The Art School Dance

by Maria Blanca Alonso

  First of all Jeff reminded me that my bike was still at his house.

  ‘When are you going to pick it up?’ he asked me. ‘It isn’t covered, it’s going to get rusty if it’s left there much longer.’

  ‘I’ll call as soon as I can,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow, the day after, whenever I find the time.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me why you had to leave it there.’

  ‘Because I couldn’t take it with me.’

  ‘So why bring it out with you in the first place?’

  My answers were patently evasive, and so aroused the suspicions of the others; what had begun as a private exchange between Jeff and myself was soon being followed by everyone else.

  ‘I needed to get out of the house alone, without Stephen tagging along,’ I said. ‘It’s no tandem, remember, so going on the bike was the best way to be rid of him.’

  ‘That’s reasonable enough,’ Jeff agreed, as others nodded with him. ‘Once you were out on the bike, though, why didn’t you go on it all the way to wherever you were going? Why did you have to leave it with me?’

  ‘Because the place I was going wasn’t the sort of place you can go to on a bike,’ I said, becoming impatient and feeling my face flushing.

  Gus came in at this point, laughing one of his loud incredulous laughs. ‘Come off it, Ginny! How many places like that are there in this miserable town?’

  ‘The ‘Bellingham’,’ I blurted out, and immediately wanted to bite my tongue.

  ‘The ‘Bellingham’? Who do we know that goes there? You’re not telling us you do?’

  ‘Paula goes there,’ Chrissie recalled, and there was a sudden twinkle in her eye as she further remembered: ‘And, now that I come to think of it, I’ve seen the two of you chatting together an awful lot in college of late, especially in the studio when most other people have gone for lunch.’

  ‘Paula and Ginny? You can’t be serious.’

  People exchange curious glances while I sipped my drink in silence, feeling my cheeks burning ever more fiercely.

  ‘Was it the ‘Bellingham’ you went to?’ Gus asked me. ‘To meet Paula?’

  What Paula had said about the need for honesty came to mind, and how I’d promised her that I felt no shame about our affair, so I owned up to the truth of the matter, answered ‘yes’ to both of his questions. There were astonished looks, disbelieving chuckles, I thought I detected a gasp or two of admiration.

  ‘So what was she doing with you?’ Oggie Ogden asked. ‘Was she looking for a bit of scruff? Slumming it?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I replied.

  ‘Piss off! Of course she was!’

  ‘She must be awful fond of scruff, then,’ I answered smugly.

  ‘You mean you’ve been out with her more than just the once?’ Gus asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen her more than the once,’ I owned up. ‘In fact I’m due to meet her just about now,’ I added, looking at my watch, ‘so if you’ll excuse me...’

  *

  Outside, on the street, I felt a giddy pounding in my brain as if I had confessed the most mortal of sins to the parish priest. There would be no penance to pay for this particular confession, though; instead there might be respect, when I told Paula, and maybe even a little glory in the glances I would get the next day in college. I sprinted down the street and felt my spirit soar, more free than it had ever been made by confession, ran along to Paula’s flat and rang the doorbell.

  She was dressed in jeans and tee shirt when she opened the door. The flat was so warm that I needed my feet as bare as hers, kicked off my shoes and pulled off my socks to squat beside her on the settee. The flat was small, compact, I had never known such a cosy place, as warm and welcoming as Paula herself.

  ‘People know,’ I told her, with a broad grin.

  ‘About us, you mean?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Which people?’

  ‘The ones you might expect; Gus, Jeff and company.’

  Paula smiled, I could see that she was pleased. ‘And now that they know it'll soon be common knowledge.’

  ‘They’ll keep it to themselves if I ask them to,’ I said. ‘They’re good friends.’

  Paula shook her head and her hair smelled fresh, of the shampoo she’d used. ‘No, there’s no need to keep it secret. Is there?’

  ‘No,’ I agreed.

  ‘There’s no need to hide what’s going on. There’s no need to hide anything.’

  I was persuaded to stay that night -there was always an excuse I could give my mother, who was becoming accustomed to my coming and going- and the next morning Paula and I went into college together, at just the right time for people to see us. I kept the promise I made to her in bed, kissed her openly and lovingly outside Ben’s office where everyone could witness, staff and students alike.

  Just get an eyeful of me! Ginny da Vinci grown up!

  Chapter Eleven

  I next saw Stephen the weekend after news of my affair began to circulate around college, and I was determined to tell him everything before he found out for himself. I had little chance to speak to him, though, it seemed that we were never alone for long enough, so I had to wait until Tuesday, the evening when his parents went out. I would go with him for a drink and tell him then.

  For obvious reasons which were as yet unknown to Stephen it had been some time since our last customary Tuesday night out; there had been the busy weeks before Christmas, the interruption of the holiday itself, and then the excuse that there was so much to do at that crucial point in my career. When I met him that evening he was bright and cheerful, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed, like a child looking forward to a long-awaited treat; there was a sloppy kiss on the mouth for me, then his arm linked through mine. I was all too aware that he didn’t hold me the way Paula did

  The first thing he asked was if the varnish on his portrait was dry yet.

  ‘It’s still a little tacky,’ I lied. ‘It can take weeks, sometimes months, for it to dry properly. I can’t bring it home from college just yet.’

  ‘But soon? I’ll see it soon?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘I can’t wait. I’ve told Mum and Dad all about it and they’re keen to see it too. Mum’s even said that if it’s as good as I say then she wouldn’t mind having another done for the living room. Do you think you could manage that, Ginny?’

  Obviously there was no chance, but I simply said, ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘She’d pay you, of course.’

  ‘It’s not the money, Stephen. You know how much work I’ve got to do this term, important work.’

  ‘But if you could find the time?’

  ‘If I can find the time,’ I said, to silence him.

  We walked into town and the clump of his brogues on the pavement sounded a little less steady than Paula’s unmistakable step, as if he’d only just learned how to walk in ‘grown up’ shoes. I suppose it was unfair of me, but I found myself making comparisons all the time; the clothes I had once thought so smart on him now seemed a little less so, the aftershave he wore –even though I had bought it for him- seemed a touch too obvious, and I could only think that he splashed it on whereas Paula used her scents more cleverly. Unkind, yes, but just as I had once compared Stephen with less attractive friends of his, so I now made a further comparison, an unfair one perhaps, but one which was to his disadvantage; it was a natural progression, I guessed, in the artist’s search for perfection.

  Stephen asked me where I’d like to go, a sign of how content he was, of how pleased he was to be with me, and I surprised him by choosing the ‘Crofters’; this was the place where I would like to remember him, brash and raucous, loud and over-decorated.

  We found a seat in a corner and had a couple of drinks, Dutch courage for me; I couldn’t tell Stephen outright, off the cuff, what was on my mind, it had to come slowly and I needed to rehearse the words in my head. This I did, while Stephen droned on about his boring day at the office.

&n
bsp; Right, I finally decided, I’d get one more drink and then break the news.

  The bar was crowded, it took a while to get served, and then I was caught in conversation with some slight acquaintance; maybe five minutes had passed before I got back with the drinks, and then it was to find some girl with Stephen, one who was obviously slightly drunk and trying to chat him up; she was leaning close to him and doing her best to work her arm around his shoulders.

  Why couldn’t the slut have waited a little longer, just fifteen minutes, half an hour? Stephen would have been free then, available, ready to be caught on the rebound.

  ‘Hey!’ I said, putting the drinks down on the table, and the girl turned to me, smiling boozily.

  ‘Piss off,’ she burped.

  ‘No! You piss off! Go on, lose yourself!’

  The girl took no notice of me so I grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her away. I had never been especially strong, but the girl was drunk and back she went, tripped over her own clumsy feet and tumbling to the floor. While she was still struggling to get up the landlord and a barman were across to her, grabbing her by the arms and bundling her out the door.

  The landlord returned full of apologies. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he gushed. ‘She’s a nuisance, that one, when she’s had a drink or two.’

  ‘That’s okay, no harm done,’ I said, but out of the corner of my eye I was worried to see Stephen’s look of admiration.

  He held onto me, then, like I was some sort of heroine, and there was so much love in his eyes that I couldn’t bring myself to speak of the all important matter; wearily I suggested that we go home. All the way back to Stephen’s house the love was in his eyes, he told me how wonderful I was and kept clinging to me; if I’d told him the truth right there and then I’d have felt such a cunt, so all I could do was accept his adulation, go into his house for a quick kiss and cuddle and then report back to Paula the next day.

  *

  I expected Paula to be disappointed, perhaps even angry, but she found the whole episode quite amusing.

  ‘So now you’re his knight in shining armour?’ she laughed, when we were back at her flat after college. ‘A bit of a reversal in roles, the dame dashing along on her charger to rescue the dupe in distress. I must confess I’m seeing a new side to your nature, Ginny.’

  Paula was in her bathrobe, before the dressing table; she'd just had a shower and was putting on make-up before we went out for a meal, but my story had her so amused that she couldn’t keep her mouth straight to apply her lipstick.

  ‘You think it’s funny?’ I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and seeing her grin reflected in the mirror.

  ‘Just a little, yes,’ she said, putting down the lipstick, shaking with laughter.

  ‘Well it isn’t! I was all set to tell him everything and then this stupid slut comes along and starts chatting him up!’

  ‘So you took her by the scruff of the neck and flung her aside?’ Paula was watching me, now, in the mirror, her eyes sparking with mocking mischief. ‘I think that was very gallant of you, Ginny.’

  ‘I didn’t do us any favours though, did I?’ I said, quite miserably.

  Paula swivelled around on her low stool to face me. ‘That’s one of the things I like about you,’ she said, to add to my confusion.

  ‘What? That I’m such a coward when it comes to being open and honest? That I’m so much a coward that I kept putting off the moment until it was too late to say anything?’

  ‘No, that’s what I mean at all,’ she said, her smile becoming less teasing. She slipped from the stool and knelt on the floor before me. ‘You care, Ginny, that’s what I like about you. You’re sensitive to other people’s feelings. It’s going to hurt Stephen enough when you tell him about us, so naturally you couldn’t say anything to him after what happened last night.’

  I brushed Paula’s hair back from her face, I needed to see her more clearly and understand more fully. ‘You’re not disappointed with me, then?’

  ‘Why should I be? You’re here with me, not with Stephen, so there’s no reason whatsoever to be disappointed.’

  I had to smile, there was something quite unique about Paula. ‘You must have the patience of a saint,’ I commented.

  ‘Your Saint Sebastian?’ she laughed, and got to her feet, striking the pose we both remembered, one knee slightly bent so that her bathrobe parted at the thigh. ‘Is this how you see me, as one of your martyred pieces of meat?’

  I caught hold of her and pulled her close, toppling us both back onto the bed.

  ‘The next time I see Stephen,’ I vowed. ‘I'll tell him everything then.’

  Sadly I never got the opportunity.

  *

  Work was again the distraction which prevented me from speaking with Stephen.

  One Saturday early each year the college held its open day, a public relations exercise to emphasise its importance to the community and attract more students for the next academic year. Saturday was a poor day to choose, in Sleepers Hill on Saturdays people went shopping or drinking or to the football match; the time of the year was awkward for the us students, too, since we were so busy thinking about our applications to other colleges. The administration insisted, though, the locals had to be impressed and we were all obliged to do our best.

  Before I could find the time to speak with Stephen, then, I was caught up in work for the open day, for which the art school was predictably expected to put on an exhibition of work; we wasted valuable time mounting drawings and tarting up paintings and the staff appointed themselves as the hanging committee, choosing the work which would be shown.

  I never quite imagined that it was they’re going to hang, along with my work.

  *

  The three tutors saw each student in turn, looked through our work and decided what would go into the exhibition. It was immediately apparent that there are dual standards in operation at this particular ‘crit’; Ben, Ian and Maggie were faithful to their artistic integrity for the most part, they chose work which they thought was good, but in order to please the uninitiated locals they also opted for a number of ‘pretty’ pieces, drawings and paintings which they believed have no merit other than a technical competence or superficial attraction. It was in accordance with this criterion that they picked out my favourite drawing of Paula. This I didn’t mind, for I still thought it to be the best drawing I’d done, despite what Ben said. Nor did I mind when they selected my crucified carcass of meat, as an example of ‘true’ art. When they also picked out the portrait of Stephen, though, I had to complain.

  ‘No, leave that one out,’ I told them.

  ‘Why?’ asked Ben. ‘It’s good, it deserves to be shown.’

  ‘But you know what people are like around here. They’ll laugh at it.’

  Ben was disappointed with me. ‘You’re surely not worried about that? They laughed at Picasso, Chagall, Van Gogh. That’s pretty exalted company, Ginny. You should be flattered if they laugh at your work.’

  ‘I know, but I’d still rather you left it out of the show.’

  ‘Are you perhaps worried that your boyfriend will see it?’ Maggie asked suspiciously.

  ‘No, he won’t be coming, he’s out of town at a cousin’s wedding that Saturday.’

  ‘So? You’ve no objection other than the fear that people will laugh at it?’ said Ben. ‘Your objection is overruled, then. You’ve got to have the courage to stand by your work, Ginny. The portrait goes in.’

  So it went down to the exhibition hall with the other selected work and we spent the latter half of that week arranging the pictures and drawings and fixing them to the walls and screens. They were a pretty relaxed couple of days, though everyone knew that this should be the busiest time of the year for us we rather enjoyed the brief respite from the business of preparing portfolios and getting work together for interview. We made quite a few trips to the pub, brought bottles back so we could drink while we prepared the exhibition, and rather than complain at our i
ndulgence our tutors frequently joined in. Each of us was allotted an area of space in which to hang our work, our names were there in bold lettering and each piece had to be given a title or description; it was much like a genuine exhibition, except for the fact that nothing was for sale, and we soon forgot that the open day was an unwanted intrusion and began to enjoy ourselves.

  I had scribbled down titles for most of my work, and passed them on to Paula to be typed out, but there was still the portrait of Stephen left untitled.

  ‘How do I describe it?’ I asked Gus, as we sat and considered the painting over a bottle of beer.

  ‘How about ‘Portrait of a Boy-fiend’?’ he suggested.

  We were both a little merry with drink, so we laughed, but I knew that it was rather more cruel than funny. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I’ll just call it ‘Portrait’.’

  ‘That’s a bit boring,’ Gus thought.

  ‘But ‘Portrait’ it is,’ I insisted, and wrote down the title and the dimensions of the canvas.

  When I went upstairs to the office Paula was still rattling away at her keyboard; I placed my slip of paper with the others on the desk.

  ‘Is that it now?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. All finished.’

  ‘I wish I was,’ she said. ‘I’ve got about forty more of these to do before I can leave.’

  Ben was off at a meeting somewhere, Maggie and Ian were downstairs helping with the exhibition, so I sat down for a while, asked if there was anything I could do to help.

  ‘Can you type?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you won’t be much help.’

  ‘How about if I read them out to you?’ I suggested. ‘Would that be any use?’

  ‘My own Dictaphone? Yes, it might speed things up.’

  I picked up the scraps of paper, which were all shapes and sizes, started to read through the titles so Paula could type them out; I had to admit there were some pretty weird titles, and I wondered how the locals would respond.