by Bryony Doran
‘So, how are you approaching it?’ he asks.
She notes his suspicious tone. ‘I’m doing a series of life studies.’
‘Back on the same old nugget.’
‘It’s what I do.’
‘It’s what I do,’ he mimics. ‘What makes you so bloody cocky? You’re good, I’ll give you that, but where do you get this supreme confidence from that you can pull it off. All the others in your year are pestering me night and day. What if you really mess up? You won’t have time to do anything else.’
Out of the corner of her eye she has seen Dan enter the canteen. He has a stupid smirk on his face, just because Alex is sitting with her. She wishes he wouldn’t wear his dreadlocks in that stupid hair band; it doesn’t suit him at all.
‘Please Alex, just trust me. I’m not going to mess up. Okay?’
He bends across the table towards her. ‘I’ll go along with you on one condition.’
‘What?’ She is weary of him now, weary of the whole subject. She wishes he would just go away. Dan is sitting down, still smirking. When Alex gets up to go, she’ll go with him. That’ll really piss him off. Wipe the smirk off his face.
‘You keep on modelling for me.’
She crosses her arms and scowls across at him, ‘That’s not fair. I need to be working on my own stuff now.’
‘For Christ’s sake, it’s only a few hours. Cut down on your waitressing job. I’m sure they don’t pay you as well as I do.’
‘No, but I enjoy working there.’
He glances at his watch and stands up. ‘It’s not all in charcoal is it? That’s not why you’re hiding it from me?’
‘What?’ She is exasperated. Can’t this man just leave her in peace?
‘Your work.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Right. I’ll go and see the dwarf man. Now there was a man who knew how to use colour: Toulouse-Lautrec.’
‘Is there an exhibition on? God! I’d love to see his work.’
‘No, an old film,’ he checks his watch again, ‘in thirty minutes. Flick wanted to come but now she can’t. I hate going to the cinema on my own.’
‘Just leave your raincoat at home and you’ll be okay,’ she laughs.
‘And there was me going to ask if you wanted Flick’s ticket.’
It would be a good idea to go, she thinks. After all, it was the photos of Toulouse-Lautrec that had inspired her in the first place, given her the courage to pursue Edward. It seems like a lifetime ago, that day in the library. She should go. It might give her another angle. ‘How long’s it on for?’
He gets out a cigarette and taps it on the box. ‘It finishes today.’
‘Flick’s not going to the flicks, eh?’ She smiles at her own joke. ‘Would I have to sit with you?’
He looks down his nose at her, ‘I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.’
After the cinema, Alex gives her a lift back to her house. He leans forward, encasing the steering wheel with his arms, ‘Now this would be a good opportunity for me to come in and look at your work.’
‘I thought we had a deal.’
‘You’re going to sit for me then?’
She opens the car door, ‘I’m going.’
‘Thanks for the film, Alex,’ he mimics, ‘very enjoyable, that.’
‘It was, thanks.’ She starts to shut the door.
‘Ange!’
At first she is tempted to close it and pretend she hasn’t heard. ‘What?’
‘Give me your number then I can ring you about the modelling.’
She rattles off the number and closes the door, watches his car lights tracing the terrace opposite. She takes out her key and then, changing her mind, wanders down the road looking in other people’s windows.
They had discussed the film over a pint of Guinness in the foyer bar. She had been fascinated by Alex’s depth of knowledge, his passion for the man’s work.
At first she’d been disappointed in the film. She thought it would be a film of Toulouse-Lautrec’s work, and it was, partly, but mostly it showed the man and his life and his desperate pursuit of love, even if it meant losing his dignity and degrading himself. Her stomach twists as she remembers him, pitiful in his deformity, begging for each small crumb of human comfort. Was it his deformity that made her pity him? Or was it his utter loneliness. If she had known him, how would she have treated him? Would she have pitied him? But how could she, if she admired his work so much? She thinks of Edward. She wonders, would she pity him if one day he begged her to love him. But that would never happen. Edward, unlike Toulouse-Lautrec, had dignity.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
‘34B.’ has been ringing in his head all weekend. He tries a mix of other numbers and letters ‘38C’, ‘36F’, but none of them have the same ring about them as ‘34B’. He imagines standing outside an old house converted into flats, an illuminated plaque saying ‘34B’, Miss A. O’Donnell’, and him pressing the button at the side of her name, hearing the bell echo up the stairwell. The opening of an internal door. Expectant footsteps thundering down the stairs. A key turning … and she would be there, looking out into the darkness … but his courage would have failed him once again.
He shakes his head and closes the book he has open on his desk. Is he going daft? At lunchtime he will have to get out for some fresh air. He looks out of the window and wonders if the weather will hold. He will walk along Surrey Street, cross over onto Pinstone Street and wander up to Barker’s Pool and his mother’s favourite department store. He has never studied ladies underwear before.
He will get the lift to the top floor, he thinks, as he passes in through the automatic doors. He will then work his way down through the store on the escalator to see if he can spot the ladies underwear section. He passes through the perfume section. The women behind the counters don’t accost him. They don’t see him as a man who would buy perfume for his lady. Just a bra, he smiles to himself.
Top floor: electrical equipment, a wall of televisions all with the same faces, the same people talking. Next floor: carpets, sumptuous rugs and then, the ladies-wear section. To the right he sees the underwear section: matching knickers and bras on individual hangers, negligees as flimsy as candyfloss. He hesitates on the wooden walkway that will take him there. There is an aura about the whole section like a mist of secrecy. He turns and puts his foot on the down escalator.
He rides it to the basement, and the men’s section. It is a long time since he has been down here. He studies the jackets. A young man approaches him.
‘Would Sir like to try anything on?’
‘And how, Sir, do you propose to get one of these jackets to fit me?’
The young man reddens and turns away.
A vest, maybe he will buy a vest. It is along time since he wore a vest and he remembers that there is something pleasing about a vest; the comfort of cotton next to skin, and something extra for Mrs Ingram to wash. He can hear her now ‘I see you’ve decided to start wearing a vest, Mr Anderson?’ expecting an explanation. Ha! She wouldn’t get one.
The vests are all in packs of two. He asks the lady behind the counter if he could buy just one.
‘No, duck, sorry, I can’t split a pack.’
‘Couldn’t I just take one and you charge me half?’
‘No duck, sorry.’
‘Well, could I just take one and pay for two?’ She shakes her head and rings a bell under the counter, ‘I’ll get the manager, Sir.’
‘Now Sir, how can I help you?’ It is the young man again.
Edward turns, sees the embarrassment still in the young man’s face. ‘I want to buy one vest.’
‘We only sell them in pairs, Sir’
‘Like socks?’
The young man, confused, shakes his head, tries to clarify his thoughts, ‘Ah, well, no sir, not like socks.’
‘I only want one vest. I’ve only got one body.’
‘But sir, these are very good value, if you were only buying one it wouldn
’t cost much less.’
‘Well, can I just pay for one then?’
‘Sorry, sir, it’s head office policy. I can’t split a pack. It would mess up our stock levels.’
‘And would that be a problem?’
‘Yes Sir, because everybody, except you, Sir, wants to buy two vests.’
‘So I’m an awkward customer?’
‘I didn’t say that, Sir.’
‘How do you know that everyone else wants to buy two vests?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ the young man clasps his hands together. ‘I’m only doing my job.’
Edward finally takes pity on him but the irritation stays with him all afternoon. Irritation that he has let such a trivial matter as buying a vest get to him, and that he hadn’t had the courage to even look in the ladies section.
He leaves work early, sits in the window of the Blue Moon café drinking a coffee that is much too strong and eating a wholemeal scone that he knows he should find delicious but doesn’t. The baking powder in the scone coats his teeth and he runs his tongue over the roughness, trying to smooth it away.
He looks at his watch. What shall he do? He doesn’t want to arrive home early. Home! Whenever had it been his home? He had never looked forward to going there, however dreary his day at work had been. Every year he promises himself that the next year he will move, but he never does. It’s like being trapped in a time warp. But life is changing, he can feel it. Maybe next year he will move. But why leave it until then. He could buy a paper tonight and see what is available. He wanders back up the street. He supposes he could go back to work. He stops and looks over the railings into the shelter of the church courtyard, a place for reflection; a rare place in the heart of town. Edward has often thought to go and sit there and study the small brass statues, but the bench is usually occupied by a drunk. Today it is empty.
The bench is wet. Before sitting down, Edward takes a handkerchief from his top pocket and flicks the water from the wooden slats. He sits down and rubs the embroidered corner of his handkerchief between his thumb and forefinger; EA, good initials, almost as pleasing as ‘34B’. He laughs to himself. Is he going mad?
Every year at Christmas his mother buys him a box of handkerchiefs. To expect something, he thinks, is actually a luxury. At least he can look forward to receiving them; the see-through lid, the handkerchiefs placed in triangles with the initials uppermost. He appreciates the trouble she goes to of having his initials embroidered in pale blue. But why always blue? Why not one year red, the next green, so that he could note the passing of the years? Janice at work always teases him about his hankies. ‘I thought it was only married men that had proper hankies, Edward. You must really appreciate what a treasure you have in Mrs Ingram’. If only! Every week without fail she complains about them. ‘Why you want these sort of handkerchiefs Mr Anderson, I’ll never know. Why, I have to boil them up ‘specially in my dishcloth pan. Kleenex is so much better for you. They don’t make your nose sore, or spread germs.’
He folds up his wet handkerchief into a padded square. It brought him such comfort to put his hand inside his pocket and feel the softness of the cotton. He looks up at the church clock. He could go back to the department store and replace the white hankies that Mrs Ingram has managed to turn grey only, this time, order his initials in red.
He gets in the lift and presses the down button. The lift takes him up. The doors open onto nightdresses, and petticoats hanging on flimsy satin straps. He pauses, taps his stick three times and walks out of the lift. There are bras on hangers: crimson, black, white, patterned, plain. A woman with a huge cleavage smiles down at him from a cardboard cut out. There is something so beautifully engineered about the bras, as if tailors, like his uncle, have moulded them using steam and a damp cloth.
‘Can I help you, love?’
Edward feels his face turning hot. He leans on his stick and swivels round.
The woman tilts her head and smiles at him. ‘Do you know what size she is?
‘34B.’
‘Our most popular size. Do you like this one?’ She picks out a deep crimson one with scalloped lace edges.
‘Er, yes.’
‘Do you think she would like this colour, or white.’
Edward hesitates. The woman hooks the crimson one off the rack.
He remembers Angela’s words: ‘I am always seduced by the white ones.‘
‘Can I take the crimson one please?’
‘Yes, certainly. Would Sir like it gift-wrapped?’
Edward watches as the woman wraps the bra in tissue paper and then places it carefully in a buff-coloured box. She ties a pale pink ribbon loosely and then with scissors and a flick of the wrist, curls the ends of the ribbons.
He walks back along Surrey Street, stops and looks down for a moment at the Yorkshire flagstones and the black circles of discarded chewing gum. Damn, he forgot the hankies! He bangs the bag containing his new purchase against his leg. A full week’s keep on a bra. But if he moved, he reminds himself, it could be double that. That was the one good thing about lodging at Mrs Ingram’s. It was cheap. What would she say? He smiles smugly to himself. Well, she won’t ever find out. He’s going to lock his secret in his drawer at work, along with Uncle Ruben’s letters.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Edward arrives at the studio’s front door just as it is swinging shut. He puts out his stick and catches the door ajar. It is strange to be walking alone down the empty corridor. Would Angela be there, in the studio, waiting for him to ring the door bell? His stomach churns. Why on earth had he brought her the bra? He will have to give it to her now or, he could go and chuck it in the river and then come back. He hears voices coming down the stairs at the end of the corridor and recognises Angela’s laugh. He sees her legs first and, alongside them, Alex’s moccasined feet. He hurries past and waits outside their door. She arrives shortly afterwards with two cups of coffee.
‘Are those for you and Alex?’ he blurts out.
She pulls a face. ‘No. Why, should they be? Get the door, will you?’
He presses down on the handle. The light of the room spills out into the corridor. He loves the brightness of their room. ‘It’s just, I heard you coming down the stairs with him.’
‘Thought I’d get us a coffee in, for a change. Does that seem so impossible?’
‘No, but what was he doing up there?’
‘He really gets up your nose doesn’t he? While the art school’s being refurbed, quite a few of us have to work down here. Him as well, unfortunately.’
‘You’re right, I don’t like the man. I find it hard to understand how such a superficial person can be an artist.’
She considers his statement. ‘You’ve only met him the once. I can see what you mean, though. But I’m not sure; I think there may be another layer to him. His work’s really good.’
He is surprised at her defence of Alex. ‘How do you define good? I presume you mean technically.’
‘No,’ she purses her lips. ‘I don’t think I do, although that goes without saying. There is a great sensitivity about it, a tenderness. Yes, it’s surprising.’
Her words really rankle with him, ‘You sound as if you admire him.’
‘Only his work.’ She passes him his coffee. ‘The man’s a prat!’
‘How can you distinguish the two?’ He sits down on the comfortable chair, watches her tilt her head to one side, as if she has to do this to think.
‘Odd, isn’t it.’
He puts down his coffee and begins to loosen his tie.
‘Edward, I have to go early today.’
His head lifts in surprise.
‘So I thought it’d be a good idea if I did some studies of you dressed.’
Thank God, what a relief. He nearly hadn’t come today. He hasn’t been sleeping well. His head is in too much of a turmoil. Out of the blue he keeps being overtaken by an irrepressible longing, but for what he is not sure.
He takes off his tie and lay
s it across his knee. The sheen of the fabric catches the sun. He has placed the bag behind the screen out of sight. He could tell her about it now, say that he’d been looking for a present for his mother, remembered their conversation from the week before and on impulse had bought her the bra.
Angela draws the ‘V’ that Edward’s unbuttoned shirt collar makes, the Adam’s apple protruding slightly from the opening, and the buttons down the front of his shirt which are of equal distance apart, a perfect line, one under the other. A brown leather belt with a small gold buckle sits on top of the bunched up waistband of his trousers. She draws in the square of the buckle.
‘So, where have you got to go this afternoon that’s so urgent?’ he asks.
She pauses in her drawing, stares at him. ‘I bet you’re relieved it’s only a short sitting after what I put you through last week aren’t you?’
‘Ambivalent is the word, I think. I’m tired today. I’ve not been sleeping well.’
She looks up at his face, and yes, he does look tired.
‘You didn’t say,’ he persists.
‘What?’ She wishes he would shut up.
‘Where you’re going.’
She has a good mind to tell him not to be so bloody nosy. Why is he so insistent. She is just going to tell him that she has to see Alex about some work, but she thinks better of it. ‘I stupidly said I’d help a fellow student with his work.’
She looks up and sees he has moved his hand up to his throat.
She clucks her tongue, ‘Hey, you moved.’
‘Who is he? Is his work more important than yours?’
He is seriously getting on her nerves now, ‘Dan. He’s a lad in my year, a friend. Okay?’
He knows she is lying. ‘I thought you were going to say you had to see Alex.’
‘I will have to at some point.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s my tutor isn’t he? I don’t have a lot of choice in the matter.’
‘Have you told him yet that I’m modelling for you?’
She looks up. ‘He keeps asking to see my work. I’m supposed to show him the work in progress, but up to now I’ve managed to ward him off.’
