by Allan, Gilli
Fran looked across the table at her sister and nodded. She was aware she’d just been sitting there, not joining in with the general chatter. Michael was simply being Michael. No point in arguing with his music hall bigotry.
‘You’re very quiet today. Do you fancy going to this?’ She waved the sheet. These days, their relationship was perfectly amicable, but the ease had gone out of it. It was now the polite, superficial friendliness of acquaintances, not sisters. The outings, and the confidences, had ceased. ‘Michael’s open garden thing?’
So, my sister is trying to build bridges? Fran thought. Admittedly, she’d love to see Michael’s house. The class had heard about it – its renovations and refurbishments, his tussles with the builders – for years. She would have preferred to be invited as a friend, but it seemed paying to get into the garden was the best on offer for the moment. Better than nothing. So why not go together? If they both intended to visit the garden, it would be patently stupid to go separately. Anyway, it was weeks away. A lot could happen. Another chilling bolt shot down her spine.
‘This is great, Fran.’ Stefan spoke directly to her as she entered the room. Dom returned to his own easel. The two had patently been discussing her drawing before everyone reassembled. Typical that he should single out for special praise the one drawing she’d ruined.
‘It’s very bold for you,’ he continued. ‘You’ve really taken me at my word and abandoned your usual control.’
‘I made a mistake,’ Fran said automatically. ‘I wasn’t concentrating.’
‘Maybe, but isn’t that what I’m trying to get you to do? Disengage the conscious mind. Look at the result. It’s spectacular. That colour is glorious, isn’t it? I particularly like the way you’ve over-drawn it with the black ink.’
‘I had to, to redefine the line.’
‘It works well – a very strong piece of work. I particularly love the ink splatters, as if you got really angry with it.’
‘I did get angry! I couldn’t control the fucking twig!’ Giving up hope of rescuing the drawing, she’d stubbornly continued to use the fibrous stump she’d been left with after it broke. Stefan surprised her by laughing. Other students looked round curiously. The tutor laughing was a rare sound.
‘Good. Perhaps anger is what you need. Eat your heart out, Ralph Steadman! You’ve done what I want everyone to do. Never give up and start again. Work through your mistakes and corrections. No guarantees, but you’ll often be pleasantly surprised, and have a far greater sense of achievement, when you see what you’ve ended up with.’ A mobile phone rang. He looked around for the culprit, then, realising the sound was coming from the chair where his leather jacket was hanging, he apologised. ‘Sorry, everyone, that’s mine.’ Grabbing the phone and bringing it to his ear, Stefan quit the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, when he re-entered a few seconds later. ‘I need to go down to the office. Carry on as you were. A great set of drawings. Get a new sheet of paper. You’d do better to stick with cartridge if you want a bright, strong, contrasty effect, like Fran’s here. I’ll leave it up to you and Dermot to decide on the next pose.’
Dermot had only just emerged from behind the screen, completely naked. He didn’t say anything, but glanced around at the members of the class, who were all now back in position. He turned the chair and sat down facing Fran. In the absence of any other comments, it was Rachel who spoke up.
‘Could you give us a bit of a twist? Do you mind, um, Dermot?’
Dermot said nothing, but stood up again and moved the direction of the chair slightly away from Fran. Sitting down again, he twisted towards her, resting his arm on the back. A profound silence descended.
‘That’s fine for me, thanks.’ Rachel said after a pause. ‘Everyone else happy?’
Grunts and muttered agreement came from various quarters. Although Fran noticed the glances going back and forth between the students positioned beyond Dermot, she was too preoccupied to speculate on what the raised eyebrows meant. She’d chosen a fresh twig, but hadn’t bothered to select a different ink. Why bother? She’d lost faith in producing anything she wanted to keep. Liking the vivid colour was the one thing she and Stefan could agree on.
But which colour to use or choice of twig was just a temporary diversion. Her thoughts plunged back into their previous turmoil.
I no where U live. An icy chill washed through her again. What had db meant? Was he serious? Was it a tease or …? Or a threat? She recalled thinking that a lot could happen in a few weeks. But what? What could he do? Tell Peter? Try to force her to go off with him? Get a grip, woman! He could only affect her if he could track her down to her real-life address. Was that possible if all someone had was the virtual version? Of course, the real db would have known where she’d lived as a girl, and from her emails, might have deduced she lived in the same area … but that was a long way from pinpointing her actual address. Had she said anything that had given her away? Did he even know her married name?
Trouble was, she could not recall exactly what she had or hadn’t said in her emails to db. In the early days she’d written long, discursive messages, had edited and re-edited, before she decided to click send. She’d a vague memory of mentioning the village, and had she said she lived in a rectory in another email? If she’d been that stupid, he could easily find her! There was no way to check. She’d been regularly double-deleting everything in her sent box and inbox, just in case Peter … Perhaps she should ask Dory about retrieving deleted emails, so she could reread the correspondence. But what story could she come up with to explain why she needed do this?
Preparing to do battle with the fresh twig, Fran wondered why their tutor felt it necessary to send them back to pre-history. Why not pursue the idea to its natural conclusion and find a cave wall they could daub on? They could even make their own pigments by grinding clay. Hadn’t he heard of progress? It was a wonderful thing. Even a quill would be preferable to this stupid stick! She raised her eyes to the model. Attention entirely consumed by her churning thoughts, she’d not registered the deliberate way Dermot had positioned himself. Until now. She found herself transfixed in the beam of his intense stare.
So many months had elapsed she’d almost forgotten her sister’s problems during the initial autumn-term lesson. At the time, her attitude had been amusement; she’d even said she envied her sister. Faced with the same problem now, she was better able to understand why Dory had been disconcerted. But she couldn’t allow herself to be any less bold. She could cope with a weirdo model who stared a bit and … Oh my God! … whose cock was stiffening and lengthening even as she glanced at it.
It would be too disruptive to move. This was a full class and there wasn’t enough room to slot in at a different vantage point. It was unfair to ask anyone to change places now they’d all started work. Anyway, it would be utterly wimpy; everyone, including the model, would know why she’d done it. Grit your teeth, she told herself, squaring her shoulders. If Dory can do it, so can you.
She began to draw with the twig, devoutly wishing the model would stop staring at her. There was nothing attractive about his big-nosed, baggy-eyed face, but he obviously thought different. His insufferably smug expression seemed to say, Aren’t I gorgeous? Don’t you love looking at my gleaming, hairless, muscled body? Aren’t you consumed by lust to see my erection?
The inference from Dory’s account was that the tumescence had fluctuated; he’d never developed a complete stiffy. Of course, on that occasion, he’d not chosen the pose. He’d not made the decision which woman he wanted to look at him. Recalling now how he’d turned his chair in her direction, she was forced to confront the implication that she’d been picked. This was Dermot’s mating display. Some poof, she thought, recalling Michael’s coffee-break speculations. How big was he going to get? His cock was standing proud of his body now, and bobbing upwards. If this had happened to her a few months ago, she believed she’d have found it funny. Not now. The remembrance of that giant pha
llus on the S&M website came back to her. He couldn’t grow that big, could he?
He still stared, still seemed to be trying to engage with her eyes, to force her to acknowledge complicity in what was happening. Fran’s hand was shaking. The line she was putting down wobbled and died on the page. The ink was absorbed back into the stick. She no longer saw her drawing. What was his name? Somewhere deep inside her, a tremble began. Dermot? Dermot what? They’d been talking about him at coffee. Michael had said something about him being Irish. She hadn’t really been listening. Brian! Dermot Brian. DB. Oh no! Oh fuck! Oh shitting fuck! The twig fell. Her hand flailed stupidly, as if she thought she could catch it. Instead, her hand knocked into the jam jar of water. It toppled with a clatter, spilling water into the palette and over the table. Pink water slopped through the slats and puddled onto the floor, splashing Liz.
‘Oh God! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Oh God!’ Fran stepped back abruptly, knocking into a chair behind her. It shunted against another table with a resounding bang.
‘It’s OK. It was only a splash. I never wear anything good for art class,’ Liz said, brushing unconcernedly at her jeans’ hem. Fran hardly heard her reassurance. She’d turned away wildly. Finding her route to the door barred by an obstacle course of chairs, tables, and easels, she began heaving them aside, unwilling to divert around them. Her head was buzzing. Have to get away. Now! Numb to the amount of noise and disruption she was causing, she dragged and pushed furniture out of her way. Chair and table legs locked together and squealed across the vinyl. An unused easel, with a large drawing board attached, toppled and fell. Fran did not stop to see what effect her violent exit had had on the class. All she knew was that she had to get out. She yanked open the door and ran along the corridor, down the stairs, through the reception hall, and pushed out through the double doors.
Chapter Thirty-two - Dory
Frozen, hand poised halfway to the paper, Dory watched her sister’s frantic, blundering exit. She flinched as the easel crashed to the floor with a reverberating clatter. What was up? It was an occupational hazard to knock over a jam jar. Everyone here had done it some time. Unless there was something else?
Only seconds passed. The model still sat in pose, his back to Dory, but the rest – all apart from Dom, who smirked annoyingly – appeared as gobsmacked as she was. Eyebrows were raised, looks were exchanged. A murmur of concerned conversation bubbled up. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘Is she all right?’
‘What happened?’
‘Dory, dear, is Fran ill?’
Dory jumped up and pushed past Rachel with a muttered apology. She was across the room within moments but glanced back at Dermot before leaving the room. His expression was impassive, his genitals partially quiescent. Judging by her own experience with this model, it was a fair guess he’d had an erection only moments before. Was that what had upset Fran? It seemed an extreme overreaction given what she’d said on the subject. At this moment, the only certainty was that she’d been very distressed. The imperative was to get to her – the cause was a secondary concern.
Dory ran along the corridor towards the corner that opened to the stairwell. Too late, she heard rapid footfalls. She, and whoever was ascending the final flight, were on a collision course. In the inevitable mêlée of arms and legs, she experienced a sick lurch as her centre of gravity was displaced. A firm grip steadied her. Something dropped.
‘Hey, hey, hey! What’s going on?’
For a brief moment, she was only aware of strong arms around her, the touch of skin, of cotton and denim, warm breath on her face, the scent of a male. Looking up confirmed his identity.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I …’ She pushed Stefan away, more to catch her breath and regain control than a rejection of his assistance. His eyes narrowed and he stooped to pick up a file from the floor. Inconsequentially she noticed his rolled-back sleeves, his bare forearms.
‘No need for apology,’ he said. ‘My fault. There should be a keep-left policy on these stairs.’ He pushed the splayed papers back into the cardboard folder with the heel of his hand then looked up, a wry twist to his mouth. ‘To coin a phrase, we really must stop meeting like this. Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to …’
‘… Wasn’t looking where I was going.’ Already, Dory was sidestepping him and moving on. ‘Got to go. Sorry.’
He called after her. ‘What’s up?’
Halfway down the stairs, Dory turned. ‘Fran. Didn’t you see her?’
‘Caught a glimpse of someone in a hurry. Didn’t see who. What’s happened? Is she all right?’
‘She’s … I don’t know … she’s upset. I’ll find out.’
Outside the old school, Fran was nowhere in sight. Dory walked quickly towards the car parking area, looking for her sister’s car. She was in the driving seat, arms folded on the steering wheel, head slumped forward. The passenger door wouldn’t open so Dory tapped gently on the glass and saw the jolt of shock go through her. A suspicious eye peeked over her arm. Dory tapped again and smiled encouragingly. Her sister unlocked the car.
No more than five minutes later, Dory was returning to the art room to apologise to Stefan and to collect their belongings. On her way, she puzzled over Fran’s initial explanations. Garbled and confusing though it was, she’d gathered enough to realise that whatever was troubling her sister – real or imagined – was not going to be resolved with a few platitudinous reassurances.
‘I think I … we … better call it a day,’ she said quietly to Stefan. ‘Fran’s had … well, she’s upset. I can’t explain what’s happened. I don’t really understand myself.’ Dory turned away, beginning to pick up the palette and upturned jar from the slatted table beside Fran’s easel. ‘This is a mess.’ She made a face, examining fingers already stained pink. ‘And it’s all dripped through onto the floor. I’d better get some paper towels.’
Stefan laid a hand on her arm. ‘I’ll clear up, get the mop out. Don’t want any more run-ins with the cleaners. You concentrate on your sister. And Dory,’ he added, ‘I hope she’s OK.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Dory reassured Fran for the umpteenth time. ‘What’s one drawing out of the multitude I’ve produced since last September?’ The two were sitting in the window of a Starbucks in the local town – not their usual choice of venue but in the current emergency, the nearest. ‘I can always pick it up later,’ Dory continued.
‘The lesson will be over. The classroom locked.’
She sighed at her sister’s determination to see the worst. ‘OK. My drawing will probably still be there when we go back next week.’
‘I’m never going back. It would be too embarrassing.’
‘Of course you are. Don’t be silly. Now, when you’ve drunk your coffee, you can try to explain. No hurry,’ she added, as Fran began to shake her head.
‘I’m really, really sorry, Dory,’ Fran said again, making no move to pick up the mug. ‘You must think I’m so stupid.’
‘How can I think anything? I don’t understand, Fran. Whatever it is, it can’t really have anything to do with dodgy Dermot, can it? He’s such a sad little exhibitionist! Not unless you two were in a secret relationship? Bloody hell! The mind boggles.’ Dory smiled at the image she’d conjured. ‘It would be impossible to get intimate with the bloke. Can you imagine? He’d slither out of your grasp like a bar of soap.’ Fran had begun to weep again, but she shook her head, tears now mixed with snuffly giggles. ‘And have you noticed the miasma that follows him around?’ Dory persisted, pleased to see her sister’s returning sense of humour. ‘Yuck! Talk about old ashtrays! You were letting your imagination run away with you. I’ve never even spoken to him, have you?’
Fran straightened. ‘No. No, I haven’t. But he was staring at me … and he started to get a boner.’
‘You had been warned.’
‘But it got, you know, really erect!’
Dory was still baffled by this story, unconvinced that
her bold and sassy sister should have been so upset, but she smiled encouragingly. ‘He obviously fancies you more than he fancied me.’
‘No.’ Fran was shaking her head again. ‘You see, he seemed to position himself deliberately. As if he’d selected me.’
‘Be flattered. That’s how he gets his kicks. He chose the prettiest woman to exhibit himself to.’ Fran gave another half-laugh, more like a cough. She didn’t argue, Dory noticed, with being the prettiest woman in class. ‘But I began to wonder if there was more to it. It’s hard to explain. You’re going to think me such a fool.’
Dory looked her sister in the eye. ‘Just try to explain.’
Fran drew in a long shuddering breath. ‘Do you remember me talking about Dan Brown?’
‘Who?’
‘My old boyfriend. We split up before I met Peter.’ Gradually, in fits and starts, the story began to come out. Dory’s jaw dropped.
‘So that’s what you’ve been doing. Emailing this Dan bloke! Where was it all heading? Did you plan to meet?’
‘No. I don’t know. A part of me wanted to meet him. I had this fantasy …’
‘You’re telling me!’
‘Oh, don’t be like that, Dory! I thought you were trying to be sympathetic.’
‘My sympathy is draining away,’ Dory said, crisply. ‘What about poor Peter? Had you thought how hurt he would be by all this?’
‘He wasn’t ever meant to know. It was exciting because it was secret.’
‘Because it was all in your head! As for keeping secrets, your obsession with the internet hasn’t gone unnoticed by Peter. He’s even raised the subject with me. He may not know what’s been going on, but he sure as hell knows something is!’
Fran had taken on her guilty schoolgirl expression, profoundly irritating Dory. This was more serious than that.
‘I still don’t get the connection with Dermot? What upset you?’
‘DB,’ Fran said.
‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.’
‘His initials are DB. Dermot Brian. Dan Brown.’
