Life Class (31 page)

‘Leave me alone. Stop emailing me with this rubbish! I am NOT interested.’

‘Its what u dont do, not what u do, that u regret. Times running out!’

‘What on earth do you mean – time’s running out?’

‘I no where you live’, was the final message, received in the early hours of the morning.

Her skin crawled. Her stomach churned sickly. The whole thing was her own bloody fault. But accepting her share of the blame didn’t help. Concentrate on what you’re here to do, she told herself. Peering at the sheet of cartridge taped to the board in front of her, she found it hard to make out where she’d used the resistant wax on the paper. With all this other stuff going on in her head, did she even care?

Fran had hoped that the lesson this morning would distract her from the ideas db had fed into her mind. Wishful thinking. They’d become pervasive, occupying her thoughts and even her dreams. She’d even begun to make excuses to avoid intimacy with her husband. Poor Peter, he had no idea that her explosive orgasms had been heightened by the repellent fantasies that were now automatically triggered in her mind as soon as they began the preamble to making love. She’d rather not have sex than be aroused by someone else’s obsessions. It felt dirty.

The magenta ink dribbled, splattered, then abruptly dried, sucked up into the dry wood. She pressed harder, as if the twig was a pencil or a felt tip pen, and pressure could improve the mark. It splayed and broke, leaving a dirty, splintery gouge in the surface of the paper.

She glanced at Dory. Was celibacy the answer? Turning your back on your sexual self? She’d always believed that it was a healthy sex life that kept wrinkles at bay, put a spark in your eye and a spring in your step. Look at nuns. Dried up little husks. But Dory looked great on abstinence. She’d lost the weight she put on when she was unwell. Her short, ashy-blonde hair, which she wore these days in a slightly punkish style, was thick and glossy. How did her skin look so good, her eyes so bright? Trust her to buck the trend and blossom where anyone else would start to wither and fade. She didn’t seem to be suffering from abstinence.

On the foldout table beside Fran was her equipment – paintbrushes, a jam jar of water, the candle, the broken twig, and a palette. Two of the palette’s dishes were filled – one with the full-strength magenta ink and one with the diluted mixture. Irritably, she swapped her twig and, looking at her drawing, aimed her paintbrush at the palette. In one confident stroke, she’d ruined everything she’d so far done. A vibrant swathe of undiluted ink was swiped across the figure. It was small comfort that, as promised, the ink bobbled and retreated where the wax had been applied.

‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ she muttered under her breath. She’d meant to build up the drawing with pale watery washes until she knew for certain where to put the deepest colour, but in a moment of inattention she’d dunked her brush in the wrong dish. With a sigh of defeat, she plunged the paintbrush back into the full-strength ink. In for a penny, in for a pound.

At coffee, Michael was in brash, provocative mode.

‘Apart from having to draw him with a fucking twig, the model had at least two strikes against him before we even started,’ he said. ‘First, he’s a he, and I’m sorry, I just don’t enjoy drawing men. And second, he’s a bloody Mick!’

‘How do you mean?’ Lennie looked perplexed. ‘You don’t like being in the same room with someone else called Michael?’

‘Keep up, chum,’ Michael muttered with a sigh. ‘No, he’s a Dermot, isn’t he? Dermot bloody Brian! Bloody Irish, must be. There’s more of them over here … complaining … than actually live
there!
He’s probably bloody IRA!’ Michael chuckled at his own outrageousness. There were a few answering titters around the table. Rachel raised her eyebrows in disapproval, but it was an amused disapproval. Lennie continued to look mystified.

‘Probably a bloody shirt-lifter as well.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Michael!’

‘Don’t think he is,’ Dory offered.

‘What? You must have noticed that he depilates and oils himself,’ Michael insisted, as if it were his veracity being questioned. ‘No way he’s that smooth and shiny naturally! Got to be a narcissistic arse-bandit … straight from Poof Central!’

‘You’re incorrigible.’ Rachel’s reproval was delivered with an indulgent smile.

‘I say!’ Bill added. ‘Not very politically correct!’

Unabashed, Michael’s amusement erupted as a hooting laugh. ‘Anyway, poofy Irishman apart …’, he turned away and rummaged in the leather satchel he’d brought to the canteen with him, ‘we’ve spent all of the last ten years, since we moved in, renovating the house. So, before I bring the earth-movers in and start on the garden, who’s coming to this?’ He started handing out invitations to Combeside Manor Open Garden. ‘Free parking, but £5 at the gate. In aid of charity … Marlpit Hospice. There’s a map of how to get to Combeside on the back.’ Rachel looked aghast.

‘Earth-movers? What are you talking about? Your garden is lovely.’ She hesitated. ‘Lovely. It’s so idiosyncratic.’

Michael chuckled. ‘Mad is the word I’d probably use. You and the wife are the only two people I know who wouldn’t change it.’

‘But the planting, the flowers and shrubs …? The different areas?’

‘Don’t worry. I’m mainly concentrating on the hard landscaping, the terraces, and the statuary. I won’t be ripping out the walled gardens.’

‘Oh, you’re so lucky.’

‘Luck has nothing to do with it.’

Rachel sighed. ‘We all know your theories on making your own luck. I can’t be bothered to argue with you about it. When’s the open day? Oh, good. Midsummer, when those banks of oriental poppies and peonies are out. Oh, and the lavender. I love that cloud of misty blue, edging the paved avenue down to the fountain. It’s just stunning!’

‘The fountain’s top of my list for renovation. It’s so damaged, would you know what it’s supposed to represent without being told?’

The conversation moved on. Dory leant forward. ‘You all right, Fran?’

Fran looked across the table at her sister and nodded. She was aware she’d just been sitting there, not joining in with the general chatter. Michael was simply being Michael. No point in arguing with his music hall bigotry.

‘You’re very quiet today. Do you fancy going to this?’ She waved the sheet. These days, their relationship was perfectly amicable, but the ease had gone out of it. It was now the polite, superficial friendliness of acquaintances, not sisters. The outings, and the confidences, had ceased. ‘Michael’s open garden thing?’

So, my sister is trying to build bridges? Fran thought. Admittedly, she’d love to see Michael’s house. The class had heard about it – its renovations and refurbishments, his tussles with the builders – for years. She would have preferred to be invited as a friend, but it seemed paying to get into the garden was the best on offer for the moment. Better than nothing. So why not go together? If they both intended to visit the garden, it would be patently stupid to go separately. Anyway, it was weeks away. A lot could happen. Another chilling bolt shot down her spine.

‘This is great, Fran.’ Stefan spoke directly to her as she entered the room. Dom returned to his own easel. The two had patently been discussing her drawing before everyone reassembled. Typical that he should single out for special praise the one drawing she’d ruined.

‘It’s very bold for you,’ he continued. ‘You’ve really taken me at my word and abandoned your usual control.’

‘I made a mistake,’ Fran said automatically. ‘I wasn’t concentrating.’

‘Maybe, but isn’t that what I’m trying to get you to do? Disengage the conscious mind. Look at the result. It’s spectacular. That colour is glorious, isn’t it? I particularly like the way you’ve over-drawn it with the black ink.’

‘I had to, to redefine the line.’

‘It works well – a very strong piece of work. I particularly love the ink splatters, as if you got really angry with it.’

‘I
did
get angry! I couldn’t control the fucking twig!’ Giving up hope of rescuing the drawing, she’d stubbornly continued to use the fibrous stump she’d been left with after it broke. Stefan surprised her by laughing. Other students looked round curiously. The tutor laughing was a rare sound.

‘Good. Perhaps anger is what you need. Eat your heart out, Ralph Steadman! You’ve done what I want everyone to do. Never give up and start again. Work through your mistakes and corrections. No guarantees, but you’ll often be pleasantly surprised, and have a far greater sense of achievement, when you see what you’ve ended up with.’ A mobile phone rang. He looked around for the culprit, then, realising the sound was coming from the chair where his leather jacket was hanging, he apologised. ‘Sorry, everyone, that’s mine.’ Grabbing the phone and bringing it to his ear, Stefan quit the room.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, when he re-entered a few seconds later. ‘I need to go down to the office. Carry on as you were. A great set of drawings. Get a new sheet of paper. You’d do better to stick with cartridge if you want a bright, strong, contrasty effect, like Fran’s here. I’ll leave it up to you and Dermot to decide on the next pose.’

Dermot had only just emerged from behind the screen, completely naked. He didn’t say anything, but glanced around at the members of the class, who were all now back in position. He turned the chair and sat down facing Fran. In the absence of any other comments, it was Rachel who spoke up.

‘Could you give us a bit of a twist? Do you mind, um, Dermot?’

Dermot said nothing, but stood up again and moved the direction of the chair slightly away from Fran. Sitting down again, he twisted towards her, resting his arm on the back. A profound silence descended.

‘That’s fine for me, thanks.’ Rachel said after a pause. ‘Everyone else happy?’

Grunts and muttered agreement came from various quarters. Although Fran noticed the glances going back and forth between the students positioned beyond Dermot, she was too preoccupied to speculate on what the raised eyebrows meant. She’d chosen a fresh twig, but hadn’t bothered to select a different ink. Why bother? She’d lost faith in producing anything she wanted to keep. Liking the vivid colour was the one thing she and Stefan
could
agree on.

But which colour to use or choice of twig was just a temporary diversion. Her thoughts plunged back into their previous turmoil.

I no where U live.
An icy chill washed through her again. What had db meant? Was he serious? Was it a tease or …? Or a threat? She recalled thinking that a lot could happen in a few weeks. But what? What could he do? Tell Peter? Try to force her to go off with him? Get a grip, woman! He could only affect her if he could track her down to her real-life address. Was that possible if all someone had was the virtual version? Of course, the real db would have known where she’d lived as a girl, and from her emails, might have deduced she lived in the same area … but that was a long way from pinpointing her actual address. Had she said anything that had given her away? Did he even know her married name?

Trouble was, she could not recall exactly what she had or hadn’t said in her emails to db. In the early days she’d written long, discursive messages, had edited and re-edited, before she decided to click send. She’d a vague memory of mentioning the village, and had she said she lived in a rectory in another email? If she’d been
that
stupid, he could easily find her! There was no way to check. She’d been regularly double-deleting everything in her sent box and inbox, just in case Peter … Perhaps she should ask Dory about retrieving deleted emails, so she could reread the correspondence. But what story could she come up with to explain why she needed do this?

Preparing to do battle with the fresh twig, Fran wondered why their tutor felt it necessary to send them back to pre-history. Why not pursue the idea to its natural conclusion and find a cave wall they could daub on? They could even make their own pigments by grinding clay. Hadn’t he heard of progress? It was a wonderful thing. Even a quill would be preferable to this stupid stick! She raised her eyes to the model. Attention entirely consumed by her churning thoughts, she’d not registered the deliberate way Dermot had positioned himself. Until now. She found herself transfixed in the beam of his intense stare.

So many months had elapsed she’d almost forgotten her sister’s problems during the initial autumn-term lesson. At the time, her attitude had been amusement; she’d even said she envied her sister. Faced with the same problem now, she was better able to understand why Dory had been disconcerted. But she couldn’t allow herself to be any less bold. She could cope with a weirdo model who stared a bit and … Oh my God! … whose cock was stiffening and lengthening even as she glanced at it.

It would be too disruptive to move. This was a full class and there wasn’t enough room to slot in at a different vantage point. It was unfair to ask anyone to change places now they’d all started work. Anyway, it would be utterly wimpy; everyone, including the model, would know why she’d done it. Grit your teeth, she told herself, squaring her shoulders. If Dory can do it, so can you.

She began to draw with the twig, devoutly wishing the model would stop staring at her. There was nothing attractive about his big-nosed, baggy-eyed face, but he obviously thought different. His insufferably smug expression seemed to say,
Aren’t I gorgeous? Don’t you love looking at my gleaming, hairless, muscled body? Aren’t you consumed by lust to see my erection?

The inference from Dory’s account was that the tumescence had fluctuated; he’d never developed a complete stiffy. Of course, on that occasion, he’d not chosen the pose. He’d not made the decision which woman he wanted to look at him. Recalling now how he’d turned his chair in her direction, she was forced to confront the implication that she’d been picked. This was Dermot’s mating display. Some poof, she thought, recalling Michael’s coffee-break speculations. How big was he going to get? His cock was standing proud of his body now, and bobbing upwards. If this had happened to her a few months ago, she believed she’d have found it funny. Not now. The remembrance of that giant phallus on the S&M website came back to her. He couldn’t grow that big, could he?