The Modigliani Scandal Read Online Free PDF Page B

Lampeth for guidance.
    ″I apologize for ... this,″ he said. ″Everybody, please carry on enjoying yourselves, and forget about it, would you?″ He forced yet another smile. ″I′m going to have another glass of wine, and I hope you′ll all join me.″
    Conversation broke out in scattered places, and gradually spread until it filled the room with a continuous buzz, and the crisis was over. It had been a bad mistake to tell Usher the news here in the gallery at a reception: there was no doubt of that. Lampeth had made the decision at the end of a long, exciting day. In future he would go home early, or start work late, he resolved. He was too old to push himself.
    He found a glass of wine and drank it down quickly. It steadied his shaking knees, and he stopped sweating. God, how embarrassing. Bloody artists.

III
    PETER USHER LEANED HIS bicycle against the plate-glass window of Dixon & Dixon′s gallery on Bond Street. He took off his bicycle clips and shook each leg in turn to let the creases fall out of his trousers. He checked his appearance in the glass: his cheap chalk-stripe suit looked a little crumpled, but the white shirt and wide tie and vest gave him a certain elegance. He was sweating under the clothes. The ride from Clapham had been long and hot, but he could not afford Tube fares.
    He swallowed his pride, resolved again to be courteous, humble and good-fiempered, and entered the gallery.
    A pretty girl with spectacles and a miniskirt approached him in the reception area. She probably makes more per week than I do, Peter thought grimly—then he reminded himself of his resolution, and quelled the thought.
    The girl smiled pleasantly. ″Can I help you, sir?″
    ″I′d like to see Mr. Dixon, if I may. My name is Peter Usher.″
    ″Will you take a seat while I see whether Mr. Dixon is in?″
    ″Thank you.″
    Peter sat back on a green leatherette chair and watched the girl sit at her desk and pick up a telephone. He could see under the desk, between the drawer stacks, the girl′s knees. She shifted in her seat, her legs parted, and he looked at the smoothstockinged inside of her thigh. He wondered if ... Don′t be a fool, he told himself. She would expect pricey cocktails, the best seats at the theater, Steak Diane and claret. He could offer her an underground movie at the Roundhouse, then back to her place with a two-liter bottle of Sainsbury′s Yugoslav Riesling. He would never get past those knees.
    ″Would you like to go through to the office?″ the girl said.
    ″I know the way,″ Usher said as he got up. He went through a door and along a carpeted corridor to another door. Inside was another secretary. All these bloody secretaries, he thought: none of them could exist without artists. This one was older, equally desirable, and even more remote. She said: ″Mr. Dixon is terribly busy this morning. If you′ll sit down for a few moments, I′ll let you know when he′s free.″
    Peter sat down again, and tried not to stare at the woman. He looked at the paintings on the walls: watercolor landscapes of no great distinction, the kind of art that bored him. The secretary had large breasts, in a pointed bra, under her loose, thin sweater. What if she were to stand up and slowly pull the sweater over her head ... Oh, Christ, shut up, brain. One day he would paint some of these fantasies, to get them out of his system. Of course, nobody would buy them. Peter would not even want to keep them. But they might do him some good.
    He looked at his watch: Dixon was taking his time. I could do pornographic drawings for dirty magazines—I might make some money, too, that way. But what a prostitution of the gift in these hands, he thought.
    The secretary picked up a telephone in response to a soft buzz. ″Thank you, sir,″ she said, and put it down. She stood up and came around the desk. ″Would you like to go in?″ she said to Usher. She opened the door for him.
    Dixon stood up as Peter walked in. He was