My agent called. Before I answered, I visualised him in my mind’s eye: a tall and stately gent, with prehensile brows that could be raised or lowered like Tower Bridge over charcoal eyes as treacherous as the Thames herself. An old school accent and deep purr that brooked no dissent. I imagine the creak of the leather soles of his handmade brogues and the snap of his cuffs. He’s the old-fashioned sort. Doesn’t touch Zoom, for instance. Face-to-face, letter, or telephone- at a push. I answered. 

‘They want to talk details.’ He said as I stared up at the original ceiling rose sitting above the new modernist light shade I recently had fitted. The room was a bit cold, so I pulled a pure wool blanket over me. It was that time of year.

‘You know what I want.’ I said, knowing he didn’t.

‘Well, you’d better tell me again.’ He responded.

I looked out the large Georgian window and into the park beyond. The leaves of the oaks, ash and cedar were yet to colour. Not the expected vista of the cold autumn morning currently invading my bones. A small dog attacked a big one, which bit back. Serves you right, I thought, as the owner of the big dog was knocked onto his backside by someone who seemed to have nothing to do with either animal.

‘Why should I. You’re my agent.’

‘Your rise won’t last forever,’ He snapped. ‘So, if you want to be cushioned on the way down, I suggest you lose the fucking attitude.’

I hung up.

In the kitchen, I was frying goose liver in butter, smoked paprika, mustard powder and the brine of fermented Kohlrabi, when he rang back.

‘I accept your apology.’ I graciously offered.

‘Fuck off.’ He said and hung up. I shrugged and cut a thick wedge of homemade sourdough.

I was carefully transferring elderflower liquor into my small still in the cellar, when the phone rang. It must have rung for at least a minute before I answered. 

‘I accept your apology.’ He said brusquely.

‘Sincerely given,’ I responded without feeling.

‘So,’ he said, with a sigh, ‘what do you want. They are very keen to move on this.’

I rotated a couple of wine bottles a half-turn in their racks, relishing the stretch and snap of the cobwebs.

‘I’ll need to give it some thought.’ I said. ‘I can give you a rough idea now, of course.’

I ran my finger along the pointing between the bricks, enjoying the roughness of the mortar under my fingertip counterpointed by the sharpness of the brick edges.

‘That’s all I need, but I need it tonight,’ he said, frustration escaping like gasses from a soon to explode reactor.

‘Do you like port?’ I said, taking a bottle of seventy-five Oloroso from the rack and sniffing the wax seal hiding the cork.

‘Do you like having an agent?’ He responded pithily.

‘Do you like twenty per-cent?’ I said with languid authority, before hanging up.

I was watering my giant cactus, trying to drown it, when he called back. I wandered into my humidor to take the call.

‘Prepared to be reasonable?’ I said.

‘What the hell are you on about?’ My mother shouted.

‘Hang up, witch. I’m expecting an important call.’ I yelled.

I was drinking natural Prosecco, watching as the sun lowered itself behind the houses over the river. A pink hue framed the buildings and the river shone gold. The last light kissed the ripples of the water when he called.

‘If you want me to find someone else, just hang up,’ he said in a measured tone as I flicked another raspberry into my flute. I hung up.

‘I have a rather agreeable Champagne I can send you if you’re offended, I said when he called back. ‘Only half drunk.’

‘I don’t drink.’ He bit.

‘Sure, but your friends would appreciate you being less of a sanctimonious prick.’

He hung up.

I was at Ronnie Scotts, sitting in a booth, tripping on some saxophone and drinking something with bitters and limes.

‘Are you ready to talk?’ He said, defeat oozing from random syllables. Very jazz-like, I thought.

‘Shhh,’ I whispered. ‘Listen to that flute.’ We both listened. I left him with the bill.

I was taking a stroll around the park, enjoying the weft and waft of the scarf around my neck as I threw my shoulders forward and back for dramatic effect.

‘They’re going elsewhere unless I go back to them today.’ He said, stomping alongside me, struggling to keep up.

‘But there’s no one better.’ I rejoindered, deliberately thrusting my shoulder into the Abercrombie long-coat covering his. 

‘No-one’s more of a self-satisfied, egocentric prick.’ He expostulated.

‘I get you; I do.’ I smirked. ‘But what’re you going to do, eh?’     

‘Find another client.’ He sighed.

‘bollocks and hairy ones at that!’ I shouted, stomping off, shoulders at full bore, scarf around my ears.

I was attacking the candles in the Cathedral using expensive gold paint.  The Precentor had just left to summon the police when he phoned. I took the call out of sympathy.

‘This time, I apologise.’ I said.

‘As do I.’ He countered. ‘Let’s try to be civil, shall we.’

‘Happy to,’ I said. ‘although you may want to hurry up. I’m about to be arrested to putting money into the church.’

‘What?’ he expostulated.

‘Misunderstanding really,’ I said.

‘Really?’ he queried.

‘Well, no-one died.’ I said.

‘Do you need your lawyer?’ He asked anxiously.

‘Not really.’ I said.

‘Press agent?’

‘Up to you. Could be good publicity.’ I mused. ‘I’ll call you.’

He called me the following day.

‘Where are you?’ he demanded.

‘Cat doublet shaft in pink dress apron micron wallfloordoorwindowseatshelf egg.’

He hung up.

He called back. I was transferring my terrapins into their new terrarium.

‘Yes?’ I bellowed. ‘you’re on loudspeaker. I’m playing with my tortoise.’

‘I need an answer. They are willing to meet any reasonable demand.’ He pleaded.

‘Do you know someone who will graffiti a tortoise? Banksy, perhaps?’

‘If I call you again and you piss me about, I swear you’ll lose this once in a lifetime job and I’ll ensure you will never get another job again, so long as I fucking live; do you understand?’

‘OK, you must know David Choe then.’

He hung up.

I was making a plaster-cast mould of my bronze panther sculpture by Maurice Prost, when he rang. I was up to my neck in plaster so let it ring until he gave up.

Later that afternoon, whilst signing my name in gold sharpies on the Georgian windows in my sitting room, he called.

‘Are you going to be serious?’ He asked.

‘What are they offering?’ I asked in return.

‘What are your terms?’ He responded.

‘I have none.’ I responded in return.

‘What do you mean?’ He retorted.

‘Exactly what I just said.’ I retorted in return.

‘You’re making no sense.’ He argued.

‘Neither are you.’ I argued in return.

‘Please.’ He pleaded.

‘Please what?’ I pleaded in return.

‘Just say you’ll do it and I’ll sort out the details.’ He proposed.

‘Only if they’ll give me what I want.’ I proposed in return.

THE END