The Breezes by Joseph O'Neill

control.’
    Devonshire laughed and said, ‘It had better be. I’d like the chairs within the next week or two. We need to photograph them for the catalogue.’
    The catalogue? ‘The catalogue?’
    â€˜We’re going to have to have a meeting about that,’ Devonshire said, ‘to discuss the philosophy that underpins your work. People will want to know what they’re looking at.’
    â€˜My philosophy.’ I swallowed. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
    Devonshire laughed again – as far as I could tell, Devonshire was always laughing. He said, ‘Don’t worry, John, we’ll think of something. Leave the theorizing to us. You just concentrate on finishing those pieces and we’ll look after the rest.’
    Then, two weeks later, we met for lunch. We sat on a grassy slope by a fountain in a small park in the city centre. I had made up my mind to break the news to him with these words: Simon, there’s something I have to tell you. I have no chairs. I’m sorry, I’ve tried, but there it is: it hasn’t worked out.
    It was a hot spring day, nineteen or twenty degrees, and Devonshire was elated. ‘Just look at that,’ he said, gesturinggrandly at the sun. ‘And look at those bastards,’ he said, pointing at a brilliant gathering of trees in flower. ‘Extraordinary. Absolutely bloody extraordinary.’
    I dutifully looked at the magnolias. There was a forceful charm about Devonshire which made him difficult to resist. Although in his mid-forties and, as a gallery owner of real influence, possessed of a certain amount of absolute power, with his enthusiasm, straw-coloured hair and animated expression he still had an uncorrupted, boyish demeanour. His gold-buttoned blazer discarded on the grass and his cotton shirt flapping out of his jeans, he sat down insouciantly in the sunlight and with a groan of comfort unwrapped a smoked salmon sandwich. He took a giant bite and half of the sandwich disappeared. ‘So, Johnny, I take it that we can pick up the stools this afternoon.’
    â€˜Well, not quite,’ I said. I paused. ‘Simon, there’s something I have to tell you.’ I looked at the tips of my shoes.
    â€˜What is it?’ he said, his mouth still full. ‘What’s the matter?’
    I thought I detected a note of personal concern in his voice. I raised my head to speak and looked him in the face. I had made a mistake. There was nothing solicitous in those eyes. There was only pure threat.
    Shocked, I fell momentarily silent; nevertheless, looking again at the ground, I forced out what I had to say.
    Devonshire said, ‘What do you mean, you won’t be ready for another two to three weeks? The show’s four weeks away. The catalogue needs to be ready next week.’
    I was silent. I made a feckless gesture with my hands.
    Crumpling wrapping paper in his fist, Devonshire stood up and sat on the ledge of the fountain. Momentarily he just regarded me, wiping his mouth with a paper tissue. Behind him, a team of rusty fishes spurted loops of glistening water into the air. Then he said, ‘One week, Johnny. That’s all I’m giving you.’ He stood up and turned his back to me and tilted up to the sun. ‘Otherwise, my boy, you’re going to compensate me for my loss. Do you understand?’
    I did not like the sound of that word – compensate.
    Devonshire turned unhurriedly and picked up his jacket. ‘One week,’ he said. ‘Don’t let yourself down, Johnny,’ he said.
    That week expired last Monday, the day when I left this message with his assistant: Tell Mr Devonshire the chairs will be ready by next Monday. Guaranteed.
    Next Monday is tomorrow; which is why, yesterday morning, after I had finished my coffee and cigarette, I forced myself down the stairs into the basement for a second time. There they were, in the gloom, the five unfinished stools I had