‘Imagine living with that for the next however-many years …’
Leroy consulted the couple of neighbours he knew to say hi to; they all agreed the current patch of Evening Sky was an eyesore. Several suggested cream; he had to be polite enough to pretend to be considering it. He asked a guy going by with his short-haired poodle, and a woman from FedEx. Shorelle came out with Africa on her hip. ‘Timothy’s going to drop by Monday morning,’ she announced.
‘Oh yeah?’ he said neutrally.
‘I thought, if you’re polling every passing dog, it’s time to call in an expert.’
‘Rod’s an expert,’ Leroy pointed out.
‘No he’s not; he’s just some guy who happens to paint houses for a living. Décor is Timothy’s business.’
‘Interiors,’ said Leroy, aware he was quibbling. ‘He’ll probably suggest pistachio or cerise.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ She mouthed the swearword, so Africa wouldn’t hear it. ‘You have got to get over your gay thing.’
‘Since when have I had a gay thing?’
‘Since forever. You get all sulky like some rapper thug.’
Leroy chewed his lip.
‘Timothy’s in the business; he knows about colour. We’ve got so stuck on this, I thought we could do with an objective opinion.’
But there was no such thing as objectivity, Leroy was coming to realize. Colours were private passions and weaselly turncoats, bland-faced losers and enemies in disguise. His head ached from pursuing, through a forest of azures and cornflowers, cyans and midnights, the perfect slate blue.
On Monday he was sitting waiting for Rod on the gritty primed porch. ‘Hey,’ said the painter, getting out of his van. ‘You picked a colour?’
‘I think so.’ He scanned the strip in his hand nervously, checked that he’d folded it so the right one showed. ‘It’s not absolutely what we had in mind, but it seems the nearest to it, at least as far as we can tell.’ The
we
was a lie; the last time he’d brought out the brochures for a discussion, Shorelle had screamed and said she was going to put them down the Garburator.
The painter adjusted his baseball cap.
‘It’s called Distant Haze,’ said Leroy as he handed it over, immediately wishing he’d used its number instead.
Roy glanced at it and put it in his back pocket.
Was that it? No endorsement, after all this work? Leroy heard a car door open and looked over at the slim guy getting out of a black PT Roadster convertible. ‘Timothy!’ he called, over-doing the enthusiasm. ‘Friend of Shorelle’s,’ he told the painter in an apologetic undertone. ‘This’ll only take a second—’
‘Rod, my man!’ Timothy and Rod were embracing.
Leroy blinked. Well, it was a bear hug, he supposed. ‘You know each other.’
‘Rod’s done a lot of great work for me over the years. Looking good, man,’ said Timothy, giving the painter’s shoulder something between a whack and a rub. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Busy,’ said Rod, with a brief grin.
Leroy hadn’t known the painter was capable of cracking a smile.
‘I’ve got half an hour, you want to grab a coffee?’
‘Why not,’ said Rod, heading for the convertible.
Leroy’s jaw was throbbing. They weren’t even going to ask him along. ‘Hey, what about the house, Tim?’ He knew the guy hated to be called Tim. ‘That’s the colour Shorelle likes,’ he added mockingly, pointing at the upper section of paintwork.
Timothy shook his head. ‘Stylish in itself, but not on a west-facing street.’
Leroy should have felt vindicated.
Rod
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