One-man Woman

by Jessica Ayre

  One night he had said, 'Tonight's the night, Jennie. It's time you were made a woman.' She had trembled in fear, but had followed him dutifully to the sofa. He had caressed her ritualistically and she had let him, retreating to her small secret place. As his fervour had mounted, he had gripped her fiercely, tearing open her blouse, kissing her over and over with growing brutality. Jennie had closed her eyes tightly against him and had lain there coolly impassive, not knowing how to quell her repulsion against this Max, so unlike the intelligent companion she liked and respected. After what seemed an eternity, he had sprung up in a rage, cursed her coldness, the way she had, he claimed, led him on. Riddled with guilt at her inability to touch the man she thought she loved, Jennie stilled his anger by pleading with him that she felt unwell, that she was frightened, tomorrow would be better.

  But the next night had been, if anything, worse. Her body had rebelled against her will, against him, in cool repulsion. 'You're just a frigid little tramp!' he had yelled at her, straightening his clothes with angry movements. 'A useless, sexless creature.' It was then that the doorbell had rung…

  Jennie shuddered and blocked the memory from her mind. She walked brusquely to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of cold milk, drinking it down in a rush. I need some exercise, she thought to herself, and fetching a jacket, she moved towards the door.

  In the corridor, she all but collided with an enormous bouquet of flowers. Behind it stood Derek.

  'Just in time.' He handed her the bouquet, his eyes glowing blue in his ruggedly bronzed face. 'With my humblest apologies,' he smiled at her warmly. 'I don't want you to go around thinking that I make a habit of forcing myself on defenceless damsels… even if they aren't quite defenceless,' he added wryly.

  Jennie flushed, mumbling embarrassed thanks, and then as she unwrapped the bouquet on her way back into the flat, exclaimed, 'Oh, they're beautiful, simply beautiful!' A blaze of colours burst from the paper: daffodils, tulips, irises, anemones, stocks, masses of spring flowers, greeted her, warmed her. Her pleasure illuminated her face.

  'I'm forgiven, then?' Derek took her hand and held it for a moment.

  She nodded, feeling his fingertips burn into her and almost tighten her smile.

  He looked at her appreciatively. 'With that smile, you're as radiant as the flowers. Until Italy, then.' He released her hand, a flicker of mockery on his face. 'I may not feel quite so humble in those pagan climes.'

  Jennie watched him leave, gazed at his lithe walk across the room, and stood watching still as if mesmerised, after the door had closed behind him.

  She roused herself to look for vases, bottles in which to place the flowers, and as she carefully arranged them to best effect, she was acutely aware of the imprint his body had left against hers, the searching power of his lips. Her hands shook and she hurried her task, placing the vases randomly here and there on all spare surfaces. Colour and scent filled the flat, transforming it into a springtime garden. Jennie looked around, reached for a jacket and went out, away from the presence the flowers embodied, intent now on the exercise she had promised herself.

  She unlocked her bicycle and carried it out to the street. Then she pushed off, cycling randomly, letting the streets guide her where they would. It was another bright day and the sun gently warmed Jennie's back. The Sunday streets were almost free of traffic, so she allowed herself the luxury of breathing deeply. Some time back she had read of the disastrous effects of cycling in a city where the lead content in the air was disproportionately high. So she had tutored herself to breathe shallowly in traffic, knowing perfectly well that it made little difference. But today was special.

  Finding herself in the vicinity of the Hayward Gallery, she thought she might have a stroll through the new exhibition of British art. Given that she would be away for a while, it might be her only opportunity to see the exhibit and she was curious to know what work the panel of notables thought worthy of exhibition. She rolled her bicycle along the Embankment, looking into the grey waters of the Thames. Children were busy on roller skates and skateboards performing extravagant feats to a casual audience of strolling spectators. Their antics enlivened the sombre concrete facade of the arts complex and almost made its heavy solemnity inviting.

  Jennie parked her bicycle in a rack, then climbed up the winding staircase to the gallery. She bought a ticket and browsed for a few moments in the bookstall. A book on the future of modern art caught her eye. It would keep her company on the plane journey, she thought, and purchased it. She then made her way slowly through the exhibition. Oils large and small, some with visible figures, others coded in the language of abstraction; constructions of fabric, of wood, of aluminium; life-size plastic figures encased in transparent balloons confronted her. Not much that she immediately liked, but the sheer variety filled her with exuberance. It was as if the panel had determined to have one work of every kind, rather than trying to impose some sense of a British school or trend on the exhibition.

  She caught sight of some familiar brushwork and looked more closely at the small oil in front of her. Max. He had made it at last. Not very impressive, she thought to herself as she studied the painting carefully. She chuckled, happy to find that she could, and a little surprised that this confrontation with something Max had made should provoke no turmoil in her.

  Jennie walked on into the next room. At the far corner, a strikingly handsome couple caught her attention: the man, tall, broad-shouldered, with his arm protectively round the woman's shoulders which were buried in a mass of vibrant auburn curls. They stood so still Jennie thought at first they might be one of the exhibits, placed so that they could only be seen from behind. But as she approached, she saw the woman turn a languorous profile towards the man.

  Jennie stopped in her tracks. Of course, it was Daniela, and the man she was looking up to with such a delicious tilt to her chin was Derek Hunter. Jennie could feel a tight knot forming in her stomach and moving up to choke her. She made to retrace her steps, but it was too late. A throaty voice rose above the hushed murmurs in the room. 'Jennie, Jennie, come and say hello!'

  Jennie walked slowly towards the couple, trying to still her speeding pulse. She put a bright smile on her lips and kept it there tightly as Daniela moved to embrace her and kiss her on both cheeks. 'How lovely to meet you by chance like this! I didn't know you were interested in such things.' She made a sweeping gesture with her arm.

  Jennie kept her smile bright and her eyes focussed away from Derek. 'Oh, but I am.'

  She heard Derek chuckle. 'Didn't you know, Daniela, that Jennie is a painter?'

  Jennie caught the mocking glint in his eye as his smile warmly acknowledged her presence.

  'A painter? But, Jennie, that's wonderful! Why didn't you ever tell me?' She looked suspiciously from Derek to Jennie and back again. 'I'll never understand you English with your secret ways.' She shrugged her shoulders in exaggerated fashion. 'But now that you're here and I discover—a little late, e vero?—' she added wryly, 'that you're a painter, you might give us some professional insight into all this.'

  Jennie tried to think of some valid excuse to absent herself. But it was hopeless. She knew that once Daniela had set her mind on something, there was no stopping her. Derek, she noticed, seemed to be enjoying her plight, her obvious embarrassment. A wide smile suffused his rugged features and his eyes twinkled mischievously.

  'What can be better than one lovely lady but a second? Don't know how I'll concentrate on those pictures,' he grinned, 'though perhaps we might have a closer look at that rather voluptuous nude over there to fix my mind on art.'

  Jennie's temper flared. She wanted to lash out at his contempt, but she stopped herself, suddenly thinking of a better ploy. If they wanted professional insight, they would get it until boredom besieged them.

  'That "voluptuous nude"? Oh, but Derek, you're quite wrong, she's merely a traditional form, used here as part of a composition to balance the weight and density…' and Jennie proceeded to an
alyse the technical aspects of the canvas at interminable length. She could see the smile on Daniela's face growing rigid and then melting into a yawn, at which point Jennie stopped.

  'Oh, I'm sorry. I can see I must be boring you.' She looked up at Derek, mischievous herself now.

  'Not at all,' he countered, 'I'm thoroughly impressed. Couldn't have done better myself. God knows, at this rate I may even commission you to do a nude,' he paused significantly as Jennie felt a flush coming to her face, 'of Daniela here.' He put his hand on her shoulder.

  'I'm not accepting commissions at the moment,' Jennie said icily.

  'Oh, Derek, stop making Jennie uncomfortable. I'm sure she only paints what she wants to paint,' Daniela intervened, a distinct note of irritation in her voice as she took in the attention Derek was paying Jennie.

  'I stand corrected.' Derek bowed with mock formality to the two women. 'May I treat you two ladies to some coffee as a sign of my good faith?' He threw Jennie a serious searching glance.

  'No,' Jennie responded too quickly, and then tempered her abruptness. 'I want to see the rest of the show and then I have to get back.'

  'I'm sure Jennie is busy with her own friends.' Daniela eyed her coldly. 'Arrivederci! See you tomorrow, Jennie.' She turned to Derek and began speaking to him in Italian as he nodded goodbye.

  Jennie walked as quickly as politeness permitted in the opposite direction. She felt dismissed, like an awkward schoolgirl, though the emotion made little sense since leaving had been of her own choice. Of course, it was clear to her now that Derek and Daniela were having an affair. The actress didn't hide it. And Jennie was the third, unwanted party, except for some momentary curiosity on Daniela's part. But then what was Derek doing following her, invading her with his presence, pursuing her? She stood absently in front of a vast canvas and grew hot and cold in turn as she remembered the pressure of his lips. Was that simple curiosity too for the writer-detective?

  She turned on her heel, anger giving colour to her pale cheeks. The exhibition had been ruined for her. A plaything, that was what she was. The thought rankled and she strode unseeingly through the rooms and out of the door. Mounting her bicycle, she pedalled ferociously homewards. Work. It would be far better to work than to subject herself to all this.

  She clambered up the stairs to her flat, still enraged. As she neared her door, she stopped and involuntarily let out a gasp. A grey bedraggled figure was hovering in the hallway. Jennie slowed her pace and tried to gain a grip on her nerves. Definitely not my day, she muttered to herself.

  'Hello, Jennie, I've been waiting for you,' the form looked towards her. 'I thought it was time I paid my beloved stepdaughter a Sunday visit.'

  Jennie cringed as the form planted a wet breathy kiss on her forehead. The sickly sweet smell of stale beer encompassed her.

  'Hello, Harry,' she said, moving back a step and noting the falsely sentimental smile on the vein-cracked face.

  'You're looking well, Jennie. Life at the television studios must be good.'

  Jennie shrugged and opened the door to her flat.

  Harry whistled as he preceded her through the door. He glanced at her slyly. 'Got yourself a new admirer, then?'

  Jennie looked at the bright flowers which filled every corner of the room and smiled despite herself. She had forgotten about them and they were lovely. That, after all, had been kind of Derek.

  Her stepfather took in her look. 'So I'm right, then? But no funny business, or I'll have to move in and protect you.'

  The hint of menace in his voice was real, and Jennie forced herself to pay no attention to his comment. 'Would you like some tea, Harry?'

  'Something more substantial, lass, if you can. I'm a trifle hungry,' his tone was pleading now.

  Jennie nodded. 'I'll just ask Mrs Owen over and she can keep you company while I do the cooking.'

  She closed the door momentarily behind her with a sigh of relief. She really was blessed to have Mrs Owen as a neighbour. The old lady had happened to come in once during one of her stepfather's unwanted visits and Jennie had noticed that she didn't seem to mind his company. She chatted on as sunnily as ever and it saved Jennie the trouble of being civil.

  Jennie's stepfather had come back into her life some few years ago. She pushed the memory of the actual event hurriedly from her mind. His appearance had been totally unexpected. She had heard nothing of him or from him since that distant past when he had deposited her at her aunt's home. And then, all at once, there he was, a weak bullying man, often too full of drink, who had moved from odd job to odd job until nothing was left but the dole queue. It was then that the thought of his stepdaughter must have come to his mind and he sought out Jennie's aunt to discover Jennie's whereabouts.

  Once discovered, Jennie was at the mercy of his irregular visits. He would drop in about once a month, sometimes more, without warning. She would feed him and usually succeed in chasing him away only with a 'loan' which he promised to repay in some distant future. Jennie knew little about his life between visits and didn't want to know more. She felt this derelict of a man had nothing to do with her, but for the accident of his brief marriage to her mother so many years ago. In a childish way, she associated him with her mother's death; and though she occasionally pitied him, she dreaded his visits. He filled her with a deep, almost uncontrollable sense of shame, and she felt she would rather disappear altogether than have any of her professional colleagues see him as associated—however tenuously—with her. It was his presence she had grown to fear whenever she returned home, the one dark note in what had become an acceptable life.

  Mrs Owen was only too pleased to make a visit.

  'Oh, Jennie, duck!' she exclaimed as she walked into the flower-filled flat, 'how beautiful!—Mr Richards, isn't it simply beautiful, all these flowers?' she greeted Jennie's stepfather and paused by an overladen vase to sniff. 'Did you bring these for Jennie? No? Well then, I know exactly who it was. That handsome Mr Hunter,' she looked up at Jennie, a knowing smile on her lips. 'And so kind too.' She beamed at the two of them and around the room, her face crinkling into a thousand lines.

  'You must have some to take back with you. There are far too many for this small space. I won't be able to breathe tonight.'

  'Nonsense, dear. But if you insist I will have some, just a few,' she smiled her delight. 'No one has brought me flowers for a very long time.' She turned towards Jennie's stepfather and sat down gingerly at the edge of the sofa. 'Well then, Mr Richards, how has life been treating you these fine spring days?'

  'Not so bad, Mrs Owen, not so bad, except for a touch of the old rheumatism.'

  Jennie left them to exchange their traditional list of aches and went into her tiny kitchen. She took some bacon, eggs, and cheese out of the fridge and set herself to chopping up salad. The sound of Harry's voice from the next room set her nerves on edge. It never failed to, she realised, even when he was at his most charming and amenable. She chopped at an onion aggressively, feeling the sharp smell rise to her nostrils and prickle her eyes.

  Suddenly the memory of that night came flooding back to her. It refused to be barred, to be blocked out in the way she had successfully managed for some time now.

  She had been lying there rigid as Max reproached her, abused her, all the while tugging at his tie and pulling on his jacket with a frightening vehemence. The doorbell had rung just as he had finished placing his rimless spectacles on his nose. He had given her a scathing contemptuous look under which she could feel her skin shrivel and then he had marched straight out without so much as a glance at the stranger at the door with whom he all but collided.

  Jennie had been too stunned to move as this bleary-eyed stranger approached her bed and began to rail in his turn. 'Fine goings-on for a daughter of mine!' he had shouted, and then proceeded to vilify her in language such as she had rarely heard. Jennie had been so confused, so frightened, that she barely had the presence of mind to tidy her blouse or ask who this stranger was. Then, gradually, as she h
ad made this out from his jumbled monologue, her horror had mounted. She couldn't call for the police, she could hardly even bring herself to move, though she was panic-stricken as to what this man who called himself her stepfather might do in his obviously drunken state. So she sat there, as still as she could, waiting for the tirade to stop. And it did. After what seemed like hours, Harry had passed out on the tiny sofa. The next morning, he seemed hardly to remember what had happened, not even to be terribly clear as to where he was. His tone was humble and bullying by turns, and Jennie had finally rid herself of him by giving him some money and insisting that there was no way he could stay in the bedsitter without her being turned out.

  She had gone off to classes like a sleepwalker, not knowing quite what else to do with herself. And when she had seen Max, he had cut her completely, not even acknowledging her presence. He had done so continually until Jennie could bear no more. Night after night, she cried herself to sleep. She couldn't believe Max's silence, the pain; and on top of it she dreaded her stepfather's imminent return, avoided going home until as late as possible. Her stepfather had taken on gigantic proportions in her imagination and a voice which in its railing was confused with the Max of that night. Together they formed a joint presence which derided her and blamed her.

  Finally, after weeks of inaction, she had picked herself up, moved temporarily to a student hostel and looked around for a flat. She had stopped going to classes. The possibility of seeing this cold, strange Max who ignored her was too great. Not knowing quite what to do with herself, she had started helping out with odd jobs at a local fringe theatre where a fellow student worked.

  She found in those long bleak months that she had a talent for make-up work and she determined to do it seriously. She also determined, though she never voiced it to herself as such, that she would take herself in hand; build some kind of order out of the shambles of her life and not allow anyone to intrude on her again. She had begun to insulate herself against men, taking Max, her teacher's definition of her frigidity to heart.