Spray Painted Bananas

Chapter 24

After the shoot, all I want to do is lie in a hot bath, close my eyes and let the paint wash off by itself. Of course I’m being unrealistic and I’m not surprised when Matt tells me there isn’t a bath in the building. I’m more surprised when he confesses there isn’t a shower either. I’m not happy. I’m stuck in the middle of London looking like I’ve just stepped out of Avatar. How am I supposed to go on public transport looking like this?

‘Half of Camden Town looks like that,’ Matt scoffs. ‘Stop moaning and come with us to the pub. We need to make plans.’

I think of Farrell and feel frustrated. I want to be alone when I call him and preferably dressed like a civilian, not a walking mural.

Somehow Elliott and Matt persuade me to get into my clothes, fully-painted and join them in the pub for a de brief. I have foliage across my face, bananas twisted around my arms and neck, and my bare legs look more than a little reptilian. Every head in the pub turns to look at me when I walk in. Elliott and Matt are too busy arguing to notice my entrance has had an effect.

‘She should definitely do something at Buckingham Palace,’ Matt says, pushing his way through to the front of the bar. ‘Think of all the tourists for god’s sake. It will go global.’

‘I don’t agree with you. You can’t just use her Majesty’s house as some sort of gimmick.’

‘What are you talking about? The Queen is a bloody gimmick.’

Elliott reels back in horror. He looks at me, hoping to find an equally disgusted face, but instead he finds a marginally irritated one. These are my ideas they are bouncing around. Farrell and I wrote it all down on a serviette, which Bibiana discarded in a strop. I wonder what they’re doing now. I wonder if Farrell told Bibi what happened. I hope not. I’d hate to think of them talking about me like a secret.

‘Call yourself an Englishman!’ Elliott cries.

‘Not really. My Mum was born in Italy and my Dad’s Portuguese.’

Elliott scowls. ‘Now I remember why I hate working with you.’

‘Why? Because you’re a racist twat?’

‘Oh shut up!’ I snap.

They both turn to look at me.

‘I’m covered in paint and I’m not very comfortable so can you stop arguing and give me some explanations!’

‘Hang on,’ Matt says, as the bar man finally appears to take our order.

I hold my tongue until we’re standing at a bar table with our drinks. If I sit down on a chair paint is going to start smearing all over the place. The bar man has already given me a warning look.