Chapter Nine
Isobel’s life returned to more or less its established routine over the remainder of the week. She spoke with Ryan every day. He liked to talk about Hollywood and she would listen to his tales of celebrity gossip, who was sleeping with whom, who was back in rehab, and who just had this or that cosmetic procedure. He spoke about famous movie stars with an irreverent familiarity that made her feel he could be one of them, and that she almost knew them. It made for a vicarious pleasure and she had no doubt he invented and embellished his stories for her amusement, but she enjoyed them nonetheless.
It embarrassed her that her life seemed so humdrum by comparison, the sad housewife with nothing to impart other than domestic trivia. She would try to amuse him with her own anecdotes, by repeating some phrase that Juanita had mangled in translation, or some humorous snippet from her latest novel. He did not seem to be bored with her efforts, asking her about what she had eaten or was going to eat, details that she thought no man could possibly be interested in other than perhaps if he were a chef. She did like that she could tell him about her painting, her ideas for new projects, how busy it kept her, and that it seemed to validate her purpose for being five thousand miles from home. He always offered support, though he claimed to be a philistine in such matters, and would tell her the importance of “hanging in there.” She joked that he made her sound like some recovering alcoholic, but said she understood where he was coming from. She asked him down while hoping he would invite her up, and when he did not she suggested they meet up somewhere in between. He said his project already left him maxed out, and she didn’t want to appear clingy or needy, so did not press him to make time.
Lance had sent her several text messages as if nothing untoward had passed on her porch. The first said he had business in Mexico for the week. A second text said he would be around Coronado the upcoming weekend, and a third text made a straightforward lunch invitation. She marvelled at the audacity of the man, but did not respond to any of the messages. The card he had left her as a bookmark carried his signature and his cell number, nothing more, and she dismissed it as the height of pretentiousness. Still she saved his number in her phone, telling herself that way, she would not inadvertently answer his calls.
His reinforcement of the offer of the introduction to Pauline now tempted her, but she remained determined that she would not be beholden to him. In the end she compromised, contacted Pauline and made the vaguest of references to a referral.
The two met at the gallery on Orange Avenue. It turned out to be a small cluttered studio with pictures crammed wall to ceiling and other artistic objects filling much of the floor space. Pauline appeared something of an object of art herself: a slim and elegant woman in an ankle-length black dress, with a heavy necklace of pearls that circled twice around her neck and wide gold bracelets on both wrists. Isobel guessed that she was in her late sixties, but with Botox more common than designer handbags around Coronado, she wondered if perhaps she might be older.
Isobel had arrived with her leather-bound portfolio of artwork under her arm. Pauline welcomed her with the enthusiasm often reserved for a door-to-door salesman. Again, Isobel resisted the temptation to drop Lance’s name into the conversation. Pauline remained polite but formal and Isobel wondered if the woman had agreed to see her only because the mention of a referral obliged her to.
“I’m over here on an extended break,” said Isobel in answer to Pauline’s pointed question. “At the moment I’m working on several landscapes.”
“And do you have something you can show me?”
Isobel opened the portfolio and began to talk about her work.
“You do have potential, given you are an artist with no standing,” said Pauline as she flipped from one page to the next rather too hurriedly for Isobel’s liking.
“Thank you,” said Isobel, trying to suppress her irritation at the inferred snub. She pressed her hand to the folder to slow down the review process. “This sunset over Point Loma is one I’m particularly pleased with.”
“It certainly is a wonderful sunset. Landscapes used to be popular in Coronado, but today the market here is quite discerning. Buyers want freshness and originality.”
“What is selling at the moment?” asked Isobel, struggling to suppress her irritation at the woman’s patronizing tone and insincere flattery. “I can turn my brush to most things.”
“Well, I suppose that is the thing. At the moment we are quiet, quieter than I’ve known it for several years, and it is difficult to predict what will sell in any upcoming season. And I’m afraid I have long since given up buying artwork; anything we stock is on a consignment basis. I’m so sorry that I can’t be more helpful.”
“Of course, it is the same in England,” said Isobel, with no clue as to whether it was or not. “I didn’t come here expecting to sell anything, only to see if you would be prepared to show my work. I’d be more than happy if you’d take just one painting.” Feeling as though she sounded desperate Isobel added, “At the moment it is still a hobby, but I’m keen to have my work seen.”
“Of course, every aspiring painter is the same. One does not paint just for oneself. I would love to take something of yours, but as you can see, space is limited, and many of the artists whom we have worked with for years are complaining they are not getting enough exposure. ”
“Well, I suppose they would,” said Isobel attempting humour to lighten the feeling of failure. “To keep out the competition.”
“The problem is not too many artists, it is too few customers, the more so now when, as I said, it is still slow,” said Pauline, with the haughty authority of a schoolmistress. “Perhaps if you came in again in a couple of months, sometime after Memorial Day, when it’s busier.”
Isobel began to close her portfolio, resigned to defeat. “But of course, if you happen to know someone who might help create space, one- out one-in, so to speak…” Isobel’s eyes widened in amazement. Could the woman really be dismissing her and selling to her at the same time?
Pauline duly removed any last vestiges of doubt. “And if you were interested in anything for yourself, I would be happy to bring it to you and leave it with you for a while, until you’re sure that it works for you.”
Unable not to admire the shameless opportunism of the woman, Isobel seized upon an idea as it flashed into her mind. “Speaking of work,” she said sweetly, “did I see a sign in the window for ‘Help wanted’?"
“Yeeees,” said Pauline, drawing out the word and seemingly taken aback by her change of tack.
“I’m just wondering, I only live a few blocks away on Ocean. If you ever needed anyone to come in and cover for you for a few hours, something like that, perhaps I might be of assistance?”
Pauline took a step back and her eyes ran up and down Isobel. “You live on Ocean?” she asked, raising her eyebrows, as if Ocean were Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Just renting, something small.”
“I might be looking for someone for Sunday morning,” said Pauline, but with sufficient hesitation to indicate she did not want to dismiss the possibility. “Someone with sales skills,” she added with emphasis, as if Isobel had already demonstrated she lacked them.
“As it happens,” said Isobel, “I do know someone looking for work on a Sunday morning, a young lady with infectious enthusiasm, just what you need in sales, I expect.”
“Enthusiasm is one thing, but does she appreciate art?”
“Every bit as much as most of the people who buy it,” said Isobel, drawing herself up to her full height.
“And she’s local?”
“Yes, she works in Coronado, a real treasure. Her parents are from Tijuana.”
“A Mexican? I’m not sure that would work.”
“I’m confident you will be reassured when you meet her. And if you’re happy to pay fifteen dollars an hour, then she might well be interested. But I know she has other opportunities, so you might need to move fast.” Pauline rubbed her chin, seeming to be weighing the benefits of low-cost help against her prejudices. “And as I’m not a regular church goer myself,” continued Isobel, enjoying her advantage, “if that doesn’t appeal I could help on Sundays till you do find the right person, and I could still cover on the odd occasion you needed to do something.”
“I would need to think about it. I can’t give you an answer now.”
“Of course, I understand that. And I admit I may not be a regular sales assistant, but I love talking about paintings, and I’m sure I’d learn so much from someone as experienced in the art world as you.” Isobel now believed she was on a roll, and couldn’t resist a dig of her own. “And I was so disappointed when I passed by last week, I noticed you had a ‘Back shortly’ sign on the door; it must be frustrating to have to close up when you rely so much on passing trade.” Isobel had given it her best shot, and allowed silence to reign while Pauline deliberated.
“I will need to see the Mexican girl. But as to you helping out, do you have a resume you could bring?”
Isobel could sense Pauline’s mouth securely on the hook, and set about reeling her in. “I’m not suggesting anything formal. I don’t have a work permit or anything like that. I’d be helping you and you’d be helping me. And anytime no customers were in the shop I would work on my sketching.”
“A sort of unpaid intern then?”
“I’m not twenty-one anymore, much as I might sometimes wish I were. I’d prefer to think of it as work experience.”
Pauline moved away and began to survey her own displays, strolling around the cluttered space, stopping here and there to consider the options; she stooped and rearranged some floor level paintings.
“Maybe something about here,” she said, “to freshen things up. Not the best position, but a start. What do you think? Something that captures your style. Perhaps the sunset over Point Loma we looked at?”
Isobel beamed like she had just made her first sale. “The sunset over Point Loma, yes, and I think that is a perfect position,” she said, thinking how much better it would fit in the shop window.
“And price,’’ said Pauline, “perhaps around five, and we’ll see if the sharks bite?”
“If you think that’s fair,” replied Isobel, not sure about the wisdom of asking five hundred dollars for a generic landscape by an unknown artist.
“Five thousand it is then, and I won’t accept a cent less without calling you first.”
Isobel left the gallery not knowing whether to be elated that Pauline had given her painting such an unexpected valuation, or downcast that her doing so torpedoed any possibility of it selling. She pulled out her cell to call Ryan and share her news. She hit the speed dial, but just as impulsively cancelled it. Instead, she phoned Juanita, told her that she’d be home in ten minutes, and asked her to wait.
“I think you have a new admirer, señora,” said Juanita the moment Isobel set foot through her front door, presenting her a bouquet in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. “The man with the big car, no?”
She remembered Lance’s car as a bland black sedan. Just another anonymous airport-type limo. “The man with the big car?” she said, feigning confusion.
“Si, señora. And the eyes of un hombre encantador. You must be careful, it is not good for a lady to take a scorpion under her wing.”
Isobel laughed. “Oh, you mean that man. Thank you for your advice, Juanita, but we don’t have time for all that mumbo-jumbo now. The flowers are from Ryan, I’m sure.”
“Mr. Ryan is not I think a man who often buys flowers. Perhaps you wish to open the card, señora.”
She did. “I’m afraid your imagination might be running away with you. They are from Ryan. He must have made an exception.”
Juanita smiled. “There are no roses without spikes, señora. You want I put them in water?”
“No, I want to know if you’re interested in a job somewhere else?”
“But I am happy to be here for you, señora. Are you not pleased with my work?”
“Yes, I’m more than happy with everything, but you have left nothing in this house to clean, wash or iron, so we need to find you something more, if you and your baby are not to starve.”
“Do not forget your nails, señora.”
“My nails are fine,” replied Isobel with an amused defeatism. “But if you’re happy to help out in a shop in Coronado on Sunday mornings, then I think that is something I can arrange. I’m afraid there is only half a day’s work for you each week, but I’ve been asking around at my yoga class, and a couple of ladies are looking for some home help. Between them I think they can use all the free time you have. What do you think?”
“It is most thoughtful and generous of you to look out for me, señora. No one I have worked for has ever been so kind.”
“The shop work will pay fifteen dollars an hour, but I told the ladies at the yoga class that you will expect at least twenty dollars an hour and they’re happy with that.”
Juanita clasped her hands to her cheeks. “I do not know what to say, señora, only gracias.”
“You deserve it, Juanita. Twenty dollars an hour will not make you rich and it will not make them poor. If they went through an agency they would have to pay more than double that. So everyone wins.”
“Except the agency, who are bloodsuckers anyway,” said Juanita, with unashamed glee.
“The agency will get by. You have been a great help to me, and not just here in the house. It is a pleasure to have you around. But before I embarrass us both, do you have any questions?”
“Only one, señora. Why would the man with the big car deliver flowers for Mr. Ryan?”
The doorbell rang before she could think of a clever reply and she gave Juanita an enquiring look.
“Another visitor with flowers, señora? You want that I go?”
Isobel didn’t know whether Juanita meant answer the door, or to leave. “No, I’ll get it,” she said, brushing her hands over her hips and glancing in the mirror. “It’ll be the mail man wanting a signature.”
Isobel opened the door to find a young Hispanic on the porch. His flamboyant white shirt hung open half way down his chest revealing a heavy gold chain. An odour of garlic wafted in the air. The man smiled obsequiously, yet otherwise oozed the cool arrogance of a nightclub predator. To her amazement, he held, or rather dangled, a bunch of flowers of the type bought hurriedly from street sellers, wrapped in a sheet of cellophane.
“Yes?” said Isobel, startled, half-thinking the unusual visitor must be for Juanita.
“A gift for you, pretty lady.” The man proffered the bouquet but Isobel, familiar with the gypsy carnation trick—and strangely reminded of it—held back her hands.
“I’m sorry, are you sure you’ve come to the right house?” Across the road she could see two other young men, less flamboyantly dressed but also Hispanic in appearance, smoking against the side of a white BMW. The Coronado City ban on public smoking evidently lacked universal support.
“Lady Isobel, no?” said the man.
“Yes,” she replied haltingly, instinctively pulling the door behind her.
The man held out the flowers again, the whiteness of his teeth exaggerated by his dark brown complexion. “My good friend Ryan, he asked me to come by.” The man looked over her shoulder, distracted by Juanita’s sudden appearance.
“You need I get something?” asked Juanita, her eyes running up and down the visitor.
“No, no, I’ll be right in.”
“You’re a friend of Ryan?” asked Isobel warily.
“I apologise, pretty lady, I am forgetful of my manners.” The man spoke excellent English, though with a pronounced accent. “My name is Javier. I come from Mexico City, visiting my cousin in Chula Vista. I am so close, it would be a sin to pass without saying hello to my buen amigo.”
The man’s unannounced arrival, aggravated by his cockiness, made Isobel cautious. “Ryan isn’t here. I haven’t seen him.”
The man proffered the flowers again. “Please, pretty lady, it is our custom.”
Isobel took the gift reluctantly, throwing a watchful glance at the two men slumped against the BMW. “Thank you, but I’m sorry, I haven’t seen Ryan in a long time. And I don’t know where he lives.”
The man laughed. “I think you play with Javier, pretty lady. You know that Ryan lives in the city of angels, and I know that he comes to San Diego”—the man paused—“for his English concha.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” she said, but suspecting she had some idea. She adopted her most businesslike tone. “Now if you will excuse me, I have guests.”
As she retreated Javier stepped forward and placed his hand against the door, the smell of garlic growing stronger with his intimidating closeness. “There is no problem, señora. I did not come to take you from your visitors. I ask only one thing, when you speak with mi amigo, please, you say Javier called, no?”
Isobel nodded, anxious to be rid of the man.
“Hasta luego—till the next time—pretty lady.”
Isobel closed the door and slumped back against it, letting out a heavy sigh. Juanita stood with a concerned look on her face.
“Just some friends of Ryan who were in the area, visiting from Mexico.”
“I do not think they from Mexico, señora.”
“Well, that’s what he said.”
“Si, señora, I hear what he say. But he no from Mexico. I think maybe more south. Panama, Colombia, but no Mexico.”
Isobel now guessed Juanita had eavesdropped on the entire exchange.
“Maybe originally,” she said, trying to rationalise Javier’s claim with Juanita’s native understanding. After all, what difference did it make to her or to anyone else where the man called home?
“Yes, maybe that. But he also say a bad word, señora, a word no man from Mexico will say to a lady.”
Isobel turned the straggly bouquet in her hand without enthusiasm. She walked to the kitchen, flipped up the lid of the waste bin with a jab of her foot, and dropped in the flowers.