sunglasses. I wanted at once to punch her repeatedly in the head.
‘Hi, I’m from Scotland, my name is Kerry and I’m just going round your neighbourhood today showing some paintings, that’s all.’ I kept smiling away like a dummy. The man who first stood up, moved towards me with tongs in his hands.
‘How many of you are there?’ The group round the table laughed. ‘How many other little Scottish people are there out there?’
I was at a crossroads early on. I had to decide how to play this, if indeed to play it at all, or – for my own satisfaction but at the risk of making no money and possibly ruining anybody’s chances in this neighbourhood again – just telling them to fuck right off and die.
I decided to carry on. ‘Well, I’m just the scout, they send me on ahead of the others, but they will be here soon.’
‘Let her stay for a bit,’ said another equally annoying man. ‘Might be a bit of a laugh.’
‘No, Hugo, we’ve got to get going soon. Max is at my mum and dad’s, remember?’ said another thin woman whom I took to be his wife. I felt stupid in my cagoule and the pumps that Scotty had drawn smiley faces on the night before. A woman who seemed less neurotic than the other two, drank white wine and watched me.
‘Paintings, you say?’ she said, speaking from the glass she held at her mouth.
‘Yes, Robin, let’s see what you make of them. Maybe you could get some inspiration,’ said Dick One.
‘Shut up, I’ll be the judge of that.’
They all laughed again. I could see the way this was going. The white wine drinker was a painter and I was in big trouble, and this was going to be my biggest challenge so far.
The first man kicked the folder. ‘Come on then, get them out, wee lass.’
The others found the bad Scottish voice hilarious.
‘Be careful with the folder, otherwise I’ll have to pay for anything damaged,’ I said.
He retreated, miming treading on eggshells. I still had no idea of what line I was going to take but I knew I couldn’t do the usual one. It just wouldn’t work with this lot.
‘My name’s Kerry, by the way.’ I’d already said this, but I was buying time.
‘G’day, Kerry,’ said Dick Two. I felt the confidence drain from me and had an overwhelming urge to give up or just beg them to all chip in and buy one piece of shit from me.
‘Here you go, Kerry, have a glass of wine,’ said Hugo.
‘Yeah, why not, lass?’ said Dick Two. They were all half cut from afternoon drinking; the table was strewn with the remains of a Sunday dinner.
‘OK, OK, let’s go,’ said the one who’d kicked the folder, clapping his hands and hurrying everything along.
‘Someone should tell her,’ said Dick One. They all stifled giggles.
‘Leave the poor girl alone,’ said Robin. ‘Red or white, darl’?’
‘White, please. Bit early for red,’ I said, in a bid to appear cultured.
‘Tell her!’ shouted Dick One.
‘No. Now shut up!’ Robin snapped. ‘Kerry, just ignore them and show us the paintings. I’m genuinely interested.’
What could I do? I would have to get the paintings out some time, even though the crowd would rip me to shreds. It didn’t matter how good I was at reading the situation – in a group like this, the paintings would speak for themselves, and that meant I would be humiliated. After all, this entire gimmick was designed for the dumber, unquestioning people who lived in the suburbs, not the cynical sarcastic personalities of urban types. That’s why we didn’t sell in central locations such as trendy Paddington, which was awash with bookshops, delis and gay couples. Or Surrey Hills, home to media people, fashion designers and hairdressers.
I sheepishly pulled out the Peter Stuger. They all clapped and roared with laughter.
‘Guys, guys, come on, seriously, give the girl a break,’ Robin cried over the noise.
Guys, give the girl a gun, I thought, but Robin was on my side and that meant something.
‘Look, maybe I
‘Hi, I’m from Scotland, my name is Kerry and I’m just going round your neighbourhood today showing some paintings, that’s all.’ I kept smiling away like a dummy. The man who first stood up, moved towards me with tongs in his hands.
‘How many of you are there?’ The group round the table laughed. ‘How many other little Scottish people are there out there?’
I was at a crossroads early on. I had to decide how to play this, if indeed to play it at all, or – for my own satisfaction but at the risk of making no money and possibly ruining anybody’s chances in this neighbourhood again – just telling them to fuck right off and die.
I decided to carry on. ‘Well, I’m just the scout, they send me on ahead of the others, but they will be here soon.’
‘Let her stay for a bit,’ said another equally annoying man. ‘Might be a bit of a laugh.’
‘No, Hugo, we’ve got to get going soon. Max is at my mum and dad’s, remember?’ said another thin woman whom I took to be his wife. I felt stupid in my cagoule and the pumps that Scotty had drawn smiley faces on the night before. A woman who seemed less neurotic than the other two, drank white wine and watched me.
‘Paintings, you say?’ she said, speaking from the glass she held at her mouth.
‘Yes, Robin, let’s see what you make of them. Maybe you could get some inspiration,’ said Dick One.
‘Shut up, I’ll be the judge of that.’
They all laughed again. I could see the way this was going. The white wine drinker was a painter and I was in big trouble, and this was going to be my biggest challenge so far.
The first man kicked the folder. ‘Come on then, get them out, wee lass.’
The others found the bad Scottish voice hilarious.
‘Be careful with the folder, otherwise I’ll have to pay for anything damaged,’ I said.
He retreated, miming treading on eggshells. I still had no idea of what line I was going to take but I knew I couldn’t do the usual one. It just wouldn’t work with this lot.
‘My name’s Kerry, by the way.’ I’d already said this, but I was buying time.
‘G’day, Kerry,’ said Dick Two. I felt the confidence drain from me and had an overwhelming urge to give up or just beg them to all chip in and buy one piece of shit from me.
‘Here you go, Kerry, have a glass of wine,’ said Hugo.
‘Yeah, why not, lass?’ said Dick Two. They were all half cut from afternoon drinking; the table was strewn with the remains of a Sunday dinner.
‘OK, OK, let’s go,’ said the one who’d kicked the folder, clapping his hands and hurrying everything along.
‘Someone should tell her,’ said Dick One. They all stifled giggles.
‘Leave the poor girl alone,’ said Robin. ‘Red or white, darl’?’
‘White, please. Bit early for red,’ I said, in a bid to appear cultured.
‘Tell her!’ shouted Dick One.
‘No. Now shut up!’ Robin snapped. ‘Kerry, just ignore them and show us the paintings. I’m genuinely interested.’
What could I do? I would have to get the paintings out some time, even though the crowd would rip me to shreds. It didn’t matter how good I was at reading the situation – in a group like this, the paintings would speak for themselves, and that meant I would be humiliated. After all, this entire gimmick was designed for the dumber, unquestioning people who lived in the suburbs, not the cynical sarcastic personalities of urban types. That’s why we didn’t sell in central locations such as trendy Paddington, which was awash with bookshops, delis and gay couples. Or Surrey Hills, home to media people, fashion designers and hairdressers.
I sheepishly pulled out the Peter Stuger. They all clapped and roared with laughter.
‘Guys, guys, come on, seriously, give the girl a break,’ Robin cried over the noise.
Guys, give the girl a gun, I thought, but Robin was on my side and that meant something.
‘Look, maybe I