He adds, "Unapologetically bold," and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets.
There's certainly no disputing the boldness, but I want to contend its lack of apology. Instead, I say, "That it is, Theo. So. What can we do for you today?"
He places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "Oh, you know. Just the silent co-owner popping by to check in on his favourite unbankable."
I give his hand a pat for the business' sake, then remove it for my sake.
What he means is the majority share of the building housing the gallery and tea shoppe and the artists' flats above is his pet investment, his charitable cause. Theodore Pinkerton is a patron of the arts, which looks very good on Instagram.
Swivelling on his heels, he fingers each of the pieces of art as he steps past. "How's the hustle?"
"Sales are starting to increase now people are here on holiday. The cafe's turnover is up fifty percent on last month. We should be over seventy next month." It's an impressive increase, but standard for seasonal tourism.
"Savage. I knew I made a commitment to the right cause when I invested in you." He stops by my glorious, six-foot-long oil painting of a reclining Sleeping Beauty being kissed by Rapunzel. Sleeping Beauty's hand is wound in her tresses.
Hands in pockets, he leans in to read the price tag, then straightens with a snort. "Nobody who holidays here is going to pay two and a half thousand pounds for a Disney-princess lesbian-fantasy, Bess."
I don't bother to say he's missed the point of the painting entirely, that it's meant to be subversive, not a sexual fantasy. If he can't understand that just by looking at it, he won't understand why I might have painted it.
"What you should be showing is ornamentation like this." He thumbs the screen of his phone and turns it around with a single-handed flourish like he's doing a magic trick. It's a photo of a painting depicting a young couple partnered in a dance, viewed from a high angle.
Ah. So that's why he's here.
"It's by one of my London associate's wives-in-waiting, who's allmio amorefor painting in oils. Look at it," he says completely unnecessarily. "It slays. It's vivid, it's got a beautiful innocence about it, it's–"
"Shit."
Theo turns the screen to face him. "It's not shit."
"Itisshit. The woman's face is squashed and out of proportion, and the perspective's all wrong. Their arms are nearly half as long again as they should be. And even if it wasn't shit, she's not local. This is a gallery for Port Derrum artists, Theo."
Sing-songing my name, Theo moves ever so slightly into my space and turns the dial up on his smile from 20 watts to 100. "I told him you'd sell it for her." The problem with his smile is that he has too many teeth, like the dentist who applied his veneers over counted. He looks like a hyena.
This particular smile can mean only one thing. On occasion, Theodore Pinkerton tries to flex his guilt-making muscles to remind me he's pushed a lot of money my way without expecting much in the way of a return.
And on those occasions I remind him he might own seventy percent of the building, but he owns zero percent of the business. Except I do it with a more direct communication style.
"No. Untell him."
"I don't want to untell him, Bess. I want to support my boy."
Hisboy. "Your associate's girlfriend."
Theo concedes with the smallest of pauses. "Right."
"Support her by sending her to some art classes to learn the basics. When you open a gallery in London for London artists, you can sell her stuff then. This one's for Port Derrum art, which is what the out-of-town punters want and buy."
Theo eyes me for a beat, smile still in place, then he throws one hand in the air in surrender. "Aight. I'm just the landlord. You know best."
He turns to finger more of the art and the hand that remains in his pocket idly plays with his car keys. For a man who's extraordinarily aware of how he presents himself most of the time, he is extraordinarily unaware of what his wrist action makes it look like he's doing.
Naturally, I leave him to it.
Without taking his eyes off a delicately-rendered Port Derrum landscape that should sell before the week is out, he says, "Would you be killer and order me a flat white?"
Theo is a mere ten paces further away from the café's front counter than I am, so covering those extra couple of metres to order his own flat white shouldn't be much of an inconvenience.
ButI supposeI have it in me to be 'killer'. I do need to keep up a reasonable working relationship with the man after all.
