Sophie and I have a great life. We compliment each other in every way, and are the envy of our circle of friends, who can't believe that two so dissimilar personalities can co-exist in a harmonious relationship such as ours.
Sophie is an artist of some note, having had works accepted into the Archibald (The most prestigious portrait prize in Australian art) for the past five years. While she hadn't actually won the major prize, her works were very well received and chosen for display.
I am a writer, also of some note, having progressed from the ranks of a hack Journalist to a serious writer of fiction. My detractors have said that this was not a major culture shift for me. My works have made the best seller lists on a regular basis, and while they have never been nominated for the Booker or any other Literary prize, they have provided me with a comfortable enough income to the point where I no longer have to prostitute my literary talents to please the media tyrants.
What made our relationship work so well was that we had, from the very beginning, both accepted that our talents needed space and alone time. That's not to say that we didn't intrude from time to time to look at each other's work in progress and comment on them, it's just that we realised that the creative energies sometimes needed a time free of distraction. There were even times when we shared our distraction free time, walking along the beach near our home, with no physical link binding us together, just our spiritual and creative links being fed and nurtured in that individual and collective solitude.
That we got together in the first place was something that you would more likely expect to read in a work of romantic fiction. It should never have happened, but was meant to be.
I drove up to the front of the main building at Montpellier, an 'Artiste's Community' run by Giles Featherstonehaugh, (pronounced 'fash-en-oo', don't ask me how you can get from one to the other) a self-styled arts promoter and entrepreneur. It was famous for being the temporary home to many of this country's artists, authors and poets during the summer months when the cities sweltered. It was positioned on a headland overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and was cooled by the sea breezes that blew in every afternoon. It was an idyllic setting, and its fame had reached the point where one had to be invited to attend.
I hadn't been invited because of my literary talents, my Editor had wangled an invite on the basis of me writing a 'puff piece' promoting the community as the pinnacle of artistic life. The artists etc. knew that they had made it when the richly embossed envelope containing the invite slid through the slot in each of their letter boxes.
"This has got to be a hot-bed of drunken debauchery," He, my Editor said. "Find out what you can, sniff around and wriggle out what actually goes on there. Rumour has it that Giles only invites young and pretty women as his female guests, women that the men there would greatly desire, and that he test-drives them personally before letting them loose on the paying customers. If these rumours are to be believed, this place is nothing more than a high priced, high class, artistic brothel."
These words were resonating in my mind as I walked into the cool foyer to be greeted by Mandy, the very pretty 'receptioniste de jour'. "Good morning sir, welcome to Montpellier, what is your name?
"Michael Grantham."
"Ah yes, we have you in bungalow 27. I will let Giles know that you have arrived." She picked up a phone and minutes later Giles wafted in followed by a heavy dose of 'Obsession'.
To say that he was flamboyantly attired would be understating the situation. His brightly printed caftan in tropical hues flowed around him like a cloud. Around his neck was a red bandana, on his feet hirachi sandals and on his head a top hat painted in bright colours and sporting a long stemmed red rose that sprouted from the hat band. "My good man, how nice to see you, welcome, welcome. Let me show you to your bungalow, come, come, mustn't dally old chap, we have a gathering of the masses, perfect timing for the intro."
He turned and strode towards the side door and a long covered walkway. I had no option but to follow him. "Over there is the swimming pool, attire optional by the way. Down there is the Common room and Dining hall, and down here is your bungalow." He glanced at the key to see which number it was, and lengthened his stride. Reaching number 27, he opened the door and led me in. "The bedroom is through there." He said, pointing to a doorway. "The bathroom is at the end of the corridor, and the kitchenette is in the corner over there. There are supplies for cups of tea, you have a choice of green or herbal, no coffee allowed, and there is no alcohol in the fridge, only bottled water and juices. We do have organic wine with our meals, but spirits are strictly forbidden, as are drugs of any sort."
"Looks great. It'll do me good to get away from the rat race and the temptation to drink too much coffee."
"Dump your stuff and follow me. I'll introduce you to those here. You may know some, but there are a few up and coming artists that are not widely known, yet. But they will be, otherwise they would not be here."
I dumped my bag on the bed and scurried after him. We reached the Common Room to be confronted by a rather heated discussion in progress. "I tell you that this modern art is a cop out."
"That's McKinley Laird, a traditional portrait artist who's works closely imitate a photographic portrait." Giles whispered to me.
"Take Jackson Pole-axe." McKinley's deliberate mispronunciation of the name did not pass un-noticed. "His work looks as if he just stands back and throws paint at the canvas, there is no structure, no rhyme or reason to it. A total mish-mash that can be interpreted in a squillion different ways. The money that the National Gallery spent on 'Blue Poles' would have been better spent supporting the local arts community."
"People." Giles called the meeting to order. "I would like you to meet Michael Grantham, he has joined us for the next month. While he is here he will be undertaking two important works for me. One is to write a piece on us as a community of artists that will tell the world around us about the excellent concept that we are developing here. Secondly, he is writing his 'magnum opus' under my patronage. I have been advised by his agent that he needs to get right away from the pressures of his world and concentrate on this work. The potential is there, he just needs the space and time to realise that potential. So one and all, you are to make him welcome. Now let me see, who shall I appoint as his mentor?" He glanced around the room. "Ah yes, Sophie, you will be perfect in this role. Don't just stand there child, come, come, and introduce yourself."
From the look that she gave him, it was obvious to me, if not everyone else, that this was a task that she had no intention of carrying out. She walked over to me, her hand held out. "I'm Sophie Cantrall, your chosen mentor." If the look hadn't been enough to make her feelings obvious, the coolness of her tone certainly was.
I took her hand and was just about to tell her that I was about as happy with this arrangement as she, when Giles' voice cut through the air. "What kind of welcome is that? Kiss the man Sophie, and that's an order!" He was close to anger, being used to having his orders obeyed with such a lack of enthusiasm was foreign to him. Or was there something else behind this?
I have to admit that he covered his tracks well. No sooner had his order been issued, than he burst into loud and prolonged laughter. "We will have friendship in this place or you can all bugger off!" Apparently this statement was made on a regular basis over the summer, and no-one took any notice of it. This was all a part of the show that he put on for the paying guests.
As Sophie's lips left mine I whispered to her. "I'm not happy with this. Don't get me wrong, of all the women here, I would have chosen you if asked, but only if you agreed. Let's go outside and discuss this, and see if we can come to an arrangement that will satisfy his Lordship, and that we can live with."
"We'll have to make it look good." She took my hand and we headed for the door.
"That's it, off with you and get to know each other!" This was followed again by his raucous laughter. I detected a note of displeasure in his attitude to us leaving.
"From the paint on your hands, I would hazard a guess that you're an artist." I said by way of introducing myself. "What do you paint, landscapes, portraits, abstracts?"
"Portraits mainly, that's where the big bickies are, if you're good enough that is. All that you need to do is to find someone whose wallet is as big as his ego. I have several commissions waiting for me when I get home."
"Is that why you feel that it's beneath your dignity to be forced to waste your time associating with a literary hack like me?"
"No!" She looked directly into my eyes. "No." Her voice moderated itself. "It's just that I don't like the way that Giles was ordering me around, as if I was his chattel, to do with what he willed. And I don't believe that you are a literary hack at all. I read your articles in the papers, and I find them thought provoking and often amusing. But I also feel that you are being shackled by editorial bias on many occasions. If the main purpose for you being here is to break free from those shackles, then I say go for it. If there is another reason for you being here, like to get the dirt on Giles, and his harem that he hires out to other men here, I'm not going to stand in your way. If you must know, he and I have had a disagreement about that. I rejected his advances and told him that I was here to recharge my artistic batteries, not to go to bed with him or any of his 'friends'. He is not happy with me, which is why he ordered me to be your mentor. He is trying to force me to leave."
"I have a proposition for you."
"Oh yes, and what might that be?"
"Only if you're up for it mind you. How would you like to take the piss out of this mob of pretentious artists and writers?"
"You've been here for what, half an hour, and you've already picked up on that. What exactly do you have in mind?"
"I'll make some comment tonight on a topic that's under discussion, and I want you to jump in and 'expose' me as a Journalist and not a proper writer. Hopefully someone will make some comment about poetry. When you challenge me, I'll come out with something that I wrote that is a bit of amusing doggerel. You of course will challenge me to come up with something deep and meaningful, not something that an advertising copywriter or a greeting card writer would write. I will come out with a piece of pretentious bullshit, that hopefully the others will be drawn to comment on. You will continue to badger me in the hope that Giles will have to step in and separate us. My feeling is that, when he calms us down, he will order us to kiss and make up, which, if you agree that you can oblige without throwing up, we will comply with, enthusiastically, very enthusiastically. That will probably piss him off no end."
"I think that I can stretch my acting abilities to that. You think that these people are a mob of pretentious phonies, don't you?"
"Present company excepted, yes. That guy that was waffling on, McKinley Laird, (a phony name if ever I heard it), about Jackson Pollack is a case in point, he was parroting someone else's opinion and making out that it was his own."
