by Sarah Thorn
Marion picked up the bottle and stepped over him, anxious to open it and have another drink.
''Nice place,'' she said, already in the kitchen rummaging through the drawers to find a corkscrew.
''It's far from nice,'' Peter said. ''In fact, it's the worst place I have ever lived in.''
Peter looked at the phone and saw a light flashing. He pressed the red button and listened.
''Peter, where the hell are you? Probably out with one of your little tramps, getting drunk. Do you know what today is? It's Max's birthday. Remember Max, he's your son. We didn't expect you to send a present, but you could have at least called him. You were a lousy husband, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised you turned out to be a lousy father.''
Peter slumped against the wall next to the phone table and closed his eyes. How the hell did it come to this, he thought?
''Haven't you got a corkscrew?'' Marion shouted. Peter went into the kitchen and threw open a drawer. He pointed. Marion was relieved.
Marion was one of the regulars at the Dragoon Inn, a pub on Grafton Way, in central London. She was a legal secretary by day and a drinker and flirt by night. She'd had her eye on Peter Flowers for some time. She was bored screwing lawyers and businessmen. She wanted to bed a different kind of man, and Peter answered that description. He was very different from her usual type. He never wore a suit, always black jeans, black shirt and gray jacket. She'd never seen him without his trilby, and she liked the fact his wrists were covered in tribal armbands.
Peter had a variety of places to stop off at on his way home; the Dragoon was one of them. He went there a couple of times a week. Marion had first noticed him two weeks earlier. She'd made the first move. Sitting at the bar alone, mulling over why his marriage had failed so badly, he'd been grateful for her company. What's more, he was charmed by her wide eyes, blonde hair and the way she rubbed her breasts against his shoulder when she sat down.
He didn't speak of interest rates, court rulings or the state of the national debt like most men in the Dragoon. He spoke to her about the new play at the Alhambra and about the latest book he was reading. A book about a divorced man and how his wife bled him for every cent she could. He told her he loved Rembrandt but not Picasso, and how long the queue usually was to get into the museum in Florence where Michelangelo's sculpture of David was housed.
By the time they'd finished their first glass of wine, Marion was already desperate to be naked with him. It wasn't just his artistic nature that attracted her to him, though. He was also very handsome. Tall with dark brown hair and blue eyes, his facial features reminded her of a smoldering film star. His chin was robust and his jawline angular.
After a few more glasses, she invited herself back to his apartment. It was just around the corner.
''Why do you think this apartment is nice?'' he asked.
''Okay, it's not nice,'' she tossed her bleached hair back. ''It's in a seedy part of town, and the door doesn't open very easily. It's the kind of apartment you would expect a divorced man to live in. But what I meant by nice is how you have decorated it.'' She turned the corkscrew one more time and pulled. Nothing happened, she gave the bottle to Peter.
He grunted as he pulled and almost fell backwards when the cork gave in to his onslaught. ''Decorated? I haven't done a thing to this place,''
''The paintings, the sculptures, the books. I love it. It's messy, but I love it.'' She walked to the door which led to the small lounge. There was a set of bookshelves on the far wall; the shelves bent by the weight of the heavy volumes they were carrying. There was a sculpture of some Greek Goddess, Marion didn't know. She sat down on the red sofa. ''No TV?'' she asked.
''I hate TV.'' He sat next to her. ''What the hell is ever on TV that is of any interest? When TV was invented, the world was full of hope for its role in society. It was supposed to inform and educate. It has failed miserably on both fronts.''
''Kiss me, Peter, I want you,'' she said. ''I've wanted you since I first saw you. You're different.''
''How so different?'' he asked rolling the stem of the wine glass between thumb and forefinger.
''You're artistic, sensitive, and you know how to talk to women.''
He laughed. ''Tell that to the bitch I was married to for eight years. She hates me.''
Marion took the glass from his hand and put it down on the floor. She put her hand on the back of his head and pulled him to her.
*****
A lot of boats cruise the Thames, most of them observe the speed limit. Just occasionally one goes far too fast, causing a huge wash. Such incidents were an occupational hazard for Marcella. She lived and worked on a houseboat just down from Battersea, a suburb of London.
''For heaven's sake,'' she spluttered as the boat shook. At the beginning of the week, she'd decided to start a sculpture of a javelin thrower. At the moment the boat started to bob up and down, she was making delicate lines in the athletes forehead. Second time today, probably the same boat on it's way back, she thought. She put a strand of loose hair behind her ear and prepared to start again. At that moment, she cursed as the phone rang.
''Miss Horner?'' the voice said.
''Yes,'' Marcella said, trying not to get Plasticine on her mobile.
''It's Jamie Smith. From the bank.''
''Oh, yes. Hi.''
''Have you got a moment?'' he asked.
She looked at the half-finished sculpture before her. ''Yes.''
''It's about your account. I'm afraid you've gone over your overdraft limit, and we need to ask you to add some funds.''
Money, always money, she thought. ''Er....yes....I'll see what I can do.''
''I'm afraid until then you won't be able to draw any cash our use your credit cards.''
''I understand,'' Marcella looked out of the window at the sunlight shimmering on the water. ''Well thanks for letting me know.''
When she hung up, she sat down on the stool and wondered how she was going to be able to comply with his demands.
''Hello, hello. It's only me.'' It was Joyce, Marcella's middle-aged hippy neighbor. She was standing on the quay next to Marcella's Dutch barge. Marcella walked out of her studio and onto the deck at the stern of the boat. When she looked up at Joyce, she had to shield her eyes from the sun.
''What's the matter, dear? You look terribly pale,'' Joyce said.
''Come on board. Coffee?''
Joyce walked across the gangplank and waited for Marcella to walk back through the boat and open the side door.
''Marvelous boat, this,'' Joyce said. That's what she said every time she visited. Joyce was a forty-six-year-old divorcee who had decided to sell her house and live on a boat. She was tall with prematurely gray hair a very large bust. She was terribly forthright, but Marcella liked that. ''Now tell me what's the matter.''
''Money, as usual.'' Marcella took two mugs from hooks above the sink in the galley, and put them down on the table Joyce was sitting at.
''Money. It's ironic isn't it?''
''What?''
''You the daughter of an Earl, one of the land's richest men, yet you have to struggle like this.''
''But you know the story, I've told you a hundred times. He won't give me a penny because I chose to study art. He wanted me to study law or business, but I'd rather be poor.''
Joyce looked at her. Marcella was still very young, just twenty. She looked like one of the young debutantes Joyce saw in magazines sometimes. She was aristocratic in appearance, her shiny black hair flowing down over her shoulders, ending halfway down her back. Her eyes were crystal clear pools of blue and her skin bronzed. Joyce had long since given up on her figure, but when she was younger, she remembered having a figure similar to Marcella's. Slender around the waist with curvaceous hips supporting a tiny behind, and a bust that pushed forth to meet the admiring gaze of any young man.
''If I'd had children, I'd like to think I would have treated them better,'' Joyce said.
''At least, I've got this boat. I
love it.''
''Yes, it's the finest houseboat around. Your grandmother loved it too.''
''I'm so lucky she left it to me when she passed away. I will treasure it forever.''
''That was another anomaly. Your grandmother living on a boat. Wasn't she Lady Simmons from Harwood?''
''Yes. She was very posh but alternative.'' Marcella poured hot water onto the instant coffee she'd put in the mugs and added milk. ''Did you want something or is it just a social call?''
Joyce was bored. Her usual tactic was to pretend she wanted to borrow something, so she could hang around and chat. Marcella didn't mind. She liked Joyce; she was her type. Arty. ''No just a social call. How are you getting along at college?''
''It's hard. Its' the London Academy of Arts, they expect a lot from their students.'' She took a sip of coffee and scowled. ''More sugar?''
''Sugar? If I have sugar, it'll have deposited itself on my hips by five o'clock this afternoon.''
''Do you want to have a man again?'' Marcella asked. She never heard Joyce talk about men.
''I'm off men for life. Divorce kills you. I don't want to go through that again.''
''But you could have a casual lover.''
Joyce burst out into a loud bout of laughter. Marcella grinned at her, wondering what was so funny. ''My dear, wait until you've had more experience with men. Men want it all. You may think you've got a casual lover, as you call it, but very soon they come round with their dirty clothes and ask you to do the washing.''
Joyce looked out of a porthole and saw two legs standing next to the boat up on the quay. ''You see. Here's your casual lover.''
''Hello,'' Mike shouted. ''Permission to come on board.'' Marcella looked at Joyce and smiled at the face Joyce pulled. A grimace.
''Yes,'' Marcella shouted.
Mike was very tall and had to stoop to get through the door and down into the galley. ''Mike, nice to see you,'' Joyce said.
Mike ignored her. ''I don't know why you live on this boat. It's far too small.'' In fact, the barge wasn't small at all. The only narrow bit was the entrance into the galley. Through the galley, there was a large sitting room and further down a corridor, two bedrooms. Each bedroom had its own bathroom.
''Come out for lunch,'' he said to Marcella.
''Sorry Mike, but I'm snowed under with work.''
''But it isn't really work is it? I mean you make models.''
Why the hell does she bother with this man, Joyce asked herself? Okay, he was handsome, but he was a prize buffoon who had no understanding of his girlfriend’s passion for the arts. ''Of course it's work,' Joyce said. ''You work in a bank. That's not work, that's robbery.'' Joyce laughed heartily again, and Marcella wanted to, but didn't.
''Mike, stop by after work. I'll be finished by then,'' Marcella said softly. He nodded and left without saying anything.
''He's not suitable for you,'' Joyce said.
Marcella knew Joyce was right. She'd intended to do something about it, but the time never seemed to be right. ''You're right, but we've been going out for two years. It's not so easy to just finish it.''
''Do you want to marry him?''
''No way,'' Marcella exclaimed.
''Then finish it.'' Marcella wished Joyce could do it for her.
At around five thirty Mike arrived again, his day’s work at the bank done. ''I don't know why you hang around with that old woman,'' he said of Joyce.
''She's not old. She's nice, I enjoy her company.''
''More than mine,'' Mike said jealously.
''What does that mean?'' she looked at him.
''I came and asked you out to lunch, but you said you were too busy. You weren't too busy to sit around and talk to her, were you?''
''Mike, that's different.''
He wanted to take her to bed. She was so beautiful he ached for her. They hadn't touched each other for a couple of weeks, and he missed touching her. He reached for her, but she pulled back. ''Marcella, you know I love you?''
''Yes, I know you do,'' she said looking at the floor awkwardly.
''Will you go to bed with me?''
''No,'' she cried. She didn't mean it to sound as harsh as it did.
''But we haven't touched for weeks.''
It was now or never she thought. ''Mike I.......I.......want to finish with you.'' She cringed when she saw the look on his face.
''What? Why?''
''Because we’re not compatible.''
''Of course we are.''
''Look at us,'' she said. ''I'm arty and you're standing here in a business suit. You don't understand my world and I don't understand yours. Let's agree to be friends.''
''Bitch,'' he shouted. ''You absolute bitch. It's like you live on a different planet. Your world doesn't exist, playing all day long with modeling clay isn't real.''
''Well that's what I love. Now sod off and leave me alone.''
Mike raised his hand but thought better of it. He slammed his fist down on the table instead.
When he was gone, Marcella went to her studio and closed the door. She took a deep breath. This was the place she loved. The small wooden-clad room her grandmother had used as a studio. To Marcella, it was home, a place where she felt comfortable and safe. She looked at the sculpture she was working on. She was pleased with it. At the Academy, they had to study several artistic disciplines but sculpting was what she enjoyed most.
*****
Peter woke with a start. When he moved his head, he moaned and remembered the wine they'd drunk the night before. Lots of it.
He was intertwined in some woman whose name he couldn't remember. The previous evening she'd looked good, even beautiful. But as the gray light of morning crept through a chink in the curtains, she looked very different. He moved her arm from his waist and rolled from the bed. She moaned and looked across at him.
''What time is it?'' she asked.
He picked up his watch from the bedside table. ''Seven thirty,''
''Jesus.'' She leaped from the bed and began to gather her clothes from the floor where, the previous evening, they'd been hurriedly discarded.
Peter put an aspirin in a glass and waited for it to dissolve. Marion, now fully dressed, kissed him on the cheek and left. He took the medicine and went for a shower.
He was just about to go out of the door when his phone rang. It was his wife again. He put his hand to his forehead when she started to shout at him.
''It's not good enough Peter. You've upset him,'' she said referring to their son.
''I know. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to him.''
''It's too late now, the damage is done.''
Peter looked around his bleak apartment. He'd had a lovely four bedroom detached house with a large garden and great neighbors when he'd still been with his family.
''Well I can't turn the clock back. Tell him I'm sorry.'' Peter was beginning to lose patience with her. Whenever he'd made a mistake in the past, she would never let him forget it. Always reminding, prodding, driving him to the edge with her nagging.
''You're a good for nothing...''
Peter slammed the phone down before she could complete the sentence. He shouldn't have forgotten his son's birthday. But he loved him, and Max knew that as well. His ex was just using it to score points. Peter was dreading the divorce. He knew he would end up with nothing. She'd make sure of that.
''Mr. Flowers, you're late,'' the Dean said as Peter ran up the steps to the Academy of Arts. ''Do I smell alcohol?'' he added as Peter stood breathless in front of him.
''No Dean, I have a gum problem. The dentist advised me to cleanse with an alcohol based liquid.''
The Dean cocked his head in disbelief. ''Well hurry to your class.'' Peter walked away. ''Oh, I forgot,'' the Dean shouted after him. ''One of your class has been selected to represent the Academy in the National Sculpture Competition at the South Bank Art Museum.'' The Dean was surprised that the committee had selected one of Peter's students. Most of them were like Peter, talented but
lacking in motivation. What was it with artists, he thought? It seemed to him that most of them just gave up when they realized they couldn't be number one.
''Which one?'' Peter asked.
''Marcella Horner.''
The only real student I've ever had, he thought. She deserved better than to be taught by him; he knew that. He wasn't a good teacher anymore because his own motivation for sculpture had gone, and he didn't seem to be able to rediscover it. He blamed it on years of teaching mediocre students as well as his bad marriage. Since his wife threw him out, he'd not only lost motivation for his job, but for life.
He'd often thought of Marcella and felt guilty. Perhaps now she was to represent the school, he would hand her over to his colleague.
The classroom Peter taught in was a mess. He taught six at a time. The students each had a table and a stool and would face the front where Peter had a desk and blackboard.
When he arrived, they were waiting for him. Young fresh-faced, some enthusiastic some indifferent. All of them aware that Peter had artistic flair but no motivation.
''Carry on where we left off yesterday,'' he said as he put his satchel on his desk. The students had assumed he would say that and were already busy working on various articles. Peter looked at Marcella. She was wearing a flower print summer dress. It was short, well above the knee. ''Marcella, can I have a word with you?'' he asked. Marcella looked up. ''In private,'' he said pointing to the door. Marcella followed him into the corridor.
''Congratulations.''
''For what?''
Obviously, the Dean hadn't told her yet. ''Don't you know?''
''Know what?''
That morning Marcella had decided to make an extra effort with her appearance. As a single she was going to make sure she looked good. Not that she wanted a relationship, it was more a fresh start, a new chapter.
''You have been chosen by the committee to represent the Academy in the National Sculpture Competition.''
Marcella's eyes widened, and a look of disbelief enveloped her face. ''No way,'' she said covering her mouth with her hand. ''Are you sure?''
''The Dean told me just now,'' Peter said.
''My God. Unbelievable.'' She was overwhelmed and threw her arms around Peter. ''Thank you.'' Surprised, he instinctively put his arm around her waist. Her scent and the feel of her waist through the thin dress made him realize what a beautiful human-being she was. Not only highly talented but gorgeous to look at.
