The Painting Of Florian White

"There's one thing worse than not being talked about," said Lord Harry, flicking an atom of dust from his highly polished shoe, "and that's dropping one's phone in the bath."
"It is?" Asked Parsley Halfbeard. "And what pray is that?"
"A phone? or a bath?"
"A phone?"
"It's a strange contraption that allows you to speak to a friend without writing a letter."
"Marvellous," Parsley replied, daubing vermilion oil on the canvas in front of him. "How is your strawberry juice?"
"I find it amusing."
"Do you ever find things sad?"
"Only if I choose to, Parsley, old chap. Take Florian White."
"I'd rather not. I hear he hasn't aged in years."
"Do you know why?" Lord Harry asked, leaning forward confidentially.
"No, why?"
"He uses viagara."
"Viagara?"

Lord Harry stomped around the drawing room irritatedly. "Do you have to answer with a question all the time?"
"A question?"
"That's it, I am writing you out of the plot on page 113."
Parsley slapped on some more paint and refused to speak again until Lord Harry left.

"I have to go now, I have to bath at eight."
"Mmmph."
"Well, well, well Parsley, I do believe I have annoyed you."

"Don't even think of trying to persuade me to paint you for free. Good day, sir."

Lord Harry left the drawing room, and reaching for his Nokia rang Florian White.

#

"Hello? Hello, Florian. Yes it's me, your friend. Lord Harry. Uh? What's that you say? You're in the bath? What? Again? You've been in there all afternoon? The whole afternoon? Since Valery made you a sandwich about noon? That's, wait, four hours. Four hours! What were you doing for four hours? No, wait, don't tell me, I don't want to know. I especially don't want to know if involves that damn picture that Parsley painted of you last week. It doesn't, oh, good. Well. My call? Yes, well I wondered if you would join me in a bath at eight? Yes. yes, I know you have already bathed. I know this. Look Florian, it doesn't matter much to me whether you bathe me with me or not. I know you are just as lief to have a little wash about half past twelve when everyone is asleep. I mean, my dear chap. You know where we were going to bathe. It's that new bath house in the Finsbury Road. I hear they have heated towels and a plunge bath the size of the fountain in Trafalgar Square. You don't care for it. Pity, well, I must go. I suppose I could ask Parsley. I don't want to, no, not really. He is inclined to go on and on about nothing in particular. I pretend to listen but he may as well be singing for all the notice I take. Well, I understand, of course I understand. Maybe a small wash and brush up at the club? Very well, six o'clock. Of course I will bring my robe. Do you expect to bathe naked? Goodbye."

#

"Your hot towels, sir," the bath waiter said after Lord Harry and Florian White had arrived at the club, downed three hock in seltzers and eaten a sandwich consisting mostly of mustard and bread. Florian looked at himself in the huge mirror at one end of the lobby, admiring his yellow robe and turning one way then the next. Lord Harry wore a black cashmere robe trimmed with fur and embroidered with gold filigree along the hem and lapels.

"Ah, thank you, Jenkins," Lord Harry said. "Florian are you sure that you don't want anything else to eat before we go through? Some fruit perhaps?"

"Harry, I have eaten my fill for the moment, even the thought of a pineapple segment fills me with horror."

"Very well, Florian, let us adjourn to the bathing room."

They went through the vestibule and entered the steam room, where they read newspapers till the newspapers fell apart. Florian stood up. "Harry, the cold room awaits." He paused. "Are you attempting the crossword in the Times?"

"I am. I have a difficulty in that my pencil is going straight through the paper. Look, this is the clue for 14 down. 'A certain doubt'. Any suggestions?"

"I'm afraid I lost interest in crosswords long ago. You might try pen and ink."

"The last time I tried pen and ink, the bottle I was using exploded."

"Pity. I imagine that is why you have a new robe."

"Indeed. I shall be with you momentarily, the leader demands a reply, I am going to write a letter. Jenkins? Some paper and a fresh pencil."

The bath waiter hobbled off to do Lord Harry's bidding. Florian passed out of the steam room and Lord Harry was alone with a sodden newspaper and an expression of extreme thought upon his face.

#

Jenkins returned a few minutes later carrying a packet of vellum in an oilskin wallet along with three pencils of varying lengths. Lord Harry accepted the writing materials and was about to begin 'Dear Sir' when he heard a loud scream from the cold room. Immediately he dropped the wallet and pencil and passed out to the cold room, where he saw Florian lying on the floor, an expression of pure terror on his face.

"Florian, my man, what upsets you?" Lord Harry enquired, approaching Florian.

"Parsley was here. He sat just there, on the wooden bench just across from where you are standing. He was talking to me about Rome, of all places, and bemoaning that he had never visited the Coliseum."

"And what is so terrible about that?"

"He was dressed in a white robe, and eating garlic. You know I cannot abide garlic."

"You poor man. Where is Parsley now?"

"He threw a whole chain of garlic at me, said that he never wanted me to sit for him again, and then said he was leaving for Brighton on the midnight train. He departed just before you came through that door."

"Odd, I didn't see him pass through the steam room."

"That's it, Harry. He just disappeared."

"You are overwrought, mayhap you fell asleep and had a dream."

"It was no dream, look, the garlic lies next to me. You are standing on a bulb."

Lord Harry looked down at the floor, and stepped lightly to one side.

"I shall have to wash my feet," he said sadly.

#

Florian White examined the steak from all sides before asking the waiter to bring him a steak that was well done. "But, but sir, you asked for it to be rare," the waiter protested. Florian glanced at Lord Harry and shook his head. He smiled at the waiter, a really big toothy smile.

"I own this restaurant," Florian announced quietly. Lord Harry lit a cigarette and stared at the door. The waiter paled. "However, I had a good bath tonight so I will let it pass." The waiter rushed off to fetch a fresh steak. "Simply cannot get the right sort of man to work here," Florian continued lighting a gold tipped cigarette with a match and a flourish. "We use people who know nothing of art, politics, religion or opera, none of them could tell me the name of the man sitting over at that table for example," he said waving a hand over to the other table without really looking at who was sitting there. He stopped. Lord Harry followed his gaze and saw Parsley Halfbread sitting dressed in a white suit, still with a clove of garlic that he was ominously flipping up and down with a hand. "No! It's Parsley. Hell's teeth. I thought he had gone to Brighton. What's he eating?"

"A sandwich," Lord Harry observed. "At least it could be a sandwich, I cannot verify from here, it might be a folded napkin smeared with a hollandaise sauce for all I can tell."

"Damn it." Florian stood up and marched over to Parsley. "What do you want?"

Parsley flipped the garlic at Florian so it hit him on the nose, and then disappeared.

"Buffoon!" screamed Florian. Then, regaining his composure, he returned to Lord Harry's table. Florian's steak had arrived in his absence and Florian immediately divided the steak into strips that he peppered and salted. Florian said nothing while he was performing this task.

Lord Harry continued to munch thoughtfully. "Fish is good tonight, Florian," he said with his mouthful. "Really good." Florian gazed at the half eaten fish and then at his steak. His lip quivered uncontrollaby. "Really, really, really good."

"WAITER!" Florian screamed and the hapless waiter vaulted three tables expertly to land napkin at the ready by Florian's right elbow. "Fish, now."

"An excellent choice, sir."

"Well, hurry up man, I am starving." Florian folded his napkin over the remains of the steak.

The fish arrived two minutes later. Lord Harry had by now finished his fish and was now studying the bill of fare for the dessert. He knew with a certainty that if so much as spoke aloud what he might like from the dessert menu, Florian would order it. It was this power over the young man, that he enjoyed immensely.

Florian dived into the fish with knife and fork and within three minutes had eaten it all. "What's next?"

"A trifle."

"Waiter, two trifles."

The trifles arrived. The trifles were consumed in under a minute.

"Coffee!"

Coffee arrived. Between them they had five cups before the coffee ran out in the pot.

"Bill!"

"Florian, you appear to be in a hurry," Lord Harry said, stroking his handlebar mustache. "Any reason?"

"You cannot see him, but I can. That Parsley fellow keeps reappearing and disappearing and each time he appears he flips another garlic clove as if he is about to fling it at me, but he refrains. If he carries on I may have to have him ejected."

Lord Harry turned round. The table had been cleared. "I see no-one."

Florian didn't say anything, his face was pale, almost white with fear.

"My fellow, what's up? Is it Parsley? Tell me!" Lord Harry stood up and shook Florian by the lapels. "Say something, my friend."

Florian's face then went bright red and finally he made a sigh. "Oh the relief, the relief."

Lord Harry covered his face with a napkin and proceeded to eat seventeen mints that had been placed on a silver dish on the table.

#

They were gathered around the dining table. Lord Harry and Florian White sat next to each other much to their hostess's annoyance. Opposite them sat her two daughters, Mirabelle and Clarabelle. Lord Harry speculated that their names suggested they were cows of Friesian stock but nothing could be further from the truth. They were both delightful in their own way. Clara was fair and had a long nose, almost too long and thin lips tightly pressed as if she were afraid of saying anything at all. She was very quiet. Her sister, Mira, on the other hand was outspoken, dark and had full lips and spoke outrageously about the theatre and about her lovelife. Their mother was neither fair nor dark but red-haired and quite attractive for her age. The table had been spread with a white tablecloth upon which a single lamp had been placed and around the lamp sat place settings, and to one end was a large teapot and a set of teacups, and a plate of pastries. It was 4 o'clock in the afternoon and they were having tea.

Clara took one of the pastries and crammed the entire thing into her mouth at once, causing a stir at the table, because it was the sort of behavior they expected of Mira. After a while the stunned silence was broken by Clara slurping her tea and then belching loudly. "Crikey, I needed that," said Clara. Mira glared at her for stealing the scene. Her mother sighed and Florian leaned forward armed with a napkin to wipe the crumbs from her pretty face. "Ooh, ta, sir, you are a gentleman. I should like to get to know yous better, like. Can I have your number?" She had fished out her Nokia from the purse she carried everywhere with her, while Mira sat fuming silently. She hated being ignored, and Lord Harry was ignoring her. Florian found his Nokia and thumbed the address book as he could never remember his number and showed it to Clara who added it to her contact list.

"I do believe you are flirting most outrageously," Lord Harry commented, then took a sip of his tea.

"So what if I am?" Clara demanded, taking another pastry and proceeding to devour it as if she had not eaten in two days. "I'm hungry."

"That is apparent, but you haven't answered my question," Lord Harry persisted. "Why are you so interested in young Florian here?"

"I have no idea. Maybe I want to see him later on, know what I mean?"

Florian reddened. Their mother coughed hesitantly and Mira looked even more cross than she already appeared. Lord Harry stood up. "Please excuse me, I have a bathing date at 5 o'clock with Henderson from the Ministry of Antiquities, he's a frightful bore but I need his help to import a rare objet d'art from Paris." He bid his goodbyes and exited the room. Florian looked desperately at his hostess who carefully ignored him, in fact she was quite amused by the whole affair. Here was her quiet, shy Clara acting like flower girl. Mira stood up and complaining of a headache left the room. Her mother also stood up and said she was going to speak with cook about the dinner arrangements, then passed out of the room.

This left Florian and Clara alone with a teapot and the remains of the pastries. They took the pastries over to the couch and sat down. For the next hour or so they fed each other little pieces of pastry. Florian made several appalling jokes and Clara laughed at each one just enough for Florian to know that the jokes he was telling were in fact quite unfunny, but that was the point.

Mira and Lord Harry whistled around Hyde Park fifteen times in a covered brougham, while the driver kept his ears muffled with a scarf tied around his head.

The hostess had words with cook, who got upset three times and threatened to give notice twice before the dinner menu was agreed upon.

To Be Continued...