The Other Kind of Roommate

No movement, no noise...

"I am," Beth seethed.

"Yes," Terry said, "and it's why she's suggested compensation for the trouble. Supposedly, I'm off to charm the old fart into buying whichever pieces this shuffle would displace. That's the shortest end of the stick in this. You're welcome, not that I've been thanked." Speaking over her huffs, he tacked on, "It's a fair deal from your side. I'll add it to your placard: 'Has already sold to inspired collectors'."

It must have been the accent, since she actually considered this.

"How much?"

"From Edison's hammy fists?" He gave a sour snort. "I didn't lead with cash for a reason. He's stingy. Lucky you, because his definition of a pittance is still well above ours. Interested?"

She didn't want to be. Did he ask anyone else? Terry had thirty artists coming, but naturally Beth was the first to get called. For Jessica. Of freaking course.

"I..."

Rrrrrrrrrrr.

What was that?

"I don't mean to hurry you," her phone crackled, "and while I'd love to listen to silence all evening –"

"Terry, no – shh." Not fighting. Something new. It sounded like... "I have to put you on speaker." ... inspiration. "One second. I need my hands."

Beth kicked the corner of a half-completed canvas, slamming it away to slap a fresh stretch of fabric into the speckled crime scene's outline. There it was again, the low rrrrrrrrr! The tubes shuddered in concert from the ceiling. Paint! She had to refill the paint. Where was her chair? Which colours?

Cocoa! A delicately creamy frappe to pair with it. A full-flavoured tate olive because this didn't call for the harsh shades of anger like before. That noise had to be furniture deliberately organizing. Ooh – 'organize'! Were they cleaning? She never heard them clean. Tethered Scars? She liked it. Where was her chair?!

"I'm not getting in the way, am I? Not bothering you with this trying-to-save-your-exhibit tosh?"

"You want me to sell out," she yelled back. Her phone sat lonely on the couch. "Tell Jess if she's butting into my space, I decide what she shows. I don't need her frilly oceans clogging up my desperate wars. I slaved for my series."

"She works hard, too."

"She sells hard," Beth vented. "She doesn't create, she doesn't imagine, and she doesn't convey. Her paintings might as well be windows for all the point they have in staring at them."

"I like windows! Lots of people do. Ever seen a house go up without them? It's weird. You get chills."

"Terry," she warned.

"I'll tell her," he finally relented. "She'll be over the moon you said yes to some degree."

Uh-huh.

"How many does she have room on the wall for?"

"Nine minus five."

"Three," Beth decided, setting the pump. It whirred to life and heartily burped its first tan droplets. Rrrrrrrrrr. A drop landed left of the middle. "Stormy, lighthouse, and the gray fog. Nothing other than them. Terry, be implicit."

"Explicit, I think."

"Well, don't swear at her," Beth said. "Not if you don't have to."

"You're such an artist, love." That was British for something she divinely chose not to understand. "Then it's settled. Three of her paintings, five of yours. It's manageable. You'd like that cheque, would you? From Edison? I'll have to ring him, too. Bring the rest of your work to the gallery tomorrow – I need this sorted soon."

She choked again.

"Tomorrow?!"

"Yes, tomorrow morning. We'd all like to sleep in, but chop, chop."

Her heart threw a fit.

"Um... yeah, but... why tomorrow?"

"Because he won't buy a damn thing unless it's in front of him," Terry said. "I'd do it tonight, but he doesn't know yet that he wants to buy whatever you're around to pawn off. He's gone until the exhibition after midday, too."

"Okay! Okay. I'll come in." Tomorrow. With four pieces ready for sale. "He's not the sort of guy who displays everything for millionaire parties, is he?"

Please give her the good news that the final paintings she now had to crappily rush would be buried in the garden.

"You might explain the paint fades if it's not left in shade or a dark hall," Terry wisely advised. "He must be near-blind anyway. Neon orange, Beth! And spots! See it before you go."

"How can I turn that down?" She returned to her seat and scooped the phone to her ear. "Thanks for the warning. Thanks for the cheque too, Ter."

"Thank him. I wouldn't pay a dime for your drippy, manic messes. You know me." Beth always could count on him for that. She smiled anyway, especially as Terry went on. "I'm sorry for this. Plans were unfolding too well, I suppose. Be here early and I'll buy breakfast. We'll chortle over the odds of a critic knocking Ashley Brendan's sculpture to rubble again."

"You're on," she told him. Free breakfast! They swapped their goodbyes and hung up for the night. Back alone, Beth's lip found itself between her teeth. She nibbled. "Damn."

Four by tomorrow, and the rumbling had stopped. Moving her phone from couch to chair, she hiked her overalls to her knees, then gingerly sat and shook the tubes herself. These were finishing one way or the other, but other took a gamble she didn't have a night to bet. She'd better get started.