disappointment. Believe it or not, he's cut a disc of chants, mostly the word 'Aw' in C natural. I like Shell. Maybe I'd like her bloke too if I knew what the hell he chanted.
'How's Chanter?' I asked politely.
'He's great,' she said happily. 'Oh, I know you think he's a waste, Lovejoy. But if chanting was the worst the world got up to—'
'It wouldn't be in such a bloody mess,' I capped for her, smiling. 'What's all this about my painting, Shell?'
She tore her eyes away from the turmoil's reflection and turned to look. She was astonished.
'Are you telling me you really don't know?'
'Honest.'
'Sure you want to know, Lovejoy? Come dine with me, and I'll tell all.'
We settled into a nosh bar facing the market cross. She sips Earl Grey tea, and insists everybody else drinks the same because she hates calories. Joules might as well not have bothered in his Salford cellar, so we must all whoop it up on stained water. I always associate Shell with me trying to stop my belly rumbling. She even moves the tomato sauce out of your reach.
'No, Lovejoy,' she said severely, ballocking a waitress for depositing a welcoming bap.
'Calories define disease.'
'Food isn't all bad, Shell,' I pleaded, mouth watering, as some swine near by loudly ordered the entire menu fried to a sludge in delectable grease. 'Doctors say grub improves physique. Please?'
She lasered away the hovering girl, and quietly got down to business.
'I've got one of your ghost paintings, Lovejoy. The one that cow bought off you for a session in Manchester. Remember her?'
'Flintshire? That publicist?'
'That's her. You carried the can for her divorce.' Shell's voice became a hoar frost. I swear her breath thickened the air. 'I found it in a job lot three months back.'
What happened to Morwen wasn't my fault. On a holiday romp this Flintshire lady hired me to divvy a collection of jewellery, supposedly in antique settings. They were expensive gems set in real gold and platinum, but only modern rehashes. I told her.
She went ballistic. In an agony of embarrassment, the jeweller sold her all sixteen at knockdown prices. She was thrilled because her manfriend was an avid gemstone collector. He was ecstatic because there were two morganites, one in an AMORE ring (the initial letters of the precious stones spell out that word, amethyst, morganite, opal, ruby, emerald). The language of gems was once as recognizable as a salvo to Edwardians, but is now mostly forgotten except by collectors. Look out for morganite, incidentally. Rare, named after some American banker, it's a faintly pinkish stone that sometimes looks almost colourless. It's a close cousin of emerald and aquamarine. Pink jewels are hell to distinguish, so if you don't know how to measure a stone's density (a good, near-certain marker) take along somebody who does. Morganites are lovely, always seem to be step-cut, and are often quite a size. Buy them, even if the setting's rubbish. You'll never regret it.
The trouble was that Morwen's husband (and I don't mean her manfriend) found them in her suitcase. Dearest Morwen claimed that a sex-mad antique dealer had given them to her, lusting after her flesh. Her dotingly thick hubby charged across the kingdom to brain me in a fit of Flintshire spleen. Luckily Big Frank from Suffolk, our champion serial spouse, was on hand – we were arranging his umpteenth wedding. He held the irate Taff at arm's length while explaining that every hotelier knew Morwen very, very well.
Hubby collapsed into self-pitying woe and was never seen again.
Months later I was cited in Morwen's divorce. She got handsome alimony, alleging cruel marital inattention, and visited me on her next honeymoon. She still hadn't paid me. I'm always too embarrassed to remind defaulters who welsh – sorry – but Tinker bawled across Head Street to her that she was a chiselling bleeder. Quickly she bought a forgery I'd just finished. Her manfriend paid me on the spot. She went on to become publicity chief at some Camden Town publishers and has got fat as a blimp.
Contentment of a more moral life, I shouldn't wonder. She separated after some cruise romance with a steward.
'Her taste in furnishings was dire,' Shell told me with satisfaction. 'Her stuff went unsold. I bought your painting.'
'Ta.'
'You know what I mean, Lovejoy.' She ordered another cup of tepid fluid. I watched it come, Shell's world of plenty. 'The woman's face is really lovely. You should be proud.
I'd do a million if I could paint like that.'
'Then get on with it, love. Everybody's got imagination.'
She shivered. 'No, Lovejoy. Her eyes give me the creeps.'
'Eh?' I'd not looked at any of my Lady Hypatia portraits for yonks, not even in my mind's eye. I'd sold them, right? To eat, thereby supplementing these non-existent kilojoules the pretty Shell wasn't cramming into me. 'Why?'
From what little I remembered Lady Hypatia was a bit of all right. I was narked, but glossed over her features so I could concentrate on Shell. Well, Ginny had one portrait, and with luck Tinker had salted it away by now. Shell had another. Two out of four.
Thomasina Quayle's was number three.
Shell toyed with her spoon, perhaps wistfully wishing, as I, that it could be used for rice pudding, blancmange, porridge or soup, and so sustain life.
I heard a sudden commotion, guessed the reason. Which was as far as I got because Sandy burst into the caff wailing and throwing things and rushing towards me kicking chairs out of the way.
