Lucy's Launderette. Betsy Burke
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I screamed, “What are you trying to do scaring me to death like that?”
Paul Bleeker said, “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d call on you.”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“I was passing through the area and thought I’d look you up. I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking a lot about you. I was asking myself tonight, ‘Where is that sumptuous redhead when I need her? I’ll go and find her.’”
“At eleven-fifty at night?”
“My best ideas come at night.”
We were nearly at my building. He stopped, grabbed me by both shoulders, moved me over to a cement wall, grinned and leaned in to kiss me, pressing me up against the Virginia creeper. I was too surprised to say anything.
“You live here,” he reminded me, taking me by the hand and leading me up the steps. I fumbled the keys out of my purse and unlocked the main door. His breath was hot on my neck.
Because I was well brought up, I said, “Would you like to come in? I don’t know what I can offer you. I’m afraid I don’t have anything. A glass of water?”
“Get what you need. I want you to come out with me.”
“You want me to? …Uh…sure.”
“I want to drop in on some friends first. That all right with you?”
I nodded.
“They’re artists. Very interesting people.” He gave me an intense look, and added, “Will you model for me? The show only needs a couple more pieces. You would round the whole thing out very nicely.”
Little did I know at the time how literal his words would be.
“And I work very quickly once I have my concept,” he said. “Would you do it for me?”
“What? When? Tonight?” I had planned to go on a diet first. I had planned to lose about a thousand pounds before taking my clothes off in front of him. There was the question of that little roll of midriff lard.
“That all right with you, Lucy?”
In my head, I’d played my encounter with him over and over, the clothes, the moves, the snappy retorts. All I could do now was mumble, “Okay.”
As I unlocked the door to my apartment, his hand slithered around my waist. We moved, crablike, into the hallway. Anna was in the front room doing yoga. Her chest was on the floor and her legs arched backward over her head so that the tips of her toes nearly touched her nose. She straightened out, rolled over, put her feet over her head and her perfect buns in the air.
“My roommate Anna,” I said.
Paul said, “Hallo.”
“Hallo,” came a voice from somewhere under her butt.
He whispered in my ear, “Get your stuff. I’ll wait here.”
I dashed like a fast-forward video clip, collecting things from the bathroom and bedroom and shoving them into a large purse. Everything that deodorizes went into that bag, as well as some new peach lace underwear I’d been saving for a special occasion.
Paul hustled me out of the building and down to where his black Ford van was parked at the end of the street. I thought it was gallant of him to open the door on the passenger side. I climbed in. The van smelled vaguely of gerbil’s cage, and the back was full of black garbage bags. Art supplies, I imagined.
“You know, Lucy,” he said. “I’ve met you before, but I just can’t remember where.”
The light was dawning. I wasn’t such a zilch after all. “Art 400 seminar. About seven years ago. University.”
“Was it there?” He looked worried.
I had the opening. I should have said, “I’m an artist, too,” but it just wouldn’t come out. It seemed like a ridiculous thing to say to Paul Bleeker, one-time Bad Boy of British Underground Art and now Star of the International Art Scene. He was too famous. I’d never sold a single painting. People had stolen my paintings, or traded something for them, but never actually paid real money.
“I got my degree in Fine Arts,” I said to my feet.
He shook his head and sort of half laughed, half snorted. “One of the Ivory Tower lot, are you, duckie? Thought you would be safe in the cocoon of academia? No one’s safe.” His British accent was back. He laughed again. This time, it was a weird, quiet snicker-snacking sound.
There’d been a lot written about Paul. About how he’d run away from home at the age of thirteen because his father had wanted him to go into the corner-store grocery business with him. How his mother had died when he was ten. How he’d lived hand-to-mouth with a group of derelict artists that eventually became known as the East Sheen Group. And then how the East Sheen Group picked over refuse heaps looking for usable materials for their works.
I’d read all about Paul Bleeker’s breaking out of the Group with a one-man show of his own, all crafted in found bits of rusting metal. He had been involved in big conceptual projects, too, like the one that got him three days of jail—the giant game of Cat’s Cradle over Stonehenge, using bungee cords and professional rock climbers.
As for his personal life, he had stated in the interviews, “I like women if that’s what you nosy lot want to know.” There was a lot of speculation about who his women were in those days, but nothing concrete was reported.
I remembered this and sighed to myself. He was gorgeous. He reminded me of the singer from Wet, Wet, Wet.
Okay. Yes, I confess, I’ve always been a bit of a Wettie. Paul Bleeker’s resemblance to Marti Pellow was strong enough in certain moments that I half expected him to croon all those lyrics about wanting to get close to me, right into my ear in the same languid sexy tones. If he could sing like that, I would willingly be his slave.
I snuck glances at Paul as he drove. He certainly had a profile like Marti Pellow’s. He had those same dark, sexy looks. But I could see there wasn’t going to be any serenade. Paul was a busy man, a true artist with true art to make. What I hadn’t realized before was that a working artist had to make sacrifices. He had no time to be crooning or sitting around in places like the Rain Room drinking big sloppy drinks with little umbrellas in them.
We drove in the direction of the university. I was encouraged. It was an area of big comfortable wooden houses with large yards and beautiful gardens. I could picture us already, standing around in a plush living room with a bunch of savvy people discussing art with a capital A and drinking a decent chilled Italian white wine, while we waited to help ourselves to the buffet, which the considerate hosts had prepared. I was starving.
Paul stopped the van in front of a brown house with peeling paint and a garden that featured, above all, waist-high thistles, dandelions and morning glory. Paul reached across the gear shift and touched my cheek. “You’re an artist. You’ll like these guys, luv. Old-fashioned Bohemians.”
An artist! A famous artist had just called me an artist. How did he know? He hadn’t even seen my work. Maybe someone had told him about it. Nadine perhaps. It didn’t matter. I climbed out of the van and followed him into the darkness. He was pushing his way through the overgrowth that blocked the path leading around the side of the house to the back. I stayed close, getting whipped in the face by the branches as they left his hand and snapped backward.
A dim bulb lit the stairs leading up to the back door and revealed a yard full of junk. Most of it was rusting scrap metal. There was even part of a smashed-up Cadillac, its massive snout crinkled up long ago in some nightmarish impact.
I followed Paul closely. The steps weren’t safe. There were more rotten boards in the staircase than good ones. Paul seemed