Sometimes, I wish to Christ I'd listened to the old bugger. Giles Pittaway has sucked all the air out of the market. And with such crap. Jesus! But it's crap, isn't it, Julie?"
"Beyond crap, Oliver," Isherwood agreed, and poured some more of the wine.
"I wandered past one of his galleries last week. Looked in the window. There was a very glossy, very shiny piece of shit by that French flower painter from Colmar. Oh, shit, what's his name, Julie?"
"Are you referring to Jean-Georges Hirn?"
"Ah, yes, that's it! Jean-Georges Hirn. Bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers. I call it chocolate box. Know what I mean, Julie?"
Isherwood nodded slowly and sipped his wine. Dimbleby took a deep breath and plunged on. "That very same night Roddy and I had dinner at the Mirabelle. You know how dinners with Roddy can be. Needless to say, when the two of us left the restaurant at midnight, we were flying very high indeed. Feeling absolutely no pain. Numb. Roddy and I wandered the streets for a while. He's getting divorced, Roddy. Wife's finally had enough of his antics. In any case, we soon found ourselves standing in front of the very same gallery owned by the venerable Giles Pittaway, in front of the very same piece of shit by Jean-Georges Hirn, bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers."
"I'm not sure I want to hear the rest," Isherwood moaned.
"Oh, but you do, petal." Dimbleby leaned forward even closer and moistened his thin lips with his agile little tongue. "Roddy went crazy. Made one of his speeches. He was so loud they probably heard him in St. John's Wood. Said Pittaway was the devil. Said his ascendancy was a sign the apocalypse was near. Marvelous stuff, really. I just stood on the pavement and applauded and tossed in a "hear, hear' every now and again for good measure."
Dimbleby drew even closer and lowered his voice to an excited whisper. "When he's finished with the sermon, he starts beating his briefcase against the glass. You know that hideous metal creature he insists on carrying. After a couple of throws, the window shatters and the alarm starts to sound."
"Oliver! Tell me this is just another one of your stories! My God!"
"Truth, Julie. Unvarnished truth. Not telling tall tales. I grabbed Roddy by the collar and we started to run like hell. Roddy was so pissed he can't remember a thing."
Isherwood was getting a headache from the wine. "Is there a point to this wretched story, Oliver?"
"My point is that you're not alone. We're all hurting. Giles Pittaway has us all by the balls, and he's squeezing harder than ever. Mine are turning blue, for Christ's sake."
"You're surviving, Oliver. And you're getting fatter. You're going to need a bigger gallery soon."
"Oh, doing quite nicely, thank you very much. But I could be doing better. And so could you, Julie. No criticism intended, but you could move a few more pictures than you're moving."
"Things are going to turn around. I just need to hold on by my fingernails for a few weeks, and then I'll be fine. What I need is a new girl."
"I can get you a girl."
"Not that kind of girl. I need a girl who can answer the phone, a girl who knows something about art."
"The girl I was thinking about is very good on the phone and is a real work of art. And you're not pinning your hopes on that piece you bought at Christie's last summer?"
"Oliver, how did you-"
"Like I said, petal. There are no secrets down here."
"Oliver, if there is a point to this conversation, please do come to it soon."
"My point is that we need to band together. We need to form an alliance if we're to survive. We're never going to defeat the dreaded Giles Pittaway, but if we create a mutual defense pact perhaps we can live side by side in peace."
"You're babbling, Oliver. Try talking straight for once in your life, for God's sake. I'm not one of your girlfriends."
"All right, straight talk. I'm thinking about a
"Beyond crap, Oliver," Isherwood agreed, and poured some more of the wine.
"I wandered past one of his galleries last week. Looked in the window. There was a very glossy, very shiny piece of shit by that French flower painter from Colmar. Oh, shit, what's his name, Julie?"
"Are you referring to Jean-Georges Hirn?"
"Ah, yes, that's it! Jean-Georges Hirn. Bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers. I call it chocolate box. Know what I mean, Julie?"
Isherwood nodded slowly and sipped his wine. Dimbleby took a deep breath and plunged on. "That very same night Roddy and I had dinner at the Mirabelle. You know how dinners with Roddy can be. Needless to say, when the two of us left the restaurant at midnight, we were flying very high indeed. Feeling absolutely no pain. Numb. Roddy and I wandered the streets for a while. He's getting divorced, Roddy. Wife's finally had enough of his antics. In any case, we soon found ourselves standing in front of the very same gallery owned by the venerable Giles Pittaway, in front of the very same piece of shit by Jean-Georges Hirn, bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers."
"I'm not sure I want to hear the rest," Isherwood moaned.
"Oh, but you do, petal." Dimbleby leaned forward even closer and moistened his thin lips with his agile little tongue. "Roddy went crazy. Made one of his speeches. He was so loud they probably heard him in St. John's Wood. Said Pittaway was the devil. Said his ascendancy was a sign the apocalypse was near. Marvelous stuff, really. I just stood on the pavement and applauded and tossed in a "hear, hear' every now and again for good measure."
Dimbleby drew even closer and lowered his voice to an excited whisper. "When he's finished with the sermon, he starts beating his briefcase against the glass. You know that hideous metal creature he insists on carrying. After a couple of throws, the window shatters and the alarm starts to sound."
"Oliver! Tell me this is just another one of your stories! My God!"
"Truth, Julie. Unvarnished truth. Not telling tall tales. I grabbed Roddy by the collar and we started to run like hell. Roddy was so pissed he can't remember a thing."
Isherwood was getting a headache from the wine. "Is there a point to this wretched story, Oliver?"
"My point is that you're not alone. We're all hurting. Giles Pittaway has us all by the balls, and he's squeezing harder than ever. Mine are turning blue, for Christ's sake."
"You're surviving, Oliver. And you're getting fatter. You're going to need a bigger gallery soon."
"Oh, doing quite nicely, thank you very much. But I could be doing better. And so could you, Julie. No criticism intended, but you could move a few more pictures than you're moving."
"Things are going to turn around. I just need to hold on by my fingernails for a few weeks, and then I'll be fine. What I need is a new girl."
"I can get you a girl."
"Not that kind of girl. I need a girl who can answer the phone, a girl who knows something about art."
"The girl I was thinking about is very good on the phone and is a real work of art. And you're not pinning your hopes on that piece you bought at Christie's last summer?"
"Oliver, how did you-"
"Like I said, petal. There are no secrets down here."
"Oliver, if there is a point to this conversation, please do come to it soon."
"My point is that we need to band together. We need to form an alliance if we're to survive. We're never going to defeat the dreaded Giles Pittaway, but if we create a mutual defense pact perhaps we can live side by side in peace."
"You're babbling, Oliver. Try talking straight for once in your life, for God's sake. I'm not one of your girlfriends."
"All right, straight talk. I'm thinking about a
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