Paint. The art of scam. Read Online Free PDF Page A

household. This kitchen was Polly's domain,
straight out of Marie Claire magazine, everything in its place, expensive
gadgets, dried flowers, post-it notes on the fridge: a kind of ordered country casual. The
sort of atmosphere that tries hard to look happy-go-lucky, without actually
having to be happy.
    A few minutes
later the toilet flushed upstairs and Polly reappeared, descending the stairs
with forced composure. She came slowly back into the kitchen, attempting to
hide her fury.
    ‘Sorry about that,
Seymour, that was Kevin. He's got to stay in London.’
    ‘Oh. What a pity,’
said Seymour, hoping he wasn't showing the delight he felt.
    Polly took a huge
slug of champagne, topped up her glass yet again, drained the remainder of the
bottle into Seymour's, clumsily wrestled a cigarette from a pack on the table
and lit it all in one movement.
    ‘Still, all the
more for us. Cheers.’
    They chinked
glasses.
    ‘Cheers,’ said
Seymour.
    ‘Sorry, do you
smoke?’ said Polly, offering him the pack.
    ‘No thanks. Well,
I do sometimes, just roll-ups. Look if you’d rather I left, I …’
    ‘Certainly not,
Seymour,’ said a suddenly indignant Polly. ‘I've cooked a bloody great meal
here. It’s his loss. He's probably getting drunk with some prat and crawling
up his ass to get another brief to sue some poor idiot out of business.’
    ‘You paint a
lovely image of Gavin.’
    ‘Kevin, his name’s
Kevin,’ said Polly as she went to the fridge and pulled out another bottle.
    ‘Would you like
more champagne?’
    ‘Sure, that'll be
nice, thanks,’ said Seymour.
    ‘Unless you want
to go, of course. You look like you’re dressed to go out.’
    ‘No no, not at
all. I always dress like this. Well, when I'm seeing clients.’
    ‘Good.’
    In a matter of
seconds she had expertly opened and poured the champagne.
    ‘You've done that
before,’ said Seymour.
    ‘Couple of times.’
    Polly settled
back in her chair and once again held up her glass to him. Seymour chinked his
flute with hers.
    ‘So tell me about
you. Who is Seymour Capital?’
    ‘Me? There's not
much to tell, really.’
    ‘I doubt that,’ said
Polly, looking at him with suspicion.
    ‘Are you in a
relationship?’
    ‘No. Haven't got
time.’
    Seymour launched
into a brief synopsis of his life, designed to present himself as an
autonomous, sincere man who was dedicated to his work, had been in only two
long-term relationships that had ended amicably, and believed that love was
probably the most highly abused word in the English language, with 'sorry'
coming a close second. A man who respected women and their rights to a fair
share of everything. A man whose ambition was to not look for happiness, as
most folk do, but to realise it is with us all daily and you should appreciate your
responsibility to live a creative life and not give yourself to one person or
thing like a God, but give yourself to the world in order to reap the rewards
it has to offer.
    This declaration
was formulated on an empty stomach, except for thoughtful grabs of peanuts and several
gulps of champagne which felt as if they had been injected directly into his
brain; along with several downright lies.
    ‘Well, Seymour,
you sound like a very nice man, or a liar,’ smiled Polly.
    ‘I'm a very nice
man,’ said Seymour. ‘How about you?’
    Polly presented
herself as a disappointed woman who had forgotten to have a career and children
for good reason. She had married twice, and endured several disastrous
relationships, with Kevin shaping up to be yet another one. She wanted
nothing more than a simple, uncomplicated life of occasional decadence; she
wanted independence, enjoyed meaningful sex, and hoped one day to have her own
business doing, well, something. It also transpired that Kevin was still
married and was going through an acrimonious divorce for adultery, with Polly
being the evil adulteress. The house was paid for by Kevin, but belonged to a
newly-created limited company, of