moments. ‘So tell me,’ he said. ‘If you don’t pull women at parties, where do you meet them?
‘The National Gallery,’ said Joe.
There was a pause.
‘What?’ said Simon eventually.
‘The National Gallery,’ said Joe. ‘It’s in Trafalgar Square.’
‘I know where it is,’ snapped Simon.
Joe reached into the bag and took another grape. ‘It’s the best place in London to meet women. Although you do need to do research.’
‘Research on what, exactly?’ Simon asked, distaste and curiosity growing at equal rates.
‘The paintings. I’ve established what sort of women stand in front of what sort of paintings. And then I wow them with some poetry. I’ve got different poems for each painting.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Simon.
‘It’s true,’ said Joe, missing Simon’s point. ‘If I want to meet a gentle, nicely brought up girl who wears Laura Ashley skirts and reads Jane Austen novels, I go to Boating on the Seine by Renoir. Then I hang around until a suitable specimen turns up – I never have to wait more than a few minutes. Bit like buses. Anyway. So I’ll wait until this girl has been gazing at the painting for a while. And then I’ll step up behind her, and say,
My soul is an enchanted boat,
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing.
‘And then she’ll turn around, surprised. I look at her shyly. We discuss the formless spontaneity of the picture for a few minutes, then maybe do a quick tour of the rest of the gallery, and then I ask, casually as you like, whether she has time for a coffee. And bingo, you’re off.’
Simon sat back on his pillows. Finally he said, ‘What was that poem?’
‘It’s from Prometheus Unbound, by Shelley. Gets them every time.’ Joe made his hand into the shape of a pistol and shot an imaginary target. ‘So, that was Laura Ashley Girl. Clean-living, generally. Usually very good cooks. They always fall for the whole poetry thing. It’s just so romantic, being approached by a stranger in an art gallery.’
‘God,’ mused Simon. ‘You really have this all worked out, haven’t you?’
‘Oh yeah. For example,’ continued Joe, ‘absolutely the best sex, without question, you get in front of the Canalettos.’
‘Really?’ said Simon in a defeated way.
Joe nodded. ‘Don’t know why. Maybe there’s something in the paintings that appeals to nymphomaniacs. Anyway, with Canalettos, as there are quite a few of them, I tend to stand in front of the painting next to the one that the girl is in front of, and then murmur quietly,
Beneath is spread like a green sea
The waveless plain of Lombardy,
Bounded by the vaporous air,
Islanded by cities fair;
Underneath Day’s azure eyes
Ocean’s nursling, Venice lies,
A peopled labyrinth of walls,
Amphitrite’s destined halls.’
Joe looked at Simon. ‘Shelley again. Top man.’
‘What’s Amphitrite?’ asked Simon.
‘No idea,’ said Joe. ‘Nobody’s ever asked. A woman wouldn’t, you see. As long as a poem rhymes, it doesn’t matter what it actually says. Here’s another example,’ he continued, warming to his theme. ‘There’s a painting by Munch called Melancholy. It’s of this man sitting with his head in his hands on this beach, and in the background there are two other people hugging each other. Dark squirly skies. Pretty depressing stuff. Now, the sort of people who tend to hang around that painting are either angry students, or women who have just been dumped. Each needs a different approach.’
‘Which is?’
‘Well, for the students, I’ve just got this new thing. I’ll walk up next to them and stare at the picture as intensely as they are, and say,
A hidden rage consumes my heart
As fuelled by years of wasted time
I close my eyes
And tense myself
And screaming
Throw myself in fury over the edge
And into your blood.’
Simon thought about this. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Heavy stuff. Shelley again?’
Joe shook his head. ‘The Cure. Works wonders. They just melt. At last, they think – a kindred spirit. Somebody else who understands. After that, it’s easy.’
‘So what,’ asked Simon, unsure if he really wanted to hear the answer, ‘do you do for the recently dumped?’
‘Oh well, quite different, of course. There you need compassion, understanding, sympathy. So I usually try a bit of Emily Dickinson:
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we know of hell.
‘That tends to get them going a bit, and then I go for the usual drink-round-the-corner routine. Recent dumpees are great, though, because they’re either on the rebound and desperate for some love and attention, or they’re on the look-out for a revenge fuck.’
‘Revenge fuck?’ said Simon, blinking.
‘Sure. You know. Just to show whoever-he-was. And revenge fucks are usually brilliant, from a sex perspective. It’s as if they’re performing in front of an audience.’
Simon was silent as he contemplated this.
‘So anyway, there you are,’ said Joe. ‘Why bother with the effort of chatting up people you might meet again when there is an endless source of available women wandering around London’s art galleries? I’ve had a bit of success in front of Tintoretto, too, although they’re exclusively history of art students. Nobody else bothers with Tintoretto nowadays.’
Simon stared at his visitor with appalled fascination.
There was a pause.
‘I shouldn’t have farted,’ said Joe after a while. ‘Sorry.’
Simon was caught off guard by the abrupt change of subject. ‘Amazing the lengths some people will go to, to win a game of Twister,’ he said.
Joe grinned. ‘Well, I’m sorry, anyway,’ he said.
‘Apology accepted,’ said Simon.
There was another pause. ‘I’d better go,’ said Joe. He stood up.
‘Right. Thanks for coming. It was kind of you.’
Joe shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. ‘Least I could do, in the circs. And sorry again.’
‘That’s OK.’
There was a pause.
‘Yeah, while we’re at it, I guess I should apologize too for that story I told,’ said Joe. ‘About the, er, bath.’
‘Forget it,’ said Simon,