Life Drawing for Beginners (2 page)

All in all, today had shaped up pretty well. Not that she’d fancy driving into the gatepost every morning, but it had turned out to have its upside.

“Not too bad,” the mechanic had said, running his hand along the dent. Oil under his nails. Short, broad fingers. “Not too deep. Could be worse.”

The sleeves of his overalls pushed up past his elbows, arms covered in dark hairs, muscles taut. Probably didn’t need to work out, plenty of stretching and weight lifting with his job.

“You’ll have to leave it with us,” he’d said.

Irene had stood close enough to let him get her perfume. Men went mad for musk. “How long?”

He’d leaned against the car, arms folded. A head full of dark hair, cut short the way she liked it. Brown eyes. Bet he tanned as soon as he looked at the sun.

“Thursday at least, we’re busy right now. Give us a call Thursday morning.”

“You couldn’t do it any quicker?” she’d asked, a hand reaching up to touch his arm oh-so-briefly. “It’s just that I use it a lot, for work.”

Hard muscle, not an ounce of fat there.

“I wouldn’t ask,” she’d said, flashing her newly cleaned teeth at him, “only it’s really awkward being without it.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he’d said then. “Give us a call Wednesday morning.”

“There you go.” Irene handed her form to the teacher, whose bright blue blouse with its tiny pink polka dots and horrendous turquoise flowery skirt were probably meant to be terribly artistic—​and that must be her yellow jacket slung over the back of that chair. How could anyone seriously wear that collection of colors and patterns all at once?

Must be very liberating all the same, not to give a damn what you looked like.

On the whole, Zarek Olszewski was quite happy living in Ireland. He accepted that the erratic weather system was what you got when you chose to live on a tiny island perched beside a huge ocean quite far up in the Northern Hemisphere. He’d grown accustomed to cars traveling on the wrong side of the road, and after four months he’d learned—just about—to live without his mother’s spicy dumplings and sauerkraut soup.

He shared a small flat with two other immigrants, one of whom produced a very edible dinner each evening in return for ignoring every other household chore, an arrangement that suited all three perfectly.

Zarek worked behind the counter in one of Carrickbawn’s fast-food outlets. His salary was modest, but his expenses were few. By shopping almost exclusively at Lidl and avoiding the pubs and restaurants of Carrickbawn, he managed to send a small monthly bank draft to his parents in Poland, and he squirreled away what little was left towards his eventual return home.

His single weekly extravagance was a
€
2 lottery card every Friday on his way to work. By the end of August he’d claimed two free cards and had won
€
4 enough times to keep investing in them. And just this morning, he’d scratched away the silver covering as usual and revealed
€
250
three times. Two hundred and fifty euro!

His first thought was to send the entire amount to his parents—​what did he need it for?—but later that day, as he struggled during his fifteen-minute break through Carrickbawn’s free local paper, the Senior College’s autumn schedule of evening classes had caught his eye.
Life drawing
, he’d read, and his pocket dictionary had confirmed that it was what he thought it was, and enrollment was that very evening. The lure had proved irresistible.

A hundred and fifty euro would be a perfectly respectable windfall. His mother could fill the freezer, his father could get a new pair of trousers. They’d be perfectly happy with
€
150.

And now he was signed up, and the teacher was friendly and jolly, and he looked forward to the classes. He read the materials list for the second time and wondered again if he could ask the teacher what a putty rubber was.

Audrey bundled the five enrollment forms together and slipped them into her canvas bag. She tucked checks and cash carefully into the bag’s side pocket and zipped it closed. She took her yellow jacket from the back of the chair and slid her arms into it and fastened the red toggle buttons.

She locked the classroom door and returned the key to Vincent at the reception desk, who told her that two people had asked him to lodge a formal complaint about the naked drawing classes to the college authorities.

“Lord,” said Audrey, alarmed. “What should I do?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Some old people just love to have a moan.” Vincent was seventy-five if he was a day. “If they come back, I’ll say someone is looking into it. See you Tuesday.”

In the car park Audrey unlocked the chain she’d wrapped around the front wheel of her newly repaired moped. She placed her bag in the basket and puttered down the short driveway of Carrickbawn Senior College. Five people signed up, five checks paid over—no, four. Zarek, bless him, had paid in cash.

Nice to have a non-Irish student in the class, made it feel quite cosmopolitan. After several months in Ireland, Zarek’s command of English was still a little precarious; and of course the language employed during the classes could well be a little specialized, “putty rubber” being a case in point. Maybe Audrey could suggest he bring a dictionary to the classes, to make sure he understood the instructions.

She wondered what he did to earn a living. What did any of them do, these five strangers who’d opted to spend two hours a week in one another’s company from now till Halloween? No doubt she’d find out in due course.

Interesting, too, to see how the dynamics would go, who’d get along and who’d have nothing in common. Would the women stick together, or would there be personality clashes? Would any attractions surface? Imagine if one of the three women made a play for Zarek; they’d all looked gratified to have him in the class. There might be a torrid affair—

She stopped. Listen to her, creating drama where there was none. They were simply a group of adults sharing a common interest, planning to spend a couple of relaxing hours together each week, no pressure to be anything else but amiable companions. Torrid affair, indeed.

But it would be nice if they bonded as a group; they might get quite chummy over the six weeks. There might even be a call for an advanced life drawing class after Halloween—if they weren’t run out of town before then by Mr. and Mrs. Scandalized.

And purely as an observation, with no hidden agenda whatsoever, James Sullivan had a beautiful soft Northern accent, and hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring. And looked to be about Audrey’s age.

Oh, he was probably attached, most people were by the time they reached his age, and lots of men didn’t bother with rings. She wished he’d taken off the hat—not that it mattered at all what kind of hair he had, but Audrey would have liked to see it. Presumably all would be revealed on Tuesday—he hardly wore the hat around the clock.

And speaking of all being revealed, there was still the problem of a model—or rather, of no model. So far Audrey had had three inquiries over the phone, one male and two female. The male had lost interest when he’d heard what money was being offered, and neither female had shown up for the subsequent face-to-face interview.

On the plus side there’d been another phone call just this afternoon, and a meeting had been arranged for the following day. With the first class looming, Audrey was keeping her fingers crossed that Jackie Moore turned up at least.

She’d sounded pleasant on the phone, and hadn’t seemed to mind the pay. Maybe a little unsure about the actual stripping, but that was to be expected. Happily, it wasn’t in Audrey’s nature to worry unduly—she’d hope for the best, like she always did, and see what happened.

And if Jackie didn’t work out and nobody else responded to the ad, there was always Terence, who taught science at Carrickbawn Secondary School and who’d been a little too eager to offer his services as soon as Audrey had mentioned the classes in the staff room. Terence would certainly not have been Audrey’s first choice, but he’d do in a pinch—as long as she kept a good eye on him.

She motored unhurriedly along the early-evening streets, still quite bright just after eight o’clock. The thought of the winter months ahead didn’t alarm her. Winter brought big coal fires and deliciously spicy curries and rich meaty stews, or bowls of steaming soup to dip soft floury rolls into—not to mention the occasional hot port when she came home wet through and frozen to the bone.

Summer’s food and drink, in her opinion, wasn’t a patch on winter’s. She’d never been a big fan of salads. Lettuce was just too leafy, no matter how you dressed it up. And she’d never really seen the point of cooking out of doors, with everything either burned or half cooked, and always the danger of food poisoning from carelessly barbecued chicken. And chilled white wine hurt her teeth; give her a glass of warm red any day.

And this winter, she remembered with sudden delight, if all went according to plan, there would be two of them sitting in front of the fire. She considered making a detour just to have another look at him—but the pet shop was at least twenty minutes out of her way, and of course he wouldn’t be there at night.

And she was starving, having eaten nothing since a tomato sandwich at four, and a steak and kidney pie was waiting at home. She loved steak and kidney pie, admittedly not the most nutritious of dinners—precooked in a tin like that, God only knew what kind of meat you were getting—but terribly tasty. And so handy, just whip off the lid and pop the pie into the oven, ready in no time.

She increased her pressure slightly on the accelerator, causing her flowered skirt to billow out. She’d go there first thing in the morning and get him, she couldn’t wait. She’d go straight after her rashers and sausages breakfast.

And maybe a bit of white pudding.

James put the pint glass to his lips and took a deep swallow. As long as he had an hour off he may as well use it. Once he got home he’d be back to being Dad, who got precious few hours off.

So he was all signed up, he’d written his check for
€
90 and handed it over. He could always stop it in the morning, before the teacher had a chance to get to the bank. He could cancel the check and forget about fooling around with pencil and pad in the company of strangers for the next six weeks.

He drank again, feeling the stout coursing through him, relishing its pleasant malty taste. When had he been able to do this, could he even remember the last time he’d gotten away on his own, even for an hour?

Work didn’t count. He was never alone there; always someone around the office asking him questions he couldn’t answer, or telling him things he didn’t want to know. But he had to pretend, he had to make out it was where he wanted to be, otherwise they’d get rid of him, and he’d have nothing. He hated to acknowledge it, but the truth was he’d been lucky to get any job in the recession, even if it was one he despised. Better surely to be going out to work than sitting at home all day, trying to pass the time till Charlie finished school.

He glanced around the small pub. Two old men in the far corner, sitting side by side and saying not a word to each other. Another man on a stool at the counter, licking a thumb to flick through the pages of the
Carrickbawn Weekly News
. Not exactly the most exciting place on earth.

Which was fine by him: He hadn’t been looking for excitement when he’d applied for the estate agent’s job, when he’d uprooted Charlie and brought her here. As far as he was concerned, the less excitement Carrickbawn had to offer, the better. But after coping on his own with a six-year-old for over a month, James realized that he did need some sort of a break—and the drawing classes would probably be as good a way to achieve that as any.

He wouldn’t get involved, he’d keep his distance from the others. He’d speak if he was spoken to, but not otherwise. They’d get the message eventually, they’d leave him alone. And if they thought he was an unsociable so-and-so they’d be dead right, for that was exactly what he had become.

He checked his watch and saw that his hour of freedom was almost up. Better not push it, or Eunice might find a reason not to babysit in future. He drained his pint and left the pub.

“So,” said Pilar, spreading peanut butter on dark rye bread, “you join the artist class?”

“Yes.” Zarek slung his jacket on the radiator and took a carton of apple juice from the fridge. “I join.”

“That is good.” Pilar arranged banana slices carefully on top. “How many peoples?”

Zarek thought. “Three…no, four, and me.”

“Five people, small class.” Pilar cut the bread carefully into neat triangles. “You like some sandwich?”

“No, thank you.” Zarek poured juice into a glass, listening to the guitar music that wafted softly from the next room. A savory scent still hung in the air, echoes of the rabbit casserole the three of them had eaten earlier.

“I go to have bath,” Pilar announced, taking her supper with her. “I come out in half hour.”

“Okay,” Zarek replied. Left alone in the kitchen he leaned against the fridge and sipped his juice and let the music wash over him.

H
ow much is that doggy in the window?” Audrey tried to keep a straight face, and failed utterly.

The man behind the counter didn’t appear to see the joke. He studied Audrey over his steel-rimmed glasses. “You want to buy the pup?”

Audrey’s smile dimmed slightly. No doubt he’d heard the line before, but it cost nothing to be pleasant. Thank God she’d decided against singing it—she’d feel even more foolish now. But she had no intention of letting one dour man disturb her Saturday-morning good humor.

“Yes, I’d like to buy the pup,” she said, keeping her voice determinedly friendly. “He’s adorable—I’ve fallen totally in love with him.”

As soon as the words were out, it occurred to her that expressing such a sentiment might well hike up the dog’s price. It was probably a bit like raving over a house you went to view, so the estate agent knew you’d pay as much as you could possibly part with. Ah well, nothing to be done now.

The man continued to regard her as if she were a slightly irritating disturbance to his day. “He’s a she,” he said flatly, “and she’s fifty euro.”

Audrey’s mouth dropped open. She’d been prepared for twenty, thirty at a push. “But isn’t he—she—a mongrel?” she asked. “I mean, she’s gorgeous, but she’s not a…thoroughbred, or a pedigree or whatever it’s called, is she? I mean, she doesn’t look—”

“Fifty,” he repeated, lowering his head again to the newspaper that was spread open on the counter. “Take it or leave it.” He turned a page.

Audrey stood before him, feeling the last of her good humor dribbling away. Was he simply going to ignore her, just read his paper and pretend she wasn’t there?

She stood for another several seconds, looking down crossly at his thinning, greying hair. How rude. She should leave, forget the whole thing.

Only, of course, she couldn’t.

She turned and walked over to the window and crouched by the carrier. Its occupant began a frantic yapping at Audrey’s approach, tiny tail wagging furiously, her whole rear end wriggling, her small pink tongue darting at the fingers Audrey poked through the grille.

“Hello, sweetie,” Audrey said softly. The pup scrabbled at the grille, demanding to be released. Audrey yearned to open the carrier and gather the little creature into her arms, but decided against it. Who knew how that disagreeable shop assistant might react?

She returned to the counter. The man continued to read his paper. Audrey determined to stand there until he did something. He couldn’t ignore her forever.

The seconds ticked by. Audrey prickled with annoyance. Had he never heard of customer relations? How on earth did he manage to stay in business if he treated everyone this way?

Finally he raised his head and regarded her silently.

“I’ll take her,” Audrey said curtly, opening her bag. “Have you got a box?”

“Box?”

She was tempted to say,
You know, a container with four sides and a top, generally made of cardboard
. Really, his manner was appalling—​but she wasn’t going to stoop to his level. She was going to remain polite if it killed her.

“Yes, a box,” she replied evenly. “I’ll need some kind of container to bring her home in.” Probably charge her for that too.

He closed his newspaper without another word and disappeared through the rear door. Audrey was quite sure she was being overcharged—surely they gave mongrels away for nothing at any cats’ and dogs’ home—but what could she do? She’d fallen for this dog, and no other one would do. And by the looks of it, she’d be doing the poor animal a charity by rescuing her from this obnoxious man.

A minute went by. Audrey scanned the nearby shelves and saw tins of pet food and bird feeders and bags of peanuts and cat and dog toys. Maybe he liked animals more than humans, maybe that’s why he worked in a pet shop. She selected a single can of puppy food—just enough to do her until she got to the supermarket—and brought it to the counter.

She returned to the little dog, who set up a fresh burst of yapping at her approach. She lifted the carrier, which was surprisingly light, and held it up so she and the dog were eye-to-eye. “You’re coming home with me,” Audrey told her. “I’m taking you away from that horrible grumpy man.”

“I haven’t got a box.”

Audrey whirled, almost dropping her load. Had he heard? He must have. Impossible to tell from his distant expression, which hadn’t changed since she’d arrived. Oh, what did she care whether he’d heard or not?

“You can borrow the carrier,” he said shortly. “I’ll need it back on Monday.”

“Thank you,” Audrey said coolly. “May I ask how old she is?”

He shrugged. “Three months, give or take.”

Give or take what? Another month? Audrey gritted her teeth and waited while he scanned the tin of puppy food and totaled her purchases.

He took her money without comment. He’d probably never heard of “please” or “thank you,” but she made a point of thanking him clearly as he handed over her change. At least she could show him that one of them had manners.

To her surprise he walked ahead of her and held the door open. She nodded stiffly at him as she left, vowing not to return unless it was absolutely necessary. Of course she had to bring back his carrier, that couldn’t be avoided, but she’d simply deposit it on the counter and leave before he had time to annoy her.

The problem was, his was the only pet shop in Carrickbawn—​probably the sole reason for him still being in business​—so she wouldn’t have much choice if the supermarkets didn’t stock whatever she had to buy for her new pet.

Not that she was at all sure what she had to buy. There’d never been a dog or a cat in the house when Audrey was growing up. Neither of her parents had relished the idea of an animal around the place. She’d bought the pup on impulse, and hadn’t the first notion of how to look after her. She’d have to get a book—or better still, visit the vet as soon as she could; surely he’d answer any questions she might have. She’d make an appointment first thing on Monday.

In the meantime she had to come up with a name. She’d been considering “Bingo,” but that was when she’d assumed the pup was male, so she’d need to think again. Something nice and feminine; “Belle,” maybe, or “Daisy.”

And Audrey would let her sleep in the kitchen; that alcove beside the stove would be perfect if the log basket was moved behind the back door. She’d have to get a little pet bed, one of those nice furry ones. And a leash for walks, and her own pet carrier. The vet might sell things like that, if the supermarkets didn’t.

And a dish for food. Audrey could use her empty steak and kidney tin from last night until she got a proper one. Lots of things to think of, but where was the hurry? She raised the carrier until she and her new pet were eye-to-eye.

“I’m Audrey,” she said, and the little dog yapped back.

She lowered the carrier and turned onto her road, her good humor fully restored, humming “How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?”

Fifty euro. It had been well worth it.

Jackie had almost missed the ad. She would have missed it if she hadn’t gotten trapped behind the long-haired man, forced to wait while he dithered about watercolor pads until she was ready to scream. Twelve minutes already wasted out of her precious lunchtime hour, five of those spent rummaging through the paintbrush display, because the single assistant—one assistant, at the busiest time of the day—was too preoccupied behind the counter to help her.

“Would you mind awfully?” Jackie’s boss had asked. “I need them for my class this evening, and I’ve got nobody else to ask.” And what could Jackie do but agree to call by the art supply shop in her lunch hour to buy the forgotten brushes? To be fair, she’d been given a fiver for her trouble—“the least I can do is buy your sandwich,” her boss had said, and Jackie had silently agreed—​but what good was that if she was left with no time to eat it?

And as she’d stood silently fuming, the small card stuck to the shelf beside her had caught her eye.
Wanted
, she’d read,
Model for adult life drawing class. No prior experience necessary. Build immaterial, but must be over eighteen. Tuesdays 7:30–9:30. Relaxed atmosphere.

The handwriting was ridiculously round. All the
i
’s had a flower above them instead of a dot. A border of smiley faces marched around the card in various colors.

Artist’s model. Paid work, presumably. Money for sitting still. Nice work if you could get it. Life drawing, though—wasn’t that taking your clothes off? And this was an evening class, which meant not just one artist but lots of them, all looking at her. And not proper artists either—anyone at all could enroll in an evening class.

“Just these,” she’d said to the assistant when her turn had finally come. The brushes had been checked out and paid for, and then Jackie had stood aside while the woman behind her handed her purchases to the assistant.

On the other hand, it was only two hours a week—and she could use the money, with Eoin’s heart set on a Wii for Christmas. How hard could it be, taking your clothes off and striking a pose? All you needed was a bit of nerve, take a deep breath and just do it.

She’d walked back to the notice and read it again.
Build immaterial
—so you didn’t need the perfect figure, which in Jackie’s case was just as well. Tuesday evenings, she could manage that. Didn’t say where, but evening classes were usually held in the Senior College, weren’t they? She could tell her parents she’d enrolled in some other class, whatever else was on the same night.

Might even be a bit of a laugh, sprawled out on a blanket or whatever, like some kind of Greek goddess. She’d found a pen in her bag and scribbled the mobile phone number onto her hand. She could find out how much it paid anyway. She wasn’t committing herself to anything just by asking.

She’d bought her sandwich and gone back to the boutique, and plugged in the kettle in the little room behind the shop floor. While she waited for it to boil she’d called the number. The woman who answered had sounded nice.

“I’m the teacher,” she’d said. “Let’s meet up, and you can ask me all about it. I’ll wear an orange scarf so you’ll recognize me. What about tomorrow? I’m free anytime after eleven.”

“I work on Saturday, but I could meet you during my lunch hour,” Jackie had replied, so they’d arranged to meet at ten to twelve in the little café beside the post office, and here Jackie was, pushing open the door at nine minutes to twelve—and there was the teacher, orange scarf wrapped like a turban around her head, waving and smiling from her table by the wall.

“I guessed it was you,” she said, standing up and reaching out her hand as Jackie walked over. “You looked as if you were meeting someone, but weren’t sure who. I’m Audrey, and thank you so much for coming.”

She wasn’t someone you’d overlook, with bits of her hair tumbling out of the turban-scarf and her bright pink blouse and full green skirt. She was certainly colorful. But her hand was soft and plump, and her smile was genuine, and her voice was friendly and warm.

“Now,” she was saying, picking up the menu, “I fancy some cannelloni—what about you? My treat, of course.”

Jackie smiled. She could take her clothes off, she was suddenly sure she could. She’d look on it as an adventure, something slightly risqué to laugh about later.
I used to be an artist’s model
, she’d say, watching people’s reactions.

“Cannelloni sounds good,” she said.

As the shop door opened, Michael Browne glanced up and saw a teenage girl holding a small child by the hand.

“I’m closed,” he said, dumping the coin bags back into the drawer of the cash register and sliding it shut.

“The door was open,” she replied, taking a few steps towards him. “I’m not here to buy nothin’, I jus’ want to talk to you.”

Her accent was flat. Her grammar made him wince. He regarded her over his glasses. Maybe a bit older than a teenager, maybe twenty or twenty-one. Wearing the jeans they all wore, shapeless black top over it. Pale pinched face, looked like a square meal wouldn’t go amiss. Or a bath.

“If it’s money you’re after,” he said, “you can forget it.” She didn’t look as if she was hiding any kind of weapon, but you couldn’t be too careful. She could have a syringe up her sleeve, or there could be an accomplice waiting outside.

“I jus’ want to talk,” she repeated.

“In that case, talk to me on Monday. I told you I’m closed.” In future he’d turn the key at five to six.

She didn’t move. The child stood beside her, regarding Michael with enormous blank eyes. His red sweater was too small, and frayed at the waist.

“I’m closed,” Michael repeated loudly. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Look,” she said, “I jus’ want to tell you somethin’.”

Michael strode out from behind the counter. She barely came up to his shoulder. The child scuttled behind her.

“What bit of ‘I’m closed’ do you not understand?” Michael asked angrily, folding his arms. “It’s six o’clock and I’ve been here all day, and whatever you want can wait till Monday. Now get lost before I call the police.”

“You’re Ethan’s father,” she said rapidly, her pale eyes on his face.

Michael stopped dead, his arms stiffening across his chest. He stared back at her, feeling the blood rushing from his face.

“I had to come here,” she went on, the words falling over themselves now, as if his question had unleashed them. “I didn’t know where you lived, I jus’ knew this was your shop, Ethan told me. I waited till you were closin’ up.”

“How dare you mention my son,” Michael said quietly, dropping his arms and moving towards her, conscious of the child making some kind of a whimpering sound behind her. “How dare you say his name to me.”

She stepped backwards but continued to talk rapidly. “We were together,” she said, her eyes never leaving his face. “Me and Ethan. I saw you at the funeral.”

Michael stopped, his heart hammering in his chest. Knowing, abruptly, what was coming next. “Don’t—”

“He’s Ethan’s,” she said—and as the words left her mouth Michael strode past her and pulled the door open.