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“I’m sad I couldn’t get him myself,” says Mrs Peabody. “But the doctor says it’s not a good idea for me to fly due to my condition.” I didn’t ask. We stood a few moments more until I could politely remove myself from the room and go home. “Let’s have tea and you can tell me all about your trip. I would love to hear everything! What you did and saw. Your room at the hotel. The coffee. The wine! Come. Let’s go down to the pool.”
My escape plan evaporated into thin air. I could have made an excuse to scarper, but Mrs Peabody is so nice. She is kind and I genuinely like her. She always asks for me at the gallery, and I appreciate the way she doesn’t treat me like a mere minion the way so many other clients do.
“Thank you, Mrs Peabody. Tea would be nice,” I say aware that I’m a little dehydrated after the flight.
At the poolside, a selection of hors d'oeuvres is laid out on the low table between the two stripey sofas. Tinkling water noises from the pool and the distant rumble of the ocean color the audible background. The day is pleasantly warm, windless, and overcast.
“Please sit and, please, help yourself, dear.”
Mrs Peabody hands me a small white plate and indicates that I should sit on the sofa next to her. I put my bag beside me, but as I reach for a yummy savory treat, my orange sketchbook falls out onto the floor, open at a page and a drawing of the Santa Maria Novella. I’m flustered and quickly change my focus from food to picking my memories up off the floor without Mrs Peabody noticing. But, of course, the wily old bird never misses a thing.
“Oh, you draw!” she says with unnecessary excitement. “Can I see?” She holds out her hand to receive the book as if she has not so much asked a question as given me the direct order, ‘Show me.’
I protest feebly, but she has already reached over and taken the book from my hand. Her eyes twinkle as she looks from me to the pages of scrawl and scribble.
“Olivia! You have captured something quite unique here.”
“Ah, Mrs Peabody, I… ummm, it’s just nothing. It’s… I do this to make sense of the world. It helps me process what’s going on.” I don’t know why I’m saying so much but I can’t seem to stop my gabble. “It calms me. I don’t do it to show anyone.”
“Well, that’s a shame. You have a gift.” Mrs Peabody stares hard into my face. “And to hide that gift is unforgivable.” She looks away as if she is truly hurt. Her brow has furrowed into an upside-down ‘v’ and her mouth pouts. “It is up to you what you do with something golden. But if you ever decide to share, please let me know because…” She closes my orange book with careful reverence and hands it back to me as if it is the Holy Grail. She takes a deep breath and rolls her shoulders back. “Because my gift is organizing people; people who help artists get their gift out there.” Her twinkle has returned. “I’ve seen a lot of talent rise to the top. Now, I’m not saying these talented artists couldn’t have made it without me, but let’s just say I was there to give them a kick when it mattered.” Mrs Peabody repositions herself on the sofa. “Let’s just say...” She takes my hand. “I join hands together, like this.” She shakes my hands in hers, then she laughs heartily as if she has said something absolutely hilarious.
Skepticism must have been all over my face. I release my hand and put my sketchbook away in my bag, zipping it up this time. Mrs Peabody takes a deep breath.
“It’s simple. I see an artist’s work that I like. Work that excites me. For example, Keith Haring, Sam McKewen, or Tseng Kwong Chi. David Hockney, from England. I liked their work and told people about it. I may have bankrolled early shows and got a buzz going in the media. At the start of an artist’s career, that kind of support and encouragement can be the fuel for the success rocket to launch them to the moon. So, what do I get? Is that what you’re thinking?” I nod slowly and thoughtfully which causes an explosion of laughter to erupt from Mrs Peabody. “You are too much, Olivia.” She takes my hand and pats it as if I’m a simpleton. “Go, take a look in my house. Go on… And you tell me what you see all over my walls.”
“Art.”
“That’s right, Miss Soon-to-be-famous-artist. Art. Beautiful works on canvas, wood, and paper; cast in bronze; sculpted from stone; and crafted from clay. Art is my passion. And I have a discerning eye for spotting a bankable talent. That is my selfish gift because I get first dibs on pieces at the shows I put on. Yes, that’s right, my dear. It is all about me!” She hoots with mirth and rocks back into the cushions.
“Okay, so you like my work. That’s great. But I only have this one book.” I laugh. “I don’t really have much to show the world.”
“Not yet. But you could. If you wanted to. It is up to you how you live your life. I am simply offering my take on the whole thing. Now, I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
When I finally leave the Peabody Mansion a niggling voice, somewhere in the back of my brain, that had started as a whisper, is now a violent howl.
‘Get out, Olivia!’ The noise resounding in my skull is intense and I can’t turn it off.
Get out. Quit your job. Get out. Make art. Get out. Just get out and live!
I feel queasy in the taxi, heading into Manhattan. My head is light with possibilities. All sensible counterarguments are flying out of the window which is open and blowing my hair around my face like the storm of noise inside my head.
The ‘What ifs?’ are coming thick and fast. And I am laughing. Mrs Peabody, huh? She is totally mad, although mad with money equals eccentric. No matter, like a disease, her madness has somehow infected me. I reflect on our poolside conversation. All she saw was a scruffy sketchbook. How could she possibly make a judgment about someone’s talent based on that? Alright, so she may have kickstarted the careers of some very successful artists, but as she said, they could have made it without her help.
When the cab pulls up outside my building, I leap out even before it has stopped. Grabbing my wheely case, breathlessly, I fly up to my apartment, banging open the door then flinging open the curtains to let in dazzling sunshine. I can’t wait to see Contessa and I can’t wait to tell Desmond and Sandy my plan. They’re going to ridicule me from here to next Christmas, but I don’t care. I’ll give myself six months to get a show together and if it doesn’t happen for me, at least I have given it a go. I am tingling with euphoria.
I dump my bags in the bedroom and dial Sandy’s number. Desmond picks up and shrieks hello then tells me to get my skinny ass upstairs quick smart. I lock my door and take the stairs, two at a time.
Sandy opens the door and hugs me within an inch of my life. Contessa has even disentangled herself from the sofa and is winding herself around my legs purring loudly. I pick her up and smoosh my face into her fur.
“Oooh, I have missed you so much, my darling girl.” She tells me she has missed me too.
“Come, come, come. Tell us all about Florence,” says Sandy ushering me through to the lounge. “And tell all. Leave no detail unsaid. Do not skim over anything, okay? Go.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Don’t start without me,” shouts Desmond from the kitchen. He appears with a tray of glasses and a customary bottle of chardonnay. He sits on his spot on the sofa after a hug and says it’s been so quiet without me around. Then he laughs and says, “No, it hasn’t. I was being sarcastic.”
“Ignore him. Cheers, my love, and welcome home,” Sandy says and holds his glass out to mine.
I stroke Contessa, who has flopped across my lap, as I think of what to say first. Desmond comes to my rescue.
