The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [12]
″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 a tall, spare man with half-lens glasses and the air of a general practitioner. He shook hands without smiling, and briskly asked Peter to sit down.
He leaned his elbows on the antique desk and said: ″Well, what can I do for you?″
Peter had been rehearsing the speech all the way up on his bicycle. He had no doubt that Dixon would take him on, but he would be careful not to offend the chap, anyway. He said: ″I haven′t been happy with the way the Belgrave is handling me for some time. I wonder whether you would like to show my work.″
Dixon raised his eyebrows. ″That′s a bit sudden, isn′t it?″
″It may seem so, but as I say, it′s been simmering for a while.″
″Fair enough. Let′s see, what have you done recently?″
Peter wondered briefly whether Dixon had heard about the row last night. If he had, he was not saying anything about it. Peter said: ″Brown Line went for six hundred pounds a while ago, and Two Boxes sold for five hundred and fifty.″ It sounded good, but in fact they were the only pictures he had sold in eighteen months.
″Fine,″ Dixon said. ″Now what has been the trouble at the Belgrave?″
″I′m not sure,″ Peter replied truthfully. ″I′m a painter, not a dealer. But they don′t seem to be moving my work at all.″
″Hmm.″ Dixon seemed to be thinking: playing hard to get, Peter thought. At last he said: ″Well, Mr. Usher, I′m afraid I don′t think we can fit you into our roster. A pity.″
Peter stared at him, flabbergasted. ″What do you mean, can′t fit me in? Two years ago every gallery in London wanted me!″ He pushed his long hair back from his face. ″Christ! You can′t turn me down!″
Dixon looked nervous, as if fearing the young painter′s rage. ″My view is that you have been overpriced for some time,″ he said curtly. ″I think you would be as dissatisfied with us as you are with the