One-man Woman

by Jessica Ayre

  'I will,' she said tentatively, 'when I'm ready.'

  He bowed almost imperceptibly, raised an ironical eyebrow at her obvious hesitation and walked away.

  The next day she asked her supervisor whether she could take two of her holiday weeks soon. They were granted, and Jennie set up a rigorous routine for herself, drowning herself in work. She painted with a ferocity she had never before experienced; forcing herself to leave her easel only for an imposed daily walk which incorporated shopping for Mrs Owen.

  The summer sun set late outside her window and when the dark made further work impossible, she toppled into bed, her dreams filled only with colour. Once or twice a particular painting would bring Derek back to her, standing tall in golden light, but she forced his image aside, relegating it to that knot of anger which seemed to coil eternally within her.

  When her holiday period was over she looked around her room critically, eyeing the canvases she had completed. Not too bad, she thought, trying to be objective. She rang Dorian Biddell and made an appointment to see him. Days at the studio whistled past until the appointed time arrived. Jennie had arranged to have slides taken of what she considered her best canvases and armed with these, a small painting and a bookful of drawings, she approached the gallery. A sense of trepidation suddenly overtook her. If Dorian Biddell was scathing about her work, it would send her back down the slippery path to despair. Perhaps it would be better to carry on just as she was.

  Jennie flung her shoulders back, tried a confident smile and strode into the gallery. It was too late to turn back now. She was shown into a little office at the back of the large gallery space. Dorian Biddell sat behind a large desk, warm with the texture of mahogany. He was on the telephone and he gestured for Jennie to sit down. She looked at him from beneath lowered lids. His face beneath the steely grey eyes was severe, but there was a sensuous turn to the mouth, a flare to the nostrils that suggested, Jennie suddenly thought, a cruel sensuality. She sat stiffly, waiting for his conversation to finish.

  After what seemed an interminable time he turned to her, his eyes slightly mocking as he took in her obvious nervousness.

  'I see you've decided to take up the challenge.' His words seemed to ring with a double significance.

  'If you mean the challenge of my work, yes,' Jennie managed a cool reply.

  His eyes flickered over her long legs, moving slowly up her body. At last, a gravelly chuckle came from his throat. 'Right, let's have a look at the work, then.' His eyes were amused.

  Stiffly she handed him the boxful of slides. He dropped the slides one by one into a projector that stood on a small table by his desk. 'Anything you'd like to show me before I dim the lights?' His tone was provocative.

  Jennie passed him the canvas and sketch book. He took his time, looking at the work critically, saying nothing. His face was serious now. Without a pause, he moved to draw a blind and flicked on the projector. Larger than life, Jennie's paintings appeared on a smooth white wall.

  'Give me an idea of scale as we go along,' he said tersely.

  As the images focussed on the wall, one by one, Jennie named measurements. When there were no more, he moved to pull up the blind, still saying nothing. Jennie sat tensely, suddenly gripped with an urge to bite her fingernails, like a little girl confronted by an examination.

  At last he spoke, his eyes reflective on her face. 'They're good. I would say promising, but they're just a little better than that.'

  He buzzed his secretary asking her to bring in some coffee. 'Or something a little stronger, if you'd like?'

  Jennie shook her head. 'Coffee would be lovely.' She was still tense, anxious for his final decision, though a small seed of hope was growing in her.

  While they waited for coffee, Dorian Biddell made small talk, drawing her out about herself, her education. Finally, when the coffee was before them, he said abruptly, 'Well, I think I can find room for you in a group show in about eight months' time.'

  A smile of elation broke over Jennie's face. Six months in the gallery world was like tomorrow.

  He returned her smile. 'But before I can make a definite decision, I'll have to see the work face to face. Arrange a date with my secretary on your way out.'

  She almost skipped out of the room, not knowing how to thank him.

  'Don't thank me,' he said. 'I'll get my cut—and a substantial one at that. In any case,' he let his eyes glide over her again provocatively, 'it's good to meet something more than a pretty face.'

  Jennie flushed, thanked him again, arranged an appointment with his coolly blonde secretary and walked out into the street. She suddenly wished she could ring Derek and tell him the news. Somehow, despite everything, she knew it would please him.

  Dorian Biddell arrived at her flat promptly at eleven the following Saturday morning. Jennie had tidied up nervously, dressed with care, bought fresh coffee.

  'I hope you realise that I don't usually make visits like this on a Saturday morning,' he said by way of greeting. 'But my secretary told me you were busy at work at all other times.' He looked over the small flat critically. 'Haven't you got a man to take care of you so you could devote more time to painting?'

  Jennie's cheeks burned. 'I prefer to take care of myself,' she muttered.

  'So be it,' he glanced at her ironically. 'But how you expect to make a living out of painting if you have no time to paint…' he shook his head in humorous disdain.

  She brought in some coffee and biscuits and then began to show him the paintings, standing each on the easel by turn. Again, he said nothing as he looked, carefully now, examining the canvases close up and from a distance. Then he selected five from the series.

  'These are the ones we'll show,' he said. 'Have you got any other work I can look at?'

  Jennie protested with pleas that it wasn't good enough. But he insisted, and she brought out some earlier canvases.

  'That's interesting,' he said, as she accidentally pulled out the painting inspired by Derek, the two floating masks. She made to put it away, but he stopped her, looking at the painting closely. 'Have you done any more in that vein?'

  She shook her head, wanting desperately to put the canvas away.

  He looked at her reflectively. 'Well, you might consider pursuing it. I wouldn't mind having that one for the gallery's own collection.'

  'It's not for sale,' she said tersely.

  'I see,' his eyes filled with amusement. 'Oh, these women artists and their love affairs!'

  Jennie felt like slapping him hard, but restrained herself and put the canvas roughly back into its place.

  'Right. How about letting me buy you some lunch now, and afterwards we can discuss terms.'

  'Yes, all right.' Jennie felt a little vague as he ushered her into his sleek Mercedes. Seeing that canvas had suddenly brought Derek into her mind with a jolting intensity. She thought she had mastered his memory, and now, there it all was again, that longing mixed with pain, like an open wound in her side. Would she ever be rid of it?

  She forced herself to concentrate on Dorian Biddell's conversation. He was telling her about the other artists she would be showing with. In the midst of it all, he said, 'You might get yourself a telephone, young lady. Leap into the modern world, with your dawning fame.'

  'Yes,' Jennie said, embarrassed. 'I've been planning to.'

  He took her to an informal little restaurant in Chelsea. 'If you look around, you may spot one or two of your favourite painters.'

  Her eyes widened and he laughed, his mouth curling sensuously.

  'Come with me to an opening next week and I'll introduce you round,' his eyes danced over her fragile face with its finely etched bones. 'Only, of course, if you promise not to forget who brought you.' He placed a finger under her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes which held an unspoken invitation.

  Jennie tried to stop herself from stiffening, but he was perspicacious enough to notice her response.

  'Suit yourself, young lady. But the invitation sta
nds.' He turned his attention to the menu and they ate. Jennie found herself picking up details about the art world she had never contemplated before. It had a sordidness to it that contradicted all her illusions about the purity of artistic practice, but she knew she would have to face the facts sooner or later. Dorian Biddell was a good teacher and the arrangements he proposed for the sale of her paintings were fair, though in her heart she knew she didn't care. It was the dawning sense of somehow having tumbled into being a professional that excited her. And the excitement fed her almost, though perhaps not quite so much, she realised, as had that cold rage against Derek.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next day was a Sunday and as sunlight streamed into her room around the edges of the curtains, Jennie got up with a lightheartedness which she could barely remember. She hummed to herself as she moved round the flat, brewed coffee and in a celebratory mood, prepared a hot breakfast. I'll take Colin out to lunch, she thought, as she munched crisp strands of bacon and soaked up the gold of her egg with a thick slice of toast. She felt ravenous and the colours on her plate filled her with delight. Finding some dance music on the radio, she all but waltzed out of her flat to knock on Mrs Owen's door. The good news would cheer her. If only Derek had been there to share it with too! She remembered the way he had introduced her as a famous English painter to the Italian woman and stilled a sharp pang which seemed to cut her in half, forcing herself to put the smile back on her face.

  'You look like a new person, Jennie,' the old lady said. 'I was beginning to worry about you.'

  'I've got an exhibition coming up!' Jennie sang the words and danced the laughing Mrs Owen into her flat to give her a cup of coffee.

  Mrs Owen beamed as Jennie filled her in on events. 'I shall take you to the opening personally,' she promised.

  'And what a sight I'll make!' Mrs Owen chuckled, preening herself like some young coquette.

  Jennie left her drinking coffee and went off to get dressed. No sketching today, no bicycle, she thought, but I'll find Colin in any case. On a whim, she put on the dress she had bought for Colin's opening, matched it with large earring hoops and bangles and feeling like some outlandish gypsy went to show herself off to Mrs Owen.

  'You look quite delectable, my dear. Are you off somewhere special?'

  Jennie giggled, 'Yes, Green Park.'

  A knock on the door startled her out of her good humour.

  'Oh no!' she breathed. 'Just what I didn't need!'

  Sure enough, there stood Harry, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

  'I thought I might pay you a Sunday visit.' He looked at her, entreaty in his eyes.

  'Come in, Harry.' Jennie tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. Then, with a flash of inspiration, 'I've got to be off, but I'm sure Mrs Owen will be happy to entertain you. There's coffee ready.'

  Mrs Owen winked at her. 'Of course I will, my dear. Off with you now and I'll take care of Mr Richards.'

  Jennie found Colin in his habitual place. Throwing her arms around him, she told him the good news. 'And I'm taking you off to celebrate,' she tugged playfully at his arm.

  'All too ready to comply,' he grinned. 'Where are you going to abduct me to?'

  'I haven't the vaguest idea. Let's just stroll and we're bound to find something.'

  They did, a jolly little French restaurant where they feasted on juicily tender fillets, paper-thin chips, a bottle of good Macon and more raspberry tart than Jennie could finish.

  'Back to the family now,' Jennie grimaced as she sipped the last of her wine.

  Colin raised his eyebrows. 'Didn't know you had a family.'

  'Don't really. But there's a long-lost stepfather who occasionally turns up and I imagine he's sitting in my flat right now with my dear old neighbour. I left them so I could come and find you.' Jennie marvelled at the ease with which she had come out with all this.

  Things had obviously changed in her.

  Colin smiled. 'Well, off you go, then. Give me a ring and we can meet during the week.'

  Jennie promised she would and made her way slowly homewards on Sunday buses.

  She opened the door to her flat, calling out merrily, 'Hello, everyone!' then stopped short. The blood drained out of her face, leaving her dizzy, clinging to the door frame.

  'Hello, dear,' Mrs Owen called back. 'Just look who's come to visit!'

  On the sofa next to Mrs Owen sat Derek. He rose as Jennie came in. She had forgotten his height, his strong jaw which tensed as he questioned her glance. Her heart set up a mad pounding. She wanted to run from the room, or better still, melt into invisibility against the wall.

  He walked towards her, lithe, catlike as ever. Yet his face, under the burnished mass of hair, looked gaunt as he bent to kiss her lightly on the cheek. She clenched her fists, stood taut against him. The clean masculine smell of him rose to her nostrils, making her pulse clamour, exposing her nerves.

  'Hello, Jennie,' his voice was low. 'These kind people invited me in to wait for you.'

  'Did they?' Her voice bristled. She was suddenly furious at the frenzy he set up in her.

  'I came to look for you in the Park—I remembered the Sunday ritual. But you weren't there, so I came along here.'

  She glanced at him, so aware of his animal proximity she was unable to trust her voice.

  'You're looking very pretty.' His eyes flickered over her and his voice broke huskily.

  A nervous hush fell over the room and Mrs Owen stepped in to break it. 'There's some fresh tea, Jennie. Come and sit down here and I'll pour you some.' She rose to give Jennie her place on the sofa. 'I've just been telling Derek the good news about the exhibition, though I couldn't remember the name of the gallery.'

  'It's wonderful news, Jennie, I'm so pleased for you. We can celebrate tonight, if you like. I've got the elders' permission.' He smiled at Harry and Mrs Owen.

  'You might ask for my permission as well.' Jennie's voice was sharp.

  'I promise you the best dinner London can offer.'

  'Oh, do go, Jennie,' Mrs Owen burst in before Jennie had a chance to respond. 'I'll take care of Harry.'

  'I wouldn't refuse the best dinner in town.' Harry rolled his eyes and rubbed his stomach obscenely.

  'I'm not hungry. Perhaps Derek can take you out.'

  She could see the glint of anger coming into his eyes. But his voice was controlled and contained a plea.

  'Very well, we can go for a walk, dancing if you like. Come on, Jennie, we need to talk.' He directed the full force of his eyes on her.

  'I can't imagine what we have to say to each other after all this time.' All the resentment she had nurtured over the last months flashed from her eyes.

  Derek took it. 'I deserve that, I guess. I know I've left it rather late, but Jennie, I need to talk to you—alone,' he pre-empted her next remark.

  Jennie knew it was a losing battle. She could hear her heart beating wildly, was afraid everyone could.

  'I'll be ready in a few minutes,' she managed to say coldly before flouncing into her room.

  She leaned against the door, keeping it firmly shut behind her, and breathed deeply. Panic seemed to be rising in her. Now that he was here, what would she do? She couldn't let him set her life askew again. Keep cool, Jen, she counselled her image. And just to show him she didn't care, wasn't impressed by his favours, she decided not to change, only cursorily running a brush through her hair.

  'I'm ready,' she announced in a cold voice as she emerged from her room. She avoided Derek's eyes, and turned instead to Harry.

  'Shut the door properly behind you when you go,' she said, hoping he would take the hint and leave her alone for the night, to cry in peace.

  Derek's car was parked in front of the block of flats—a silver-grey BMW. Elegant without being ostentatious, Jennie found herself noting randomly.

  He slipped in beside her and reached for her hand. She pulled it away jerkily, as if his touch were deadly, and sat as near her door as she could without toppling ou
t.

  He grimaced, the muscles in his neck growing taut. 'I deserve that too, I guess. But don't provoke me too far, Jennie.' His voice held a threat.

  'And don't use that tone of voice on me, or I'll get out right here!'

  He pulled the car from the kerb just as she reached for the handle. Suddenly he laughed throatily. 'Still the same old Jennie!'

  'No thanks to you.' Her voice was thick with hostility.

  'I don't know,' he threw her an ironical glance. 'Perhaps you should say thanks to me. Unless something has changed in the interim.'

  A flush mounted in her face, making her ears ring. Her eyes brimmed poison. 'You arrogant bastard!' the words burst from her.

  He chuckled. 'That's what they all say!'

  'Well, go to the rest of them, then,' she lashed out at him. 'And leave me alone!' The beating in her head seemed to cloud her eyes and she looked ahead blindly. She could sense his fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly.

  'But it's you I want, Jennie,' his voice was almost inaudible when it came, 'with all your deeply guarded secrets.'

  She didn't know whether she had heard him or simply imagined his words. She stared fixedly ahead, so keenly aware of his presence that there was no need to look at him. With all her forces mustered against him, she could still feel him drawing her towards him, as if his body were a magnetic pole and she some little fragment of metal clutter.

  'Where are you taking me?' she asked at last, her voice coming from a great distance.

  'I'm kidnapping you.'

  'No one will bother to pay the ransom.'

  'I'll collect that in my own way,' he teased.

  But she didn't respond, feeling suddenly drained of all energy. Derek parked the car by the side of a leafy square. Children's voices rang merrily from somewhere in its midst. Derek turned to her, and she took in the blue of his eyes, so reminiscent of the sea, and knew her resistance was weakening. He took her hand now and she didn't struggle, simply let it lie there like a tame animal. He stroked her hair, noted the pallor of her face, its almost awesome fragility against the riotous colours of her dress.