Life Drawing for Beginners (5 page)

Carmel said nothing.

“Two days,” he repeated. “Then it’s bye-bye.” He wheeled and left the room, and Carmel turned and gathered Barry into her arms, her skin still burning.

She’d have to go back to the pet shop. Even though Ethan’s father thought she was a liar, even though he’d ordered her out and said he’d call the police, she’d have to go back and try again, because she couldn’t think of anything else to do.

“My tummy hurts,” Barry whimpered.

She put her hand on it and rubbed round and round, the way her granny used to do with her. “Shh,” she said.

She was afraid of going back to the pet shop. He’d be angry when he saw her again, he might get so angry that he’d hit her this time. But she had nothing else, nobody else.

She put Barry on the bed and pulled the blanket up around him, even though it smelled like sour milk. His forehead wasn’t hot, so it must be the sandwich giving him the pain. She often took stuff from the bins at the back of the supermarket. She only took things that were still wrapped up, but once in a while something would be gone off and you wouldn’t know until later. He’d vomit it up in a while and he’d be okay.

She found a plastic bag and left it by the bed. She sang softly to him, rubbing his tummy round and round.

B
ut
why
are you going?”

James untied and redid the belt of his daughter’s red dressing gown. “I told you, because I’d like to try and do some drawing. It’s just for a little while.”

“But why can’t you do drawing here?” She poked a finger through one of his buttonholes.

“Because I want the teacher to help me,” he answered patiently. “Because I’m not very good.”

“But why can I not come too?”

“Because it’s only for grown-ups.”

Charlie pulled hard at the buttonhole. “That’s not
fair
.”

James smiled. “Well, school is only for children—that’s not fair either.”

“I
hate
school,” she said crossly, twirling her finger around, winding the fabric into a creased bunch. “School is a stinky bum.”

“Now, now, that’s not very nice,” he said, extricating the finger. “And mind my poor jacket, you’re making it all crumply. Look, you’re going to have great fun with Eunice.”

“I don’t like Eunice,” Charlie mumbled. “She’s smelly.”

“Ach now,” James protested—but he had to admit that his daughter had a point. Helpful as their new neighbor was proving to be, Eunice wasn’t exactly fragrant. On the contrary, she exuded a peculiarly cheesy odor, which James suspected was emanating from her feet. But what could he do, when she was allowing him these two precious hours of freedom?

Just then, Eunice herself came bustling in from the kitchen. “The popcorn is made,” she said. “Will we let Daddy get off?”

Charlie buried her head in James’s chest. “Don’t want popcorn,” she mumbled.

“Now stop that,” James said firmly, taking her shoulders and holding her out from him. “Have some manners. Eunice is being very kind to you. Come on now,” he added coaxingly, “be nice. Tell you what,” he went on, inspiration striking, “I’ll phone you at the break and tell you a story.” The break should roughly coincide with her bedtime—and would surely last ten minutes.

Charlie looked doubtfully at him. “Not a old story.”

“No—this one will be brand-new.”

“With a princess. And a pony.”

James got up from the sofa. “Princess and pony, got you. And you have to promise to go straight to bed for Eunice afterwards. Deal?”

She considered. “Okay.”

“Good girl. Now I need you to find my car keys.”

As she left the room James turned to Eunice. “Thanks again for doing this. I hope she’ll be okay for you. She’s been…a bit clingy since we moved down here.”

Eunice nodded. “Of course she has—and all the more reason for you to get a little break. Don’t you worry about us, we’ll be fine.”

James wondered what Eunice and Gerry had made of a man moving into the area with a small daughter and no sign of a partner. He’d made no mention of Frances to them, and thankfully they hadn’t asked—assuming, probably, that he was either widowed or divorced. Eunice had offered to babysit before James had even considered going out in the evenings. Feeling sorry for the lone father, no doubt.

“Tuesdays would suit best,” she’d told him, “since it’s Gerry’s night for cards with the boys down at the local. I’m sure you could join them, if you were interested.”

James could imagine Eunice cajoling her husband to take the newcomer along to meet the boys. He wondered how long his past would remain a secret in the company of card-playing drinkers. And what he’d seen of the local, with its graffiti-covered walls and huddle of tough-looking smokers in the doorway, didn’t encourage closer acquaintance.

“I’m not much of a one for cards,” he’d lied, “but thanks for the offer. I’ll keep it in mind.”

And the more he thought about it, the more he longed for one evening away from the demands a six-year-old could put on you. He loved his daughter dearly, but having sole responsibility for her from five o’clock each weekday, and all weekend, was extremely challenging.

When Frances was there, it had been so much easier. The care of Charlie had been shared between them during the week, and Maud and Timothy, less than forty miles away, were happy to take their only grandchild for at least part of each weekend. James adored his only daughter, but like any parent he appreciated the breaks from her too.

And now her mother was gone, and her father had made a decision that had put real distance between Charlie and her grandparents, and the only break he got apart from work was the once-a-month visit to Maud and Timothy’s for Sunday lunch.

James had been uncertain when they’d suggested it. The events of two years ago had prompted a seismic change in the relationship between him and his parents-in-law that didn’t surprise him in the least. Their lives had been upturned, their happiness snatched away in a single afternoon, and they had no way of knowing if James was responsible.

The case was still open, with nobody having been charged, or even arrested—for without any evidence, with no proof that any crime had even taken place, how could any arrest be made? James imagined what awful mixed feelings Maud and Timothy must have, how they must wish for an ending, even the worst of all possible endings—for wouldn’t that be better than this terrible limbo into which they’d all been plunged?

But whatever they felt for and about James, whatever dark places their thoughts about him might bring them, they were still Charlie’s grandparents, and she needed them in her life. They needed each other, with Charlie their only remaining link to Frances. So James had agreed to the monthly Sunday lunches, even though the visit now involved a round trip of over two hundred miles. But the first one had been successful, if only from Charlie’s point of view.

His parents-in-law had both been perfectly polite, of course, and Maud had pressed more roast lamb on James, and a second helping of blackberry and apple crumble afterwards. But the strain had been there, he’d felt it in the lightning glances that passed occasionally between the older couple, in the small pauses between remarks, in the forced element of their laughter.

Happily, Charlie had been oblivious to any tension. Throughout the visit she’d chattered to her grandparents, answering their questions about school and friends and the new house. She’d fallen asleep in the car on the way home, and James had watched his daughter’s face in the rearview mirror and seen, with a familiar pang, her mother’s high cheekbones and pointed chin.

Now, driving the mile or so to Carrickbawn Senior College, James felt a growing sense of dread. He hadn’t a clue how to draw, and he had no wish to learn. For the second time he considered absconding from the whole business, driving to a pub and sitting with a drink and the evening paper for two hours. What would anyone care, who would even know except himself and the other people in the class, perfect strangers whose opinion didn’t matter a damn to him?

But he’d signed up and paid, and he’d bought the pencils and charcoal, the sketch pad and the putty rubber. He may as well give it a go, at least once. If it was as bad as he was anticipating, he need never return.

He turned into the college car park at twenty-seven minutes past seven precisely.

Zarek was looking forward to his first life drawing class in Ireland. He wondered if there would be any difference between these classes and the ones he’d taken at home. He supposed a nude body was a nude body, whatever the nationality—although he had yet to see what a naked Irish body looked like—and the rules for drawing the human form must surely be the same the world over. Still, it would be interesting to see how this teacher, whose name he’d forgotten, would approach the subject. He hoped his English wouldn’t let him down.

Although he couldn’t remember her name, the teacher had made a good first impression on him. Her flowing, colorful clothes, her generous, womanly build told him that here was a person who, like himself, enjoyed the sensual, the visual, the beautiful. Of course he had to acknowledge that she was no great beauty herself, at least not in the popular, physical sense.

Attractive certainly though, with her fresh, unlined skin, and brown hair whose curls gleamed with rich, red lights—did he imagine it, or did all Irish people have some red in their hair?—and eyes the color of caramel.

Her personality was appealing too. Her friendliness was tempered with a touching hesitancy; her instincts, Zarek felt sure, tending towards helpfulness. She would make a good teacher, she would guide rather than steer. Her criticism would be kindly meant, and constructive.

He took his jacket from its hook and lifted his satchel onto his shoulder as the apartment door opened and one of his flat mates appeared.

“I have a horrible day,” Pilar said, dropping her bag to the floor and yanking off her hat. “I kill that woman if I work for her one more week.” She unzipped her jacket, glaring at Zarek. “You know what she say me today? She say I eat too much biscuits. Plenty money, but she count biscuits—
pah
!”

She stalked towards the kitchen, leaving a faint tang of disinfectant in her wake, and Zarek heard her speaking to Anton in precisely the same annoyed tone.

He closed the front door quietly behind him and bounded happily down the stairs, looking forward to two hours of no dramas, no complaints.

The bedroom door opened and Martin walked in. “She’s asleep.”

Irene slipped a chunky silver bangle over her hand. “Good.” She changed her mind and took the bangle off again—it might get in the way when she was drawing. “Did you start the dishwasher?”

He opened the top drawer of his bureau and began rummaging through it. “I did.”

He didn’t look forty-eight. He had the muscle tone of a man years younger. Irene appreciated how he filled his T-shirt, how hard and firm his body was under that grey marl cotton. She loved the way he moved, the way he strode across a room, any room, as if he owned it.

She wondered again if he was having an affair—and again, she didn’t ask.

“You’ll be glad to get the car back,” he said, still riffling through files.

“Sure will,” Irene said, taking a thin gold chain from her jewelry box and wrapping it around her wrist.

“When did they say?”

“Thursday, but I told them I needed it for work. I’ll give them a ring in the morning.”

“You’re an awful liar,” he said in the same neutral tone of voice.

Irene shrugged and reached for her perfume. “No harm done—​​and the guy will get a fine fat tip if he has it ready for tomorrow.”

She touched the stopper behind her ears and on her wrists, conscious of his presence behind her. She dipped the stopper back into the bottle and dotted perfume on her cleavage. She stood and took her lavender scarf from the bed and draped it around her neck.

“Have fun,” Martin said, pulling out a folder and bending over it.

“You know me.” She rested a palm briefly on his back as she passed. Aching to press against him, to feel his solid bulk all along the length of her, to breathe in his spicy smell. “See you.”

In the hall she took his car keys from their hook and opened the front door. Now that the first night of life drawing had arrived, she was half regretting her impulse to sign up. Did she really want to stare at another woman’s body for two hours? Should she have gone for photography on Wednesdays, or pottery on Thursdays?

The teacher was a mess, with that mop of curly hair and horrendous fashion sense—imagine putting a patterned skirt over those hips. Irene could only hope that she was better at teaching art than dressing herself. If the opportunity arose she might mention the gym, just throw it out to the group, make sure the teacher overheard. She’d be a real challenge, if Irene took her on.

As she drove towards the college she thought she wouldn’t mind being a model for a life drawing class. She’d never been shy about showing off what she had, and what she had was in pretty good nick, thanks to her workouts. Breasts that still pointed in the right direction, a behind that would give Beyoncé a run for her money, long lean thighs. Her Brazilian wax might cause a bit of a scandal, though. The view might be a little too revealing.

She thought about the mechanic who was repairing the car. She’d know when she collected it, she’d know by the way he talked to her if anything was going to happen. She wouldn’t push herself on him, she’d never do that. But she had a feeling he wouldn’t need any encouragement.

Not that she wanted him particularly, not that she wanted any of them. But Martin had put himself beyond her reach, and the emptiness that had caused in her had to be filled. She had to try and fill it, try to put something in its place, or she’d go demented.

She drove through the college gates and pulled into a parking space. She locked Martin’s car and strode towards the entrance, her three-inch heels clacking loudly on the paving stones. She passed an elderly couple holding placards and she smiled brightly at the woman, who glared back at her.

As he approached the massive doors that led into the Senior College, Zarek observed a man and woman pacing back and forth in front of the building, each holding a notice of some kind. Perhaps they were advertising the evening classes, maybe they were some sort of Irish welcome.

But as he got closer he changed his mind. Neither of them was smiling or looking at all welcoming. On the contrary, the woman was regarding Zarek with what appeared to be surprising hostility.

“You’re one of them,” she said as he drew level with her. “I saw you. Didn’t you see him?” she demanded, turning to her companion.

The man nodded grimly. “Oh yes, he was there, he was filling in the form. I hope you’re thoroughly ashamed, young man. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

Zarek was puzzled. They seemed angry with him, but he had no idea why. Had they met before? They didn’t look at all familiar. He scanned the notices they held, thinking they might offer some explanation.

NO FILTH IN CARRICKBAWN
, he read on one, and
KEEP OUR TOWN DECENT
on the other. Both signs were handwritten with a black marker on squares of white card, and attached to their wooden poles—sections of a broom handle?—with green insulation tape, and their messages completely escaped Zarek.