Authors: Gilli Allan
Dory thought she was
so
cool,
so
sophisticated, but she’d completely missed the point. It’s of no interest to me whether Dominic is gay, straight, or, for that matter, a health risk, Fran thought. Of course I don’t
really
have designs on him, why on earth would I? It’s all just a harmless diversion. I should pity my sister, walking emotionally detached through life. You don’t have to act on your feelings. But to deny that part of your physicality is like looking at the world through a letterbox – like appreciating Johnny Depp solely for his acting ability. You’re cutting yourself off from half, maybe more, of your senses.
‘That’s super, Fran,’ the teacher said. ‘You haven’t lost your touch.’
She’d not been concentrating. How much time had passed? Looking up, she noted that Sandy’s dark hair, worn coiled on top of her head in a style that added several inches to her five foot nothing, now had a little more white streaked through it. She was wearing her trademark chandelier earrings and bangles that jingled as she moved, and the multi-layered ensemble in jewel colours, which trailed and draped around her, failed to camouflage her ever more generous curves.
‘It’s rubbish.’ Fran focused on the drawing in front of her, then impatiently ripped the paper off the board and screwed it up. This was something Stefan disapproved of. For the second lesson in a row they were free of his lowering presence. She could abandon her first attempt without fear of censure. So why wasn’t she enjoying herself? ‘I don’t seem to be in the mood.’
‘It happens,’ Sandy agreed, nodding.
‘And,’ Fran added in a low voice, ‘Tilly’s more fidgety than usual. According to our new teacher, Stefan Novak, we’re not allowed to start again or use a rubber. Whatever the problem, including the model not being able to keep in pose, we’re supposed to plug on until we work our way through to some acceptable resolution. I always end up with a messy scribble that I hate.’
‘We all have our own way of working. What suits one doesn’t suit another.’
‘Tell
him
that,’ Fran said. She began to tape another piece of cartridge onto her drawing board. ‘What’s the story? Why’s he absent again?’
Sandy shrugged. ‘Don’t know the man. The office rang me just after nine to ask if I could take over again. I’m happy to fill in.’
‘Nine o’clock was leaving it a bit late. You weren’t given much warning. Not that I’m complaining.’ Fran looked over at the model. To suit the oil painters who had started their canvases the previous week, the pose today was the same as the one they’d set up last Friday. Fran, who wasn’t continuing with the same piece of work, had simply changed her position. For the umpteenth time she mapped out the sinuous line from Tilly’s head down to her hip, where she was sunk back into the chair. ‘Do you know anything about him?’
‘Not really. He’s not a member of ArtSkape, so not part of the art scene around here. Bit of an unknown quantity, really. I don’t even know what he does.’
‘He’s a sculptor, apparently,’ Fran said, pleased to find she was more knowledgeable than her old teacher. Sandy shook her head.
‘God, it’s enough of a struggle trying to make your mark as a painter, but sculpture’s even harder unless you’re a mate of Saatchi. What sort of thing?’
‘I’ve heard it’s figurative, mainly in bronze.’
The other woman drew breath in a sympathetic whistle. ‘Good luck to him.’ As Sandy moved away, Fran’s other preoccupation reinvaded her thoughts.
‘U bring the cream, I’ll bring the handcuffs …’ The email message she’d received last night kept popping into her head. The correspondence was both addictive and disturbing. She was in thrall to the continuing dialogue. His words had insinuated their way into her brain, evoking images of silk and lace, of a wide, canopied bed, of mirrors and incense and candles. In her fantasy, a Sade song was playing – perhaps ‘Smooth Operator’ – and she could almost feel the slither of skin on satin sheets.
‘Coffee break in five minutes,’ Sandy called out.
Avoiding Dory, Fran attached herself to Liz and Mary on the way down to the canteen. They were talking about a ‘must-see’ exhibition at the Royal Academy in London, which they’d have to be quick to visit as it was closing in a few weeks. When she’d bought her coffee, she slotted herself in between Lennie and Michael. Their conversation was less likely to be about art with a capital A.
Michael had not long returned from his boys-only trip to South America. An extension was being constructed at the manor house – an orangery, apparently,
not
a conservatory – while he’d been away, climbing. ‘Her indoors’ had failed to supervise things to his satisfaction. He talked amusingly about his arguments with the builders.
‘If in doubt, bloody builders always go for the easy option. Why don’t they
ask?
In the summer, you must all come over. It should be done by then. It has to be.’
Was Michael inviting those within earshot to Combeside Manor? Fran had known him for years, he was a long-time core member of the group. His adolescent humour had enlivened many an after-class lunch session, but his friendship went no further. The friends he sometimes spoke of were either wealthy, eccentric, celebrated, or a combination of all three. He’d never played host to her or to anyone else at the class other than Rachel, who was a friend of his wife’s. A qualification soon followed the invitation.
‘There’s an Open Garden in June. We’re doing it in aid of the local hospice. I’ll bring in some flyers about it nearer the time.’
Another voice impinged: ‘Why don’t you have some Reiki sessions? It does wonders for the January blues. Though I would say that, wouldn’t I?’ This time it was Liz talking to Rachel. ‘It’s all about energy and channelling. Sounds a bit airy-fairy, I know, but it really works if you give yourself up to it. It really releases creativity. The Reiki healer, me, will lay her hands on you to allow the energy to flow in through your aura and your meridians. It’s a kind of re-balancing.’
‘Who knows?’ Fran heard her sister say. ‘I
have
made an offer on a house, but the estate agent hasn’t been able to tell me anything. So I’m in limbo at the moment.’
That Dory had found a house she actually wanted to buy was information not shared with her. It was yet another example of the wedge that had developed between them. But if Dory no longer wanted her opinion why should she care? Let her make her own mistakes.
‘When
I
was in advertising …’ Lennie had started a conversation with Bill, who was sat opposite. The voices around her chattered and burbled, rising, falling, and fading out.
‘I luv women,’ db had written. ‘I understand yr needs. Like nothing better than getting down + dirty. U B amazed what I can do with my long muscular tongue …’
A repressed shudder rocked through her.
‘I say,’ Bill said. ‘Are you all right, Fran?’
Fran came back to reality.
‘You’ve gone very pale.’
‘Someone walked over my grave.’ Dear old Bill. Her shiver had given him an excuse to change the subject away from Lennie’s increasingly rambling reminiscences about his glory days with J. Walter Thompson. As she returned her empty mug to the trolley, she became aware that the crotch of her pants had become damp.
Back in the classroom, she fetched more paper and attached it to her board. For a moment she sat, just allowing the smells, the sights, the atmosphere of the room to seep into her. The sharp fumes of white spirit dominated the air as Bill re-rinsed his brushes. The smell of PVA mixed with it. Liz was kneeling on the floor, using a decorating brush to paint the clear acrylic medium onto a sheet of paper to seal it and make it less porous. This was Fran’s world. Doing
art
, going to a weekly class, was what defined her. It set her apart from so many other middle-aged women, whose only hobbies were reading romance novels, doing a bit of light gardening, and watching makeover programmes on TV.
She glanced over at Dory, who seemed engrossed in her drawing. Fran had been surprised by her sister’s whole-hearted enthusiasm for an activity she regarded as her own. From tentative beginnings, her work had improved markedly. She’d hung on the tutor’s words in a way that was almost crawly – as if Stefan Novak was the oracle! Well, he was proving himself a bit flaky after all. It would be a result if the upshot of his continued non-attendance meant Sandy’s permanent reinstatement.
As usual, the model was gossiping and laughing. She scratched her head, she yawned. Tilly was just being Tilly, but today it grated. Exasperated by the woman’s inability to keep still, Fran was unable even to map out the overall dimensions of the figure. She huffed and tutted, and erased what she’d done so far. The sheet of white cartridge paper was growing smudged and dirty. She started again, but again found her thoughts wandering, her hand and eye disconnected from her brain. She even began to consider giving up and going home. At least at home she could see if she’d had any more emails. Some more of last night’s conversation wormed its way into her thoughts.
‘I look at yr pic + imagine what Id like 2 do 2 U… Can U picture me … imagining U …?’
Peter was out. A sense of freedom lifted Fran’s spirits. After putting the dogs in the garden, she settled herself in the study and switched on the computer, going first to Live Mail. She already knew what she would find there. There were a few emails from friends on the various committees she belonged to, probably enquiring where she was and why she hadn’t been to this meeting or that. Yet more were from various Reunite sites she was a member of. But the majority were from Mel, probably rambling on about her new boyfriend, Tyler. She’d better check.
Before logging on to Hotmail, Fran deleted everything unopened apart from Melanie’s. From a quick skim of the contents of her daughter’s most recent message she inferred Mel was thinking about going to Bangkok with Tyler. She subdued the throb of disquiet. Reread it later, she told herself, typing in her Hotmail password.
‘Starting 2 suspect UR not serious. When R we going 2 meet up?’
Fran’s fingers rattled rapidly over the keypad, typing out her answer.
‘It’s a lady’s prerogative to set the timetable.’ She smiled to herself and clicked send. Only moments passed before a reply came.
‘Cant w8 much longer …’
Fran frowned. This was a game, not real life. Surely he didn’t really think they were going to meet? Did she?
‘You should exert more self-control,’ she replied.
‘I LUV control!!!! Sending link 2 give U taste. Lets do it 2gether!’ came back a few minutes later.
Even though they’d changed provider recently, the broadband delivery had yet to show a marked improvement – it could still take frustrating minutes to load websites. Someone had suggested it was the telephone cabling in the house that needed renewing. Mentally prepared to wait, the image that unfurled in front of her eyes delivered a pole-axing shock. It was like a nightmare. Her brain could hardly make sense of what she was looking at. She shrank the window and without closing any of the pages in the prescribed order, fumbled to switch the system off.
Chapter Twenty-seven - Dory
Stifled and rebellious, Dory glowered at her surroundings. It was only her in this little flat. What was the point in doing housework? She wasn’t expecting to entertain anyone. If
she
didn’t care about the dust, why bother?
It was unusual to find herself at home on a Wednesday, and it had rained through the morning in squally bursts. At last the showers seemed to have cleared away. There was cloud in the sky, but it was high and white and broken up into islands. The tree-clad slopes beyond the canal and railway line were hazy with leaf bud. Nearby, a small garden tree was already misted with delicate pink blossom.
Jacket on, with a bag over her shoulder, she made for the towpath. Exercise, the pundits always claimed, was the best natural antidote to depression. The next best was St John’s Wort. Her bottle of sixty capsules was already half-empty. So why was she depressed? A long time had passed since she’d moved out of her shared home with Malcolm. Wasn’t she now experiencing the separation as a liberation rather than a failure? There’d been much to enjoy during those years, but living and working in the capital had its drawbacks too. And whatever happened, London would always be there.
Her health had improved so much she could hardly recall how it had been before. She was doing a worthwhile job, even if the manager of the department was an authoritarian. And she’d found a hobby that was intensely rewarding. Even Dominic’s blood tests had come back clear. All these were positives in her life, yet a dark, formless cloud still hovered over her.
Scarcely noticing the bite of the cold air, she walked along the towpath that flanked the left bank of the canal. The new development, where her flat was situated, dwindled behind her. An Intercity train whooshed past. Beyond the railway, on the far side of the canal and following the line of the lane that snaked back and forth up to the top of the wooded hill, roofs could just be seen poking through the lacy canopy
On her side of the canal, the flat valley bottom, through which the almost invisible river cut its narrow winding channel, was ever-changing. Intermittently there were lengths of chain-link fencing. There were full-grown trees and a variety of wooden fences in variable states of repair. Sometimes, just a scrubby border of saplings and shrubs divided the path from a recreation ground, a scout hut, a strange little corrugated iron church, a few houses and then from a couple of fields – one with some sheep in it. A yellow constellation of daffodils spangled the green of the canal bank.
Since mid-December, her doubts about moving here had abruptly dissolved. Scared, but breathlessly euphoric, she’d suddenly known what to do. Her future looked like a new adventure. Subsequent events had changed everything. Acknowledging that she’d allowed herself to get carried away, she now deeply regretted her foolhardiness. The estate agent had been unable to give her any news. In a way, it was a relief. Lack of information about the intentions of the vendor told her everything she needed to know. It was a relief too that having missed the first two lessons of term, Stefan had missed the third as well. ‘Due to a
funeral
this time!’ Fran remarked scornfully, as if it were final proof he’d completely lost the plot, was concocting excuses, and they’d never see him again.