The Art Gallery, followed by afternoon Tea

by Kayleigh Kitt

“It took Van Gogh four months to paint his bedroom in Arles,” Phyllis said, gazing at the gilt-framed artwork hung on the wall.

“That’s nothing. Took my Geoff three years once to paint the front room,” Glenda retorted, readjusting her handbag on her arm.

They moved on to another oil with a tiny plaque underneath.

“One apple in the garden of Eden is all it took for man to sin.” Phyllis craned her neck to take in the complete copy of the temptation.

“I had a pint of cider at Weatherspoon’s on the deck once. Similar outcome,” Glenda said wistfully.

The next image was three naked forms draped on a chaise longue.

“Ever had a ménage à trois?” Glenda enquired innocently, licking pink, waxy lips.

When Phyllis hesitated, curling hair around her ear, Glenda elbowed her. “I don’t think a choc au pain at Calais counts.”

“What’s the matter with you today?” Phyllis whispered urgently, as Glenda turned, tugging at her midriff, as the guard by the doorway began casting suspicious glances in their direction.

“Girdle’s cutting me in half,” grumbled Glenda.

“The Grand should be open now.” Phyllis checked her watch, firmly clutching Glenda’s elbow and guiding her out of the exhibition.

“This is nice,” Phyllis announced a few minutes later.

She returned her purse, followed by gloves into her bag, smoothing down her tea dress, then glanced up at the inverted mono-coloured lights suspended from the ceiling, like distorted Christmas trees. They’d opted to sit, cocooned in the maroon velvet wing-back chairs with a view down the room, with its dark spherical tables, comfy bucket bar stools and rich warming colours, if you discounted the scattering of pink sofas.

Intimate seating arrangements were filling with either couples, women accompanied by younger copies or small groups of what looked like friends.

“It was a lovely birthday gift from your Ezra,” Phyllis referred to Glenda’s grandson, drinking in the arrival of the candy-striped cups and saucers, matching teapot and side plates.

The platter of generous, divine-looking chunkily cut finger sandwiches stared up at them and then there were the tiny delicate cakes on the three-tiered stand.  The waiter declared he’d be back with the champagne upgrade Phyllis had just ordered and Glenda craned her neck, watching him retreat.

Phyllis arched an eyebrow. “Will you please behave?”

“I have no desire to fit in,” Glenda replied, her eyes still on the waiter’s pert behind and tiny waist, perambulating towards the bar.

“At some stage, you’ll need to start acting your age. Happy birthday again, until the bubbly arrives.” She toasted Glenda with an empty teacup.

“I don’t know how to be my age. I’ve never been this old before,” Glenda countered, cheerily waving hers in response.

Later, standing at the bus stop, Glenda giggled, looking down the line. “It’s weird being the same age as all these old people.” She clapped a hand over her mouth as Phyllis’ eyes widened.

A man shrugged into a thick coat, sporting a flat cap, leaned forward peering at her. “You should be wary of upsetting us oldies. Life imprisonment seems less like a deterrent these days. But if you want me to take you on to remind you, I’m not old.” He shook his cane at her, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Glenda snorted and Phyllis sniggered.

Bio:
Kayleigh Kitt lives in the Midlands, UK with her husband and an ageing tabby cat who thinks it’s a dog. Kayleigh’s had work published in Flash Fiction North, Bangor Literary Journal, Meditating Cat Zine, On The High journal, Active Muse, The Hooghly Review and CNF in Across the Margin.