Edward and the Teacher Part Three
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Edward Albright’s One Good Review free porn video
The party was already in full swing when I arrived. It had the feeling of a party from my student days. Even the music was from another era. I mean … Girl from Ipanema? Who plays that at a party in this day and age? Well … clearly Marina does. But you know what I mean.
Aside from the music, the first thing that I heard as I let myself in through the unlocked front door was Tyler Mason’s unmistakeable voice. ‘Gosh! George! This is a surprise. I thought that you were in New York.’
‘New York? Yes, I was. Got back a couple of weeks ago.’
Tyler peered at me over the top of his glasses, frowned, and then smiled, and nodded in an understanding sort of way. ‘Oh, yes, I see. Didn’t work out, eh? Oh, well …’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘The Big Apple’s not for everyone, is it? All those New Yorkers for a start off.’
‘New York? Oh no, New York was fine,’ I said. ‘It was only ever going to be a three-month thing. I was just helping out on a TV project.’ And then it suddenly occurred to me that Tyler had thought that I was making ‘the big move’. ‘You didn’t think I was moving there permanently, did you?’
‘What? Well, umm, you know. I thought … you know.’
I scanned the room. There must have been about 40 people – most of whom I didn’t recognise.
I had brought Marina a bunch of flowers. I’m not sure why. Nevertheless, I had, and they were beginning to wilt. ‘You haven’t seen Marina have you, Tyler?’ I said. ‘I should give her these so that she can put them in some water.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Good idea.’ Tyler nodded like one of those joke dogs that you used to see in the rear windows of cars. ‘I think I saw her heading for the kitchen.’
‘Thanks. I’ll just go and …’ I headed towards the kitchen, weaving my way through the clumps of drinking, chatting people.
‘You made it,’ Marina said. ‘I thought that you had decided not to come.’
‘No, no. Just got a bit held up,’ I said. ‘A couple things came up. You know how it is. But I’m here now. I brought you these. I’ll swap them for a glass of something wet.’
‘Flowers? Gosh. Thanks,’ Marina said. ‘Well, there’s some champagne. Are you drinking champagne at the moment? I can never remember.’
‘Champagne? Pushing the boat out a bit, aren’t you?’ I said. ‘Have you had a particularly good month? Or has your mother died?’
‘It was The Manager’s Special at the offy,’ Marina said. ‘And, no, Mother’s still very much alive. Not exactly with it, but very much alive. There’s some Stella in the fridge if you’d prefer.’
‘The champagne will be fine,’ I said.
Marina poured me a glass of champagne. It wasn’t a brand that I recognised. It may not even have been proper champagne. But there were bubbles.
‘Who are all these people?’ I asked.
‘People? Well Tyler’s here. At least he was.’
‘Yeah. I saw Tyler. I was just talking to him.’
‘Tom and Michelle. And a few of my clients. Oh, and there’s a young lady who’s just dying to meet you. Apparently, she read one of your reviews.’
‘Really?’
‘So she says. Shelley. I think that’s her name. Yes. Shelley.’
The name didn’t ring any bells. ‘How do you know her?’
‘I don’t. Not really. I think she’s a friend of Lorna’s daughter. Or maybe she works for Jack. In one of his food places. I can’t quite remember. Come on, let’s go and find her. She looked quite crestfallen when I suggested that you might not be coming.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe later,’ I said.
But Marina was already on a mission. ‘Come on. I think you’ll like her. She’s your type – if you know what I mean.’
I didn’t. But still.
Shelley was standing on the edge of a small group of guests who were engrossed in a spirited discussion about EU politics. A couple of men were doing most of the talking. Shelley herself appeared to be just listening.
‘Ah, Shelley,’ Marina said. ‘George is here. You wanted to meet him.’
‘Oh. Gosh. Yes. Hello.’
‘Play your cards right and I think she could be yours,’ Marina whispered as she abandoned me.
Shelly looked as though she was probably in her mid-20s. I still couldn’t quite understand what Marina meant by Shelley being my type – although there was something about her. She was good looking. Handsome rather than pretty. And she looked vaguely familiar. I had seen her somewhere before, although but I couldn’t think where. Maybe she was an actress or something. Not a famous one. But perhaps I had seen her in a television commercial or something like that. I tried to imagine her smiling and holding up a box of breakfast cereal. ‘Marina says that you wanted to meet me.’
‘Yes. She wasn’t sure if you would be coming.’
‘Yes, well I just got a bit held up,’ I said. ‘You know how it is.’
Shelley smiled and nodded. ‘I can’t believe it – you know, that I’m actually talking to you. Edward said that you were the only person who really understood what he was trying to do.’ And she nodded again.
‘Edward?’
‘Edward Albright. He had a story that you wrote – about him – pinned up on the wall in his studio. He used to read bits of it to me. He called it his ‘one and only good review’.’ She nodded again. And smiled.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I usually can’t understand things that people write about artists. But your story made sense. I thought what you said was very good. I could understand why Edward liked it.’ She nodded again. ‘Yes. It made sense. When people write things about artists, they often say things that I don’t understand. But I could understand what you were saying. Well, most of it, anyway.’ She seemed quite pleased with herself.
‘Edward Albright? You knew him then?’
Shelley nodded.
‘How?’
‘How did I know him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh … umm … he used to draw me.’
‘Oh. I see. So you’re a life model?’
‘Not really.’
‘One of his students?’
Shelley shook her head.
‘But you’re studying art?’
‘I work in a sandwich shop,’ she said.
‘A sandwich shop.’
‘Crumbs. In Baker Street.’
Crumbs. Was that one of Jack Harrison’s establishments? ‘That’s up near the station, isn’t it?’
‘Sort of. Almost.’
‘Interesting. So, do you model for other artists?’ It occurred to me that perhaps that was why she looked vaguely familiar.
‘Just for Edward,’ she said. ‘Well … I used to. Not now of course.’
‘No. That would be a bit difficult, wouldn’t it?’
‘And you knew him, too,’ Shelley said.
‘Yes. Although we weren’t close friends or anything like that. It was more of a professional relationship.’
Shelley nodded.
‘Look, I think I need to get myself another drink,’ I said – even though I’d hardly touched the one Marina had poured. ‘How’s yours? Do you need a refill?’
‘Umm … no. It’s fine, thank you.’
I took the champagne back to the kitchen and briefly contemplated getting a beer from the fridge. I definitely wasn’t in the mood for a party. Well, I wasn’t in the mood for a party with all of these strangers anyway. I looked at the fridge for a few seconds, but then picked up the glass of champagne that I had just put down and let myself out through the French doors into the courtyard beyond.
The courtyard was one of the things that had convinced us to buy the house. The house itself was really quite small. Basically two up and two down with a kitchen tacked onto the back. But somehow the paved and landscaped area beyond the kitchen made it feel almost spacious. ‘And, anyway, we can always trade up to something bigger when we decide to have children,’ Marina had said.
And now that we had gone their separate ways, the Islington house was both home and office for Marina, while I had my own small flat down in Bloomsbury.
I settled myself on the hand-made teak garden seat in the corner of the courtyard and sipped my champagne. It wasn’t partic
ularly good champagne. In fact I suspect that it wasn’t even a real Champagne. But it was cold and it had bubbles.
The next door neighbour’s cat, Midnight, came to visit – just like in the old days. ‘Well, what do you think about that, eh, Mogster?’ I said. ‘Apparently, I’m the only person who really understood what Edward Albright was trying to do. Are you impressed? Just a little bit perhaps?’ Midnight just purred and head-butted my hand, and, eventually, after draining my glass, I went back inside. But I still wasn’t in the mood for a party with a room full of strangers.
I placed the empty champagne glass on the kitchen table, and then casually meandered back through the living room, carefully avoiding the clumps of chatting guests. I looked about to see if I could spot the lovely Shelley, but she had disappeared. No, I definitely wasn’t in the mood for a party. Marina was in deep conversation with two women who looked as if they knitted their own muesli. She had her back to the room, so she probably would not have seen me as I slipped back out through the front door.
‘There should be a couple of boxes under the stairs,’ I said when I phoned Marina the following day. ‘I’m hoping that you haven’t thrown them out.’
‘What happened to you last night?’ she asked.
‘Last night? I got a bit tired. Decided to have an early night. You were deep in conversation. Didn’t want to disturb you. Anyway … the boxes … are they still there?’
‘Well, I haven’t thrown anything out, so I guess so. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve looked under the stairs for at least a year.’
‘I’m thinking of pitching a book on Edward Albright,’ I said.
‘Edward Albright? The artist?’
‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t he die?’
‘Doesn’t mean that I can’t do a book on him. According to Shelley – that young lady you introduced me to last night – Albright said that I was the only person who really understood what he was trying to do.’
‘And how does she know this?’
‘She was his model. That’s probably why she looked familiar.’
‘Did she look familiar?’
‘I thought so.’
‘And did you take her with you when you did your runner?’ Marina asked.
‘Not guilty,’ I said.
Marina just laughed.
‘I’ll drop in later,’ I said. ‘Grab a couple of things from the boxes.’
‘You may as well just take the boxes. They’re no use to me.’
‘My place is already cluttered enough,’ I said. ‘I just need a couple of files. There’s some stuff there that I think might be useful. You know … for the book.’
The files turned out to be less useful than I had hoped that they would be. It seems I hadn’t kept the stuff that I thought I had kept. (Although it also seemed that I had kept a whole lot of stuff which I probably should have thrown away.) Nevertheless, I spent most of the next day, Sunday, thinking about the book, making notes, starting to put together an outline plan, making a list of people I would need to interview, things I would need to research.
I also realised where I had seen Shelley before. Or at least where I thought I had seen her before. It was an Albright maquette titled ‘The Rider’. It might have been seen, kindly, as a nude horse rider without her horse. But there was definitely a sexual element to it. ‘Reverse Cowgirl’ came to mind. I remembered the spread thighs and the delicately-rendered – but slightly exaggerated – vulva.
On Monday morning I walked over to Baker Street and visited Crumbs. ‘It’s a long shot, but I don’t suppose you happen to have any of Edward’s drawings or anything like that,’ I said, as Shelley scanned my purchases of a mango and ginger muffin, and a bottle of sparkling water which, according to the label, came ‘with an added hint of lime’.
‘Not here. No.’
‘I didn’t mean here. I meant do you own any? Do you have any?’
‘Some,’ she said. ‘Some drawings. You know.’
‘Drawings of you?’
‘Some. Edward also gave me a couple of drawings of Errol Flynn. They’re sweet.’
‘Errol Flynn?’
‘Yes.’ And then she added: ‘Edward’s cat.’
‘Oh. Right. I didn’t realise that he had a cat.’
‘Would you like to see them? The drawings? I could bring them in if you like.’
‘Yes, I would like to see them. I’d like that very much. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to bring them over to my place.’
For a moment or two, Shelley just looked at me. And then she said: ‘I guess so. You’ll have to tell me where you live though. Do you live in London?’
‘Yes. Not far from here,’ I said. I took blank cab receipt from my pocket and scribbled my address on the back. ‘The easiest way is to just head along Marylebone Road, past Great Portland Street station, and then turn right down Fitzroy Street.’
‘I could come after work tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow would be good,’ I said. ‘Yes, tomorrow would be good.’
It was just after 5:30 on Tuesday when Shelly arrived at the flat. She was carrying a black plastic rubbish bag. ‘I thought that it might rain,’ Shelley said, removing an A2-sized portfolio from inside the rubbish bag. ‘I didn’t want them to get wet.’
I nodded. ‘I’m having a glass of wine,’ I said. ‘Would you like one?’
Shelley hesitated. ‘Umm … oh, all right then,’ she said.
I went to the kitchen and fetched another glass. ‘So … what have we here?’ I asked.
Shelley frowned. ‘Edward’s drawings,’ she said. ‘I thought that was what you wanted to see.’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘Indeed I do.’
Shelley continued to frown but placed the portfolio on the coffee table. ‘I also have a painting,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten about that. It’s a bit difficult to carry on the Tube. It’s sort of long and thin.’
I nodded and watched as Shelley undid the ties on the portfolio. ‘Did Edward give you this portfolio?’
‘He said it was an old one,’ Shelley said, almost apologetically.
A couple of the drawings were little more than scribbles. Elegant scribbles. Unmistakably Albright scribbles. But scribbles nevertheless. However, the other dozen or so drawings were studies that would stand on their own in any company.
While I studied the drawings, Shelley was apparently studying my rather-cluttered Georgian sitting room. ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘This flat.’
‘Well … it’s convenient,’ I said. ‘It’s a good location.’
Shelley nodded. ‘And nice.’
‘These drawings are very good,’ I said. ‘You are very lucky – to have them, I mean.’ I drained my wine glass. ‘Did Edward pay you to model for him?’ I asked.
‘Sometimes.’
‘Sometimes?’ I nodded. ‘Just on an ad hoc basis.’
Shelley frowned.
‘I mean … you didn’t have any formal arrangement?’ I said. ‘You didn’t have set times or a set rate or anything like that?’ I was already thinking about the book.
‘A set rate? Oh, I see what you mean. Edward didn’t always have money,’ Shelley said. ‘You know. But when he did, he often gave me something. ‘Buy yourself a hat,’ he used to say.’
‘A hat?’
‘I think it was some kind of joke.’
I smiled and nodded. ‘Were you and Edward lovers?’ I asked. I was pretty sure that they were.
Shelley frowned. ‘Lovers?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘We had sex. Is that the same thing?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Edward said that it helped him to appreciate my essence,’ Shelley said.
‘And what do you suppose he meant by that?’
‘I don’t know. He used to say all sorts of things that I didn’t really understand.’
I nodded again.
‘He was quite strange in some ways,’ Shelley said. ‘I suppose it was because he was an artist. My mother reckons that all artists are strange.’
‘Have you known many artists?’ I asked.
‘Not a lot,’ Shelley said. ‘I once knew a guy who was an artist for an advertising agency. He was pretty strange. I think it was because of the drugs he used to take.’
I went to the kitchen and returned with the wine bottle.
‘Why did you want to see the pictures?’ Shelley asked.
‘I’m going to write a book,’ I said.
‘About Edward?’
‘About Edward. About his work. About the people who influenced him and the people he, in turn, influenced. You know. The whole thing I guess. To be honest, I haven’t quite decided.’
Shelley nodded. ‘He would have liked that. He would have liked that a lot.’
‘I’d like to get some copies of these drawings,’ I said. ‘Just for reference. I could get them done tomorrow and drop the drawings back to you tomorrow afternoon. Would that be OK? I’d be very careful with them.’
‘I suppose so,’ Shelley said.
The following day, I rose early, made myself a cup of coffee, and took it to my desk where I sat down to compose an email to my agent, Rex van Arkle.
In an ideal world, Rex would not have been my first choice of literary agent. I had ‘inherited’ Rex when my previous agent, Ray Parsons, had died unexpectedly. Several times I had considered looking for someone to replace Rex, but it wasn’t easy. If I’m honest, I fell into that awkward category: I certainly wasn’t a beginner, but I wasn’t quite a superstar either. The agents I would have chosen all had full lists, the agents who would have snapped at the chance to represent me were generally still in the process of winning their spurs. And so, for the time being, I was more or less stuck with Rex.
After half an hour of typing and re-typing, I abandoned the idea of an email. I waited for another hour or so and then took out my phone and dialled Rex’s number.
‘I need you to pitch a book deal for me,’ I said.
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Rex said.
‘I’m writing a definitive study on Edward Albright.’
For a moment or two, Rex said nothing. And then: ‘Oh, yes. Yes, I know who you mean. The sculptor chap? Did that giant bird. Harrier or whatever it’s called. The one in Markham Square.’
‘Among other things,’ I said. ‘But, yes, that’s one of his works.’
‘What’s the hook,’ Rex asked. ‘Why does the world need a book on Edward Albright?’
‘Well, firstly, he has died.’
‘I didn’t realise.’
‘His oeuvre is complete. He has produced all that he will ever produce. Secondly, although he was known for his sculpture, he was also a fantastic draughtsman. His drawings are second to none. Right up there with Augustus John. And, thirdly, he said that I was the only critic who really understood what he was trying to do.’
‘He told you that?’
‘No. But he told someone else. And she told me.’
‘Hmm,’ Rex said. ‘A pity he’s not still around to say it again. What sort of book are we talking about? Words? Words and pictures? It sounds like something that Beechcroft might look at, but if it’s an art book, they generally like lots of pictures. You know, medium format. Something that people can leave lying on the coffee table to impress their friends.’
‘I’m thinking words and pictures,’ I said. ‘Including some pictures that the public has never seen before.’
‘Oh? Well … sounds interesting,’ Rex said. ‘Can you do me a brief synopsis? And I do mean brief. Stab points. Say three pages max. Curiously, for publishers, the chaps at Beechcroft seem incapable of reading more than about a thousand words at any one time.’
‘You’ll have it by lunchtime,’ I said.
I was standing in my local quick-print shop, waiting while the woman who bore a striking resemblance to Nigella Lawson made photocopies of Shelley’s drawings, when I suddenly decided that I should take Shelley along to the opening of Jack Tuckwell’s exhibition at The Harmsworth Gallery.
It was just as well that I had thought to get her phone number when she had delivered the drawings the previous evening. ‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Shelley said. ‘Watching telly? I don’t know.’
‘I want you to come to an opening with me,’ I said.
‘An opening?’ She sounded a little confused. ‘What sort of an opening?’
‘An art exhibition. Jack Tuckwell. He’s not as good as Edward Albright, but he’s OK. In fact, no, that’s unkind. He’s better than OK. Although not quite in Edward Albright’s class. Well, not yet anyway.’
I waited for a reply. But there was none, just a lot of background noise: a loud clunk, several bleeps, another clunk, and then some voices that sounded far, far away. And then Shelley’s voice.
‘Sorry. I had a customer. What’s opening?’ She still sounded confused.
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