The Art School Dance

by Maria Blanca Alonso

  I was still catching my breath, Paula was running her fingers through my hair like a mother tidying her little child. ‘Do you know, I've never done that before,’ I confessed.

  ‘Done what?’ Paula asked, her hand slipping beneath my sweater, tugging it away from my waist.

  ‘Kissed a woman, like that,’ I said awkwardly. ‘You know, down there.’

  Paula could have made fun of my artlessness, but didn’t, simply said, ‘Oh, really? There’s a name for it, you know.’ Then, her fingers at my trousers, she said, ‘Want to give it a try?’

  *

  It was late afternoon before I got home, and as soon as I walked through the door my mother wanted to know where I'd been. I lied, of course, told her that a couple of friends had called around to invite me to a party, it had got late, I slept on a couch.

  ‘Reprobate,’ said Gran; after ‘confession’ it was the longest word in her vocabulary, and her favourite when it came to me.

  ‘You could have left a note,’ my mother complained. ‘We had no idea where you were.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and gave her a kiss. ‘Anyway, happy new year.’

  It was only after I’d kissed her that I wondered if she could smell anything, worried about that special fragrance that a woman has and that it might be lingering about me, so I said I’d go and have a bath. I drenched myself with salts and soaps, it was best to be cautious, my mother had a sharp nose and a suspicious nature.

  On the second day of the new year Stephen called around and was amusingly guilty when he told us of his evening at the dinner dance, made it sound so much like Prince Charming’s ball that Gran and mother listened enraptured, as attentive as children being told a fairy tale; they asked him what the women wore, what food there was, I could see them keep looking at me and wishing I was a part of that world of black ties and flowing gowns. When Stephen said he was sorry I couldn’t have been there I saw Gran give a nasty little smirk.

  Well sod them, I thought, sod the lot of them. My mind was on Paula. I was going to meet her again, and it was Paula who had suggested it.

  Stephen lingered and I wanted some reason to be shut of him, or at least a reason to leave without him. Gran and my mother continued to make him welcome, though, I began to get impatient when we had a lunch of turkey sandwiches and Stephen tucked in, then settled down to watch a film on television.

  ‘I’ve got to nip out for a while,’ I finally said, and sensed Stephen ready to spring from his seat at the slightest hint of an invitation.

  ‘You’re surely taking Stephen with you for the walk?’ Gran said, as if he was a pet who might be about to piss on the carpet.

  ‘I can’t. I'm going to see Gus. College business.’

  ‘There isn’t much of a bus service today,’ my mother warned me, knowing that Gus lived a couple of miles away.

  ‘That’s why I have to go on the bike,’ I said, which is my excuse for not taking Stephen with me. ‘I won’t be too long.’

  So I was out of the house on my own, leaving the disappointed Stephen behind, but was stuck with the bloody bicycle, which really wasn’t the thing to arrive at the ‘Bellingham’ on, not even if it was a racer with ten gears and tubeless tyres. I pedalled like mad up the street, soon out of breath since I hadn’t ridden the bike for ages, wondering what to do, decided that Jeff was closer than Gus, and more or less on my way, so called at his house.

  ‘Sure,’ Jeff said, when I asked if I could leave the bike with him. ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I can’t take it with me.’

  ‘Then why come out on it in the first place?’

  ‘I’ll explain some other time,’ I said, in a rush. ‘Just stick the thing in the backyard and I’ll pick it up when I can.’

  He did as I asked and I went the rest of the way on foot, working up a sweat which I didn’t really need. By the time I got to the ‘Bellingham’ I was in a bit of a mess, sticky, my hair slick with sweat. Peering through the door, into the lounge, I could see Paula looking so cool that she makes me feel even more uncomfortable.

  ‘I thought you weren’t going to come,’ she said when I joined her; she was wearing black, as I was again, and I thought we make a nice little harmony together, like a Whistler nocturne.

  ‘Problems,’ I told her. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Paula held up her glass, sparkling against the dark silk of her blouse. ‘White wine,’ she told me. ‘Dry.’

  I went to the bar to get the drinks -wine for me, too, since it seemed more suited to the atmosphere of the place than a pint of lager- and when I returned Paula asked me what the problem had been.

  ‘Nothing serious.’

  ‘Stephen?’ she guessed.

  ‘Right,’ I admitted. ‘He turned up this morning and just wouldn’t leave, gave us a report on the dinner dance, invited himself to stay for lunch and then settled down to watch television.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t tell him what your new year’s eve was like?’ Paula asked, and though her face wasn’t fully turned towards me her eyes were looking at me, only half seen and striking wicked gleams of light. When I said nothing she grinned. ‘No, of course you didn’t. I wouldn’t expect you to.’

  I felt guilty, as if I had betrayed Paula, said, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Why sorry? How could you tell hi, what happened? He’s been your boyfriend for however many years so you’re not going to tell him anything that might hurt him, not on account of a one-night stand.’

  ‘Is that what it was?’ I asked. ‘Just one night?’

  ‘That’s all it’s been so far, so why say anything to him?’

  ‘But is that all it’s going to be?’

  ‘It all depends. Is that all you want it to be?’ Paula asked, and answered for me, before I could speak. ‘No, I can sense you don’t. Neither do I, otherwise I wouldn’t have suggested we see each other again today.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  *

  Later, when the two of us left the ‘Bellingham’ and walked back into town, Paula said, ‘There’s no need to say anything to Stephen. You can come back as often as you like, whenever you like, but there’s no need to let Stephen know what’s happening until you think the time is right.’

  ‘Why do you tell me that?’ I asked, for to me it sounded a little suspicious, as if to say that there was no need to tell Stephen anything because there was nothing which needed admitting to, nothing more than a brief flirtation which would quickly burn out.

  Paula was more acutely perceptive than Stephen could ever be, though, and sensed my suspicion immediately.

  ‘Don’t frown, Ginny, don’t look so worried. I only say you can take your time because I don’t want to see anyone hurt, not even Stephen. Come to me when you like, tell him when you can.’

  *

  When I left Paula at the door to her flat I was convinced by what has been said; I didn’t know why Paula should want to spend more time with me than the few hours we’d shared so far, but I sensed that she was being honest when she said that she did, believed that she wanted to be with me as much as I wanted to be with her. As for hurting anyone, I found it hard to credit that Paula ever could; her body was soft, her nature was kind, only hard things could hurt, or people who were hard inside, and she fell into neither of these categories.

  Gran, on the other hand, she could hurt without trying, she could have a soul like steel at times, and it was she who was waiting with the questions when I got home, questions as pointed as the knitted needles which she clicked together in a furious rage.

  When she asked where I’d been I gave her the standard reply. ‘Out.’

  ‘Out where?’

  ‘With friends.’‘You said you were going to see that boy Gus,’ she recalled.

  ‘I did, and we went out for a drink with a couple of other people.’

  The lies came easily. I had never found it difficult to lie, had always been able to do so without compunction and never felt any guilt; lies wer
e usually what people wanted to hear, after all, not the truth. Gran would not want to be told of the absolute evil -as she would regard it- of what I’d been up to, a few venial sins were all she wanted to hear of, minor transgressions which would go to show what an inconsiderate little sod her grand-daughter was; petty iniquities would give her the excuse to have a go at me, grumble until she was happy and turn her pique to pleasure; anything truly serious, those sins she would call mortal, would cause her pain rather than pleasure, and so my lies kept the old woman happy, which was how I excused them.

  ‘You know that Stephen waited here for hours?’ Gran said.

  ‘How could I?’ I answered, though I had guessed he might do. ‘I wasn’t here, was I?’

  ‘Cheek!’

  ‘Anyway, you enjoy each others company, you and him and mother.’

  ‘It was your company he came for!’

  ‘He didn’t want my company on new year’s eve, did he?’ I said, to keep things going, to keep the argument bubbling, and Gran got into the spirit of it, setting her knitting down and wagging a finger at me.

  ‘And do you know why he didn’t? Because it was a posh do, that’s why, and he’d be too embarrassed to be seen with the likes of you!’

  ‘Well, if he can’t take me as I am-’

  ‘We're embarrassed to be seen with you, for goodness sake, your poor mother and me! You dress like a tramp!’

  ‘But wasn’t it you who taught me that it’s not what a person looks like, it’s what they are that matters?’

  Gran had said this often, she was unable to deny it, so she switched tack, became less critical and more reasonable. Like prayers muttered to her God, her low voice crackled with an ancient knowledge of the ways of the world as she tried to persuade me of my error, of why I should change, why I should conform. I would never hold onto Stephen the way I was, I would never find another nice young man unless I mended my ways.

  I laughed to myself. Gran didn’t stand a chance of changing me, I could see no reason why I needed to change.

  Chapter Ten

  At the start of the new term Ben gave us this long speech about how important the coming weeks were; we would choose the colleges we were going to apply to, put together the portfolio we would take for interview and every piece of work would have to count, each would have to impress; there would be decisions made about what type of course to apply for and the staff would advise us, point us to fine art or graphics or whatever, according to the work we’d done. My mind was already made up on that score, it had to be fine art for me, I would be a painter or I would be nothing. This was my selfishness again, I supposed; painters pleased themselves while designers were generally obliged to please others.

  The speech dragged on a bit, in his carefully rehearsed way Ben did his best to stir his students, but I had no need to pay attention since I’d watched Paula type out the notes for him. Much of the holiday left to us had been spent together, going for drives in her car, walking, sitting and talking in her flat. I spent the occasional night there, too. Nothing had changed, everything was fine.

  When Ben had finished his speech, recited more or less word for word from the typed notes, we all got down to work. There would be no set projects during that term, of the sort we had started the course with; we had been novices then, straight from school, but were now becoming professionals; each of us had our own ideas and all the tutors needed do was guide people gently this way or that. I had no major work in progress, the large pieces had been finished before Christmas, so I spent some time looking through what I had, the drawings and the sketchbooks, searching for the next direction to take. While I was doing this, Ben poked his nose in.

  ‘Remember the last life drawing you did?’ he said. ‘The pretty one you wouldn’t let me touch?’

  The one I had promised Paula.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  I got it out of the drawing and laid it on the table; it had one or two smudges on it, fingerprints and the like, which I would have to clean off with a soft putty rubber, but these apart the drawing was as perfect as I remembered it. Following the events of the holiday the drawing had taken on an even greater significance for me.

  Ben pointed to the lines and the angle of the pose, said, ‘Look, forget about the head-’

  Decapitate Paula?

  ‘-cut the arms off just below the shoulders and what have you got?’

  ‘What?’ I asked, horrified.

  ‘Another of your crucified pieces of meat.’

  I could see what he was getting at, but didn’t like the idea, the drawing meant even more to me now and there was no way I could deface it, neither the image nor the idea. We argued for a while, I suggested that the idea of crucified meat might wear a bit too thin if it was repeated again and again while Ben reasoned that this was simply the natural progression of a theme which was expected of an artist.

  ‘But I’m not exactly an artist yet, am I?’ I said.

  ‘You should want to be. It’s what you should be striving for.’

  ‘I do, and I am,’ I assured him. ‘I’m still learning, though, still feeling my way. It’s alright for an established artist to work at length on a single theme, but I ought to be showing more versatility at this stage.’

  ‘You’ve got to show that you can carry on an idea right through to its conclusion.’

  ‘And I’ve also got to show that I’m full of ideas. If the people who interview me see nothing but lumps of meat they might think that’s the only idea I’ve been able to come up with.’

  After lengthy debate Ben finally conceded the point, said that there was no telling what might happen when I went for interview, that I might find myself facing a bunch of vegetarians repulsed by the very idea of my butchered crucifixions. To my relief, then, the drawing of Paula went safely back into the folder and we looked through other work, considered other ideas; Ben made a suggestion or two, then left me to ponder them. Thinking about a piece of work was often as important as its actual execution, so no one complained when lunchtime came and I still hadn’t produced any tangible work. Between twelve o’clock and a quarter past most people drifted away, to the canteen or out to the pub, but I hung on in the studio.

  *

  At twelve thirty precisely, Paula’s lunch break, I heard her coming into the studio. I was still hunched over a table, scribbling in a notebook, thumbing through drawings, and Paula stood behind me, leaned over and wrapped her arms around me as she kissed me on the back of the neck.

  It must be that I tensed, or started suddenly even though I’d heard her coming, because Paula had given her no more than a quick hug before she pulled up a stool and looked questioningly at me.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Yes there is. What is it?’

  ‘Are you having lunch today?’ I asked her, as I look around at the few people left in the studio; none were watching us, they were all engrossed in their work.

  ‘Just the usual coffee and a sandwich.’

  ‘Come on, then, we’ll nip out for something.’

  ‘Okay, if you like,’ Paula agreed, and we left by the back stairs, went out of college by the rear of the building.

  At a nearby sandwich bar we got cheese rolls and coffees, then walked through the gardens by the parish church.

  ‘Now can you talk?’ Paula smiled, sitting at a bench and unwrapping her lunch. ‘Is it safe, now there’s no one listening?’

  ‘What do you mean? Safe?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Come on, tell me what’s troubling you,’ she prompted, and in the privacy of the church gardens, under her insistent gaze, I had to admit to feeling rather like a school-kid who was having it off with the headmaster’s secretary.

  ‘It’s all very nice in secret, during the holidays,’ I said, ‘but it becomes a bit embarrassing once school starts again.’

  Laughing, Paula said, ‘So you think we’d better restrict our
affair to the holidays? Is that what you want?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Or perhaps you only want to be with me in bed, you don’t want to be seen with me anywhere else.’

  ‘You know that’s not true,’ I protested.

  ‘Do I?’ Paula drank down her coffee, tossed her empty cup into a litter bin. ‘You’ve got to remember that you aren’t at school any more, Ginny. You’re at art college, it’s a liberal place and you’re not going to get expelled for what you’re doing.’ She rose from the bench, straightened her skirt. ‘You may as well accept that people will notice, too, sooner or later, no matter how secretive we are.’

  She was right, of course. I knew that. I remembered what she had said to me just before Christmas, that if I was ever going to be an artist I needed to be a little less narrow-minded. To show that I understood I caught Paula by the arm and kissed her full on the mouth.

  ‘Very good, Ginny,’ Paula said with a mocking grin, when I released her. ‘Very brave of you, too, considering that there’s no one here to see. I’ll give you a bit more credit when you can do that in college, though.’

  ‘Are you making fun of me?’ I asked.

  ‘Only in a loving way,’ she promised. ‘You’re cute when you’re embarrassed. It’s a sort of naïve charm.’

  ‘Naïve?’ I said, responding as if it was an insult. I hardly considered it naïve of me to get involved with a woman like Paula.

  ‘Yes, Ginny, at times you are. Now come on, I’ve got to get back,’ Paula said, taking my hand. She added wickedly, ‘Don’t panic, I promise to let go of your hand as soon as we’re in sight of college.’

  ‘I don’t mind, let everyone see us,’ I said, wrapping Paula’s fingers tightly in mine, but when I became uncomfortable, among the busier streets near college, I heard her give a soft laugh as she released my hand. ‘It really is only embarrassment, you know,’ I promised her. ‘It isn’t shame or anything like that.’

  ‘I should bloody well think not!’ she said.

  *

  Of course Paula was right about it being impossible to keep our affair a secret. People were bound to notice, we were a tight-knit community in the art school and it didn’t take long for suspicions to be aroused; only the very next week, in the ‘Commercial’ with the usual crowd, one clue quickly led to another.