The Bench by Saskia Sarginson

Author:Saskia Sarginson [SARGINSON, SASKIA]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2020-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-EIGHT

Sam, June 1986

Sunset casts a flattering glow over the first guests, making them shimmer as they accept flutes of champagne from waiters dressed in togas. A jazz band is playing, the singer giving throaty renditions of Ella classics. The party’s being held on a roof terrace. There are plastic flamingos and gold palm trees, reminding Sam of Atlantic City. He leans against a wall, at the edge of the action. He can smell the fumes from the gritty street far below.

A redhead with skin like double cream is in the middle of the dance floor. Nobody else is dancing except her; she moves slowly, undulating her hips, twisting her arms. With her colouring and curves, she should have been painted by one of the Impressionists, he thinks, Degas or Matisse.

‘Oh, I love Matisse,’ she says, when he tells her. ‘I get sick of all those art snobs saying it’s not proper art if it’s pretty.’

She looks up at him under dark lashes when he asks her name. ‘Daisy. Daisy Armstrong.’ She smiles, ‘I know exactly who you are, Sam Sage. I love your new single, “Ocean Blue”. Really gets me, you know, right here.’ She presses her chest. ‘I’m a total romantic.’

She is so knowingly coquettish that Sam finds it entrancing. Her glances and pouts are performed with the grace of a dancer, her timing skilful as a chess player, and he appreciates the fact that she doesn’t take herself too seriously.

She doesn’t capitulate to his advances at once. It takes a conversation on the merits of different Impressionists and two cocktails before she agrees to leave and have dinner with him.

They go to a Japanese restaurant. Kneeling at the low table, she says, ‘I didn’t want to burst your bubble before, but Matisse is technically thought of as a Fauvist rather than an Impressionist. I thought you should know. For future reference.’

‘Oh, what’s the difference?’ he asks.

‘Mainly colour. Matisse used a brighter, bolder palette.’

He groans, ‘So my chat-up line did nothing but expose my lack of knowledge?’

‘It was sweet.’ She leans forward conspiratorially, ‘Actually, I was all yours before you said a word.’

He swallows hard. ‘You mean there was nothing I could have said to put you off?’

She tilts her head to one side. ‘Maybe if you’d compared me to a Renoir.’

‘What’s wrong with a Renoir?’

‘Cellulite.’ She winks. ‘Lots of cellulite. The man was crazy for it.’

He laughs. ‘What do you do, Daisy Armstrong, when you’re not giving art history lessons?’

‘I sing,’ she tells him, waving her chopsticks. ‘And model. But really I want to be a star. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a little girl.’

‘I think you’re made to be a star,’ he says, looking at her huge green eyes, the tumbling curls spilling over her naked shoulders.

‘But nobody’s giving me my big break,’ she sighs. ‘This business is tough.’

‘I played the pub circuit for a couple of years before the Lambs,’ he says. ‘It felt as though I was banging my head against a brick wall.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.