Short Story Sunday: The Portrait

"That's a lot of money for such a small picture," she said. "And it's not even a work of art, as such. It's just a print on some strips of wood."



Melissa held her breath. "You're right," she said. "But if you look beyond the surface and reflect on the deeper theme of our artist, you'll see that he's taken the ordinary and made it something special."

"It's a photograph of an old telephone box. What's the deeper meaning of that?"

Melissa knew she'd have to go for the hard sell. "Actually, I have something in our private collection that I think might be of interest to you. Come this way." 

Mrs Houghton-Monksley raised a single eyebrow before moving in the direction of Melissa's outstretched hand. Together, they pounded their high heels down the passage to the end of the gallery, to the area Melissa and others called the Doldrums because only the most ghastly works made it there. She paused in front of a painting that had a blue background punctuated by four yellow squares. No, not the Spongebob. She had something more unusual in mind. 

"We call this one 'Buttery'," she said, more to the painting than to Mrs Houghton-Monksley. The title was kind: it was a canvas of yellow, and the artist confessed, after a great deal of pressing on Melissa's part, to have painted it merely to use up the leftover paint from the Spongebob. "As I am sure you've noticed, this is oil on canvas and shows a cascade of colour starting with deep mustard and ending with an almost neon tone. The burst of turquoise on the left side," she gestured for effect, "is a somewhat unexpected addition."

Melissa dared to glance at her companion and was pleased to notice that Mrs Houghton-Monksley was salivating and trying to hide it with excessive licks of her lips. 

"And you say this is one of a kind?" she said.

"Oh, yes. The artist only produced this one." And Melissa had cursed Janie for ever agreeing to take this study in scrambled egg vomit along with the Spongebob.

"Wrap it up," said Mrs Houghton-Monksley. "No, actually, could you frame it for me by Wednesday. I want it to be the centrepiece at the Ladies of Wodsworth Charity Luncheon."

"Certainly." Another one bites the dust.



"I can't believe you sold 'scrambled egg vomit', Mel. If you sell the Spongebob, I'll recommend you for Employee of the Century. And not only because you've saved my bacon with Mr Jeffers."

Melissa laughed. "No need, Janey. I've told you before: you can sell any painting. It's just..."

"A question of reading your clients, I know." Janey sighed. "Apparently Mrs Houghton-Monksley has worse taste than I do."

"Yes, but if she gets buyer's remorse, we'll remind her of our 'no returns' policy." Melissa guffawed. "Is it strange that I will actually miss this monstrosity? Well, maybe for five minutes!"

They looked up as the doorbell jangled to the arrival of a blast of arctic air and a fine woollen jacket. 

"You'd better take this one," Janey said. "He had me at hello."

"He hasn't said anything yet." Melissa gritted her teeth. "Stay cool." She tracked the man as he ambled to the portrait section she'd curated last month. 

"Will you go, already?"

Melissa shook her head. "I've told you before: timing is everything."

He paused in front of a nude and she was about to step out to him when he moved on. No. It was better to wait until he hovered. Ten minutes passed and he'd done a circuit through the sculptures, post-post modern section and the pop/graffiti exhibits. He was back in portraits and by that time Janey had pretended to work on the computer, made a cup of tea and shredded some newspaper so that Melissa could go on observing him. He'd been looking at a mixed-media piece for a while.

"I'm going in." As she came closer, she could smell his cologne. It was a mixture of her favourite things: fresh laundry and cut grass. "This one is my favourite too."

"Really?" He didn't move his eyes from the canvas. "What do you like about it?"

She swallowed. "It's clever, I think, the way the artist has merged real life with the surreal. I think it means that we hope someone will look deep enough into our hearts to find the key to what makes us tick."

"Really?" He shifted his weight from one foot to another. "Well, I guess I must be a dunce when it comes to art. I just liked the fact that it looked like a Rorschach test. You see? With the hummingbirds on either side of his ears. It reminds me of an inkblot.

Melissa laughed. "That's the most original interpretation I've heard in a long time." He was smiling at her. "I'm Melissa, the curator."

"I'm James... Just James."

When he took her hand, the warmth travelled up her arm and blossomed in her cheeks. So dropped her hand and said, "So, the real question is: do you like it?"

"Not especially. My stepmother is having treatment at the hospital and I wanted a respite from the smell of chemicals and death." He looked at his shoes. "Sorry to have wasted your time."

She hoped her deflation didn't show. "Not at all. It's part of the job. But I am sorry to hear about your stepmother."

"Don't be," he said. "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but she's there to have her second face-lift. If she keeps it up, her breasts will be underneath her chin before long."

Melissa threw her glance to where Janey was doubled-up in laughter behind the computer.

"I'm sorry about that."

"It was meant to be funny," he said. "And I was hoping it would make you smile."

"Perhaps, uh..." Melissa willed her brain to work faster. "Perhaps I could give you a tour to pass the time?"



An hour later, she and James were on their second cup of coffee on the terrace with the outdoor sculptures for company.

"Tell me the truth," said James. "Are all gallery owners as friendly as you?"

"Oh, it's not my gallery. I'm just the curator. Janey and I work for Mr Jeffers; that's his name above the door."

"And Mrs Jeffers?"

"Is Mr Jeffers's mother. He's married to a man."

James exhaled. "Which means you're not legally bound to him."

"Well, I do have a contractual agreement for the next few years. Why?"

"Because I was rather hoping to leave with something of yours."

Melissa replaced her cup in its saucer. "You're reconsidering the portrait?"

"God, no. But I want you to consider giving me your number."

"On one condition."


"You got him... HIM! The most handsome man to ever walk into our gallery... To buy the Spongebob? How? And, why?"

Because, Janey, that's how it's done. "Come one, stop wasting time. Call up Jeffers and tell him I'm the Employee of the Century."

Janie smirked as she dialled. "Melissa Lowe, you are one shrewd woman."

"Oh, Janie, thank you." She filed the invoice for the Spongebob sale and thought about her upcoming dinner with James.

"I hope his stepmother is still high on anaesthesia when he shows it to her. God knows it'd make me produce a scrambled egg vomit with or without a canvas..."