Life Class

by Allan, Gilli

  ‘Sorry I threw a wobbly and left you in the lurch just as …’ Just as what? Just as the very thing she suddenly knew she wanted more than anything had seemed about to happen. Why had she called a panicky halt when that long, unused surge of desire began to build so strongly within her? Was it just cowardice – avoidance of the possibility of hurt? After all, he’d made it pretty clear that he didn’t see a relationship as a part of his life plan.

  But she was fooling herself. If nothing else, the last week had proved that her reasons for leaving were far more complex than doubt over whether entering a relationship with this man was a sensible idea. Her flight, for that was how she now saw it, was rooted in a decision she’d long since come to terms with. It had certainly never weighed on her conscience. But if it was so insignificant, then why had she spent the last week breaking down in tears every five minutes? She’d been planning to go to the life class – her art bag was packed and waiting by the door. But the prospect of facing him, with that part of her life history undisclosed, had suddenly seemed impossible. An hour ago, in Michael’s garden, her eyes had welled with tears just because she’d spotted a mother with a baby. What was happening to her? It was bizarre and inexplicable.

  In recent years, if regret ever surfaced, her habit was to blame Malcolm – the source of most of the disruptions to her life – before pushing the unwanted thoughts out of sight and out of mind. Back then, they’d just moved into their first premises, with a big mortgage to pay and a business to get off the ground. His view on the subject was unequivocal. At the time she’d been grateful for his decisiveness and agreed, if pressed, that it was the only sensible action to take.

  And then there’d been Stefan’s admission. It was shocking, so why had he told her? It was as if he needed her to know the worst. He couldn’t have guessed how painfully his story chimed with her own. Her grip tightened around the jasmine. She didn’t want to face him. She had to face him. Looking towards the barn, she saw the creepers – brutally cut back when she first came here – making a bid to scramble up over it again. One of the massive doors stood half open but from out here, in the bright sunshine, the interior was as black as a cave, impossible to see if there was anyone inside.

  The radio was on. It sounded like poetry. Sunday afternoon? Radio 4? Stefan was sitting with his back to the door. At her soft knock on the ancient, grooved wood, he started and looked around. His eyes widened. She was suddenly embarrassed by what she was wearing. Though she’d taken care in choosing it, she now felt over-dressed and foolish – like the time in her childhood when she’d worn her favourite flouncy frock to a friend’s party only to find everyone else in jeans. What did he think, she wondered, to see her silhouetted against the sunny front garden, a plant in her hands? Stefan turned the radio off.

  ‘I’ve brought you this,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘It’s summer jasmine. A peace offering. I’m sorry. I’m later than I thought I’d be.’

  Stefan looked confused. As he stood, pushing back his chair, she saw he’d been working on a female nude. Set on a stand that raised it a few inches above the surface of the table, the clay figure was much smaller than the sculptures of his she’d already seen. Beside the stand was an open bag of clay, and further away, almost as if growing from a heavy stalk of wood, was the bust of an old man.

  She nodded towards the work in progress. ‘May I watch?’

  ‘It’s only a maquette. An idea for a larger piece. Peace offering?’ he queried.

  ‘Fran and I stopped for a cream tea.’ Then realising he’d take this as her answer, she added, ‘I’m sorry for the way I rushed off the other night. It wasn’t fair. What must you have thought?’

  ‘I thought I was the one owing an apology. When I saw you’d collected your car, I presumed you wanted to avoid me.’

  ‘I had a taxi drop me here on Tuesday morning to pick it up. I needed to get to work. You had nothing to apologise for.’

  ‘You were so very sad, so desolate. I was afraid you felt I’d tried to take advantage of the situation … of you?’ He sat down, drawing his hand down over his face, leaving a dusty pink deposit over his eyebrows and beard. ‘Then you didn’t come to the life class on Friday. You weren’t ill, were you? Fran didn’t know.’

  How to describe the helpless, hopeless sobbing? ‘Just … things on my mind.’

  Stefan had resumed modelling the figure. She watched his hands smoothing over the glistening clay, kneading and moulding, scraping away here, slapping on extra there. The figure was sitting straight-backed, her arms raised and her crossed wrists resting on top of the head.

  ‘How did Dom get on at his interview?’ she asked. ‘Fran said he seemed quite upbeat. We’ve just been to Michael’s open garden, by the way. It’s why I’m dressed up like this,’ she added, trying now to disclaim her outfit.

  ‘Sounds as if it went OK.’ Stefan glanced up at her. ‘You look lovely.’

  ‘His place is fabulous,’ Dory swiftly continued, feeling her breath constrict in her chest. ‘You should have gone.’

  ‘Even if I’d remembered, I wasn’t really in the mood.’ His hands were sweeping around the torso, thumbs smoothing over the breasts, the swell of the buttocks, digging down into the groin. A pang echoed in her own body.

  ‘I’ve always known he had money, but I hadn’t realised quite how rich he is till I saw his house and garden. He’s definitely someone you ought to cultivate. I bought this there,’ she added, putting the plant on the table. Stefan looked up, raising pink smudged eyebrows. ‘What I need to do, before anything else,’ she went on, her mouth racing ahead of her thoughts, ‘is to photograph all your pieces with a decent camera and upload them to the website. I’ve already got the basics in place for you to look at.’

  She saw the slow passage of his cupped palms over the figure’s curves, the way he stroked caressingly over its hips. The pads of his thumbs pushed into the hollows of the pelvis and on, over the mound of Venus. Again, damp fingers slowly followed the contours down into the valley between her thighs. Sweat prickled Dory’s top lip and an itchy heat had begun, triggering a sympathetic pulse.

  ‘I know the Icarus series is handy but maybe …’ Concentrate, Dory told herself, aware her voice had gone up an octave. Stop watching his hands, ‘… maybe we could make a start on getting the rest out of the cellar.’

  ‘Hang on.’ He pushed the sculpting stand back across the table, wiped his hands on a ragged, brown-stained towel, then turned his chair to face hers. ‘Go back three spaces, Dory. I’m having trouble following you. Before anything else we need to understand what happened on Monday night.’

  Or what didn’t happen, she thought, suddenly noticing his crumpled shirt. On one side of his throat the collar pointed straight up, and the other was folded back inside the neck.

  ‘You turning up was a complete surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘And you must have thought the worst when I started to blub as soon as you opened the door. I’m so sorry about that. I’d had the most horrible trip home. I’d a sick headache and had to change trains. The whole journey, all I could think about …’ She stopped, swallowing back the words. ‘Then, when I arrived at your place, I couldn’t make you hear.’

  ‘I was watching a noisy film.’

  ‘I wanted so very much to bring you the good news and I thought you were out or asleep in bed.’

  ‘So you felt your way round the house in the dark.’

  ‘It was such a relief when you opened the door.’ ‘That you burst out crying! It doesn’t matter. I didn’t expect to hear anything till Tuesday. Even then I assumed you’d phone. A few seconds of suspense was nothing.’

  ‘But then I started boohooing again when … It’s not like me. I’m not usually so emotional. I’m supposed to be the cool, calm one in the family.’

  ‘I realise that. It’s why I was concerned. Particularly when you insisted you had to leave.’ His look was questioning. ‘It would have been easy to make up a bed for you …’ He s
topped speaking, and Dory wondered if he was thinking what she was thinking. That if she’d stayed, there’d have been no question of making up a bed. His would have been where she spent the rest of the night. Not yet ready to explain or analyse further, she looked away.

  The barn smelt earthy. Did the damp organic smell emanate from the clay or from the ancient stone walls? To one side of the table, the finished bust of the old man was a powerful third presence in the room. His jowly, craggy face lowered at them. Dory understood that the art cognoscenti would regard it – probably a bit sniffily – as a representational work, but it was a stylised representation, like the other pieces of Stefan’s sculpture she’d seen. The striated texture he’d introduced into the surface of the clay gave the piece life and expression. It conveyed far more humanity than the smooth, cool perfection of pre-modernist sculpture.

  ‘Your father?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. May I introduce you to Ladislav Novak.’

  ‘He looks a bit fierce.’

  Stefan half smiled and nodded. ‘You could say that. I brought him back here to finish. I couldn’t seem to get anything significant done at Wyvern.’ He pushed his fingers back through his hair. ‘I don’t want to put you on the spot, Dory, but …?’

  ‘I know,’ she agreed, without meeting his eyes. Smoothing her hand over the surface of the table, she felt the dry pills of clay crumble into powder under her palm.

  ‘I’ll pack this away then we’ll talk properly.’ Stefan picked up the spray bottle and began misting the unfinished nude, turning it on its stand until every surface was dewed with water. The final squirt coldly prickled the back of Dory’s hand. Dropping a plastic bag over the figure, Stefan lifted the board it stood on and tucked the edges of the bag underneath. He sat down again, pulling his chair forward till they were sitting knee to knee. Brushing droplets of water from her hand, Dory stared into his face.

  ‘Do you mind …?’ Not waiting for permission, she leant forward and rearranged his collar, then brushed the clay dust from his brow and beard, appreciating the soft brush of hair, the texture and warmth of skin against her fingertips. Reaching up, he took hold of her hand and didn’t let go.

  ‘When it seemed you couldn’t bear to stay under my roof for another moment, I thought I’d blown it,’ he said. ‘Particularly when you didn’t even turn up for class. But I needed you to know about my past.’

  ‘I’d had too much to drink. Made me over-emotional. Your story was painful. It hurt you to tell me, didn’t it? I had to think it over and absorb it. On the face of it you were callous, but … you were a different person then, at a different stage of your life. What’s the quote? “The past is another country; they do things differently there.” I can only make a judgement on who you are now.’

  ‘Ah, you’re a moral relativist?’

  ‘Life isn’t a simple obstacle course of black or white. We all have to negotiate through shades of grey.’ She swallowed. ‘You’d have to be a saint not to.’

  ‘The fiercest proselytisers for moral absolutism are often the hypocrites. Like the priests who rant from the pulpit, condemning homosexuality and conveniently forgetting the choir boys they’ve molested!’

  ‘Exactly. We’re all flawed. There aren’t many able to look back, in all conscience, and claim a clean sheet. Doesn’t everyone have regrets? Things that we’re ashamed of?’ There was no way to avoid it. He’d shown her his skeletons, she needed to show him hers. Why, otherwise, had she agreed to come? She might prefer not to confront the past, but it was time to reveal a decision made long ago, even if it meant lifting the scab off a wound that had gone deeper than she’d noticed at the time.

  If she stepped back from a personal engagement with the subject, it would be easier. Detach, focus on something else, she told herself. The face she was looking at was as good a distraction as any. So often in the past she’d wondered at his grim, taut expression – brows drawn together, mouth compressed. In recent weeks she’d seen a different face, a relaxed, open face that smiled and even laughed. The planes and angles were no less marked, but the line of his mouth had softened into fuller curves, the expression in his copper-flecked brown eyes was warmer, more engaged. And she now found herself thinking how the colour of his skin – that rich, creamy olive awarded to only a few lucky red heads – was emphasised by the pitch-dark mahogany of his beard and hair. Dory closed her eyes. It would be too easy to allow a diversion from what she had to tell him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘What? No, nothing. I was just thinking. I’m in no position to judge you.’

  Dropping her eyes from the question in his, she looked at their linked hands. The time had come. She took a long breath, sliding her feet behind the rail of her chair. She curled her toes until the smooth wooden bar was pressing hard against her insteps.

  ‘I was in my twenties. Malcolm and I had just moved into our first premises.’ She swallowed and took a breath. ‘Starting a family hadn’t been an issue. I hadn’t a strong urge towards motherhood. I was as committed to the business as Malcolm, but on discovering …’ Dory looked up at Stefan, conscious of the cracks invading her voice, ‘… discovering I was pregnant, he was utterly horrified. Dead set against the prospect. So, no contest,’ she concluded huskily, with a shrug. ‘Practicality won out over sentiment.’

  ‘You had a termination.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Yes. And until a few days ago I didn’t think it had affected me deeply. I don’t regret it,’ she said more forcefully, not wanting pity. ‘It was the wrong time, but …’

  ‘I know what you’re saying,’ Stefan said quickly, as if wanting to help her out. ‘It’s that dichotomy between the rational and the emotional. Perhaps you’ve lived too long with the former?’

  ‘On Monday, when Malcolm and Gabriella told me …’ Dory tried to return his smile, with a baffled head shake. ‘Stupidly, it was the one thing I never foresaw, never prepared myself for. What could be more natural than to have a child together? But …’ Her voice nearly failed. ‘It really shook me.’

  ‘Ah.’ He squeezed her hands. ‘I half guessed.’

  ‘But Malcolm had definitely ruled it out. Why now? Why her?’

  ‘So, not just a shock? An insult? And not the best time for me to make my big confession and unload my guilt onto you. No wonder you broke down.’

  ‘But I couldn’t rationalise why I felt like that. It wasn’t as if I’ve ever regretted the decision. Perhaps it was just timing? A sudden hormonal surge. Something to do with my body clock.’

  ‘Objectivity and logic is all very well, but we’re not robots. We’re allowed emotions. Allowed to let our hearts rule our heads now and again. Even men.’

  ‘Now you know the worst. And maybe …’ Again, she felt the wobble to her composure. ‘Maybe Chrissie was a better woman than me. Maybe she brought up your child, and he’s a happy, healthy, well-adjusted teenager with a mother who loves him.’

  ‘And maybe she put him up for adoption, or he grew up in care and is now just another lost soul on the streets?’ His expression tightened. ‘It’s useless to speculate.’

  ‘You have to forgive yourself.’ They were both leaning slightly forward. Dory laid her free hand over his.

  ‘Perhaps you do too?’ He added his other hand to the knot where their knees met. Dory leant even further towards him. Stefan matched the movement, his head tilting. They stayed like this, a few centimetres apart, for several moments, before Stefan raised his hand to her cheek. She saw his gaze move over her face in an intense, almost unbearable scrutiny. Relieved that he’d accepted her admission without needing reasons and excuses, Dory closed her eyes. They were quits.

  Now she only felt his examination of her face. His thumb smoothed over her closed eyelid, his fingers touched her nose, her mouth, the hollow between her bottom lip and chin, tracing and discovering the contours. She heard his long, sustained intake of breath before the touch of his mouth on hers. This time, they were both stone
cold sober. And this time, the kiss was a simple meeting of mouths, a gentle exploration of the velvety texture of the other’s lips. Their faces parted. Stefan frowned, giving his head an almost imperceptible shake, as if clearing his thoughts.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m new to all of this. Well, not new exactly, but definitely out of practice.’ His unguarded openness humbled her.

  ‘So am I.’ Surprised by a sudden flare of almost hysterical frivolity, she bit back the urge to suggest, Let’s practise together. Was this what she really wanted, an affair with a sculptor with issues? Not least of which was his apparent determination to remain a free agent. He’d implied that she should sometimes give in to her irrational urges. If he’d had a premonition about where the conversation was leading, this could be discounted as special pleading. Except it was a view she tended to agree with, and anyway, was he that calculating?

  She told herself to stop worrying what his agenda might or might not be. She had to think of herself. Why not allow her heart to rule her head for once? After all, she was a grown-up. It was childish to expect or even to yearn for ‘happy ever afters’. She had needs, ones which had been depressed for too long, but which now were firing off urgent nerve-tingling salvos. Their faces moved closer.

  Like their first kiss, it began gently, but the tender quality was soon overwhelmed by a more demanding hunger. Stefan’s chair legs squealed across the floor as he pushed up into a standing position, trying to draw her up with him. Overbalancing, she fell against him, clumsily struggling to disentangle her feet from the cross strut of her chair. He held her upright as she kicked free and the chair fell over. Neither of them laughed.

  ‘If we carry on like that …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ll get backache.’

  ‘So, what do you suggest?’

  ‘So, we either stop doing it. Continue standing up, or …?’

  ‘Move to a more comfortable location?’ They looked at one another.

  He didn’t answer, just pulled her back into an embrace, his mouth fastening on hers. Their open-mouthed kisses were now damp and yielding. The urge to taste, to suck in the other’s essence, overwhelmed all else. Tongues touched and probed. They twisted together, plunging deep in hungry exploration. Dory’s body cleaved to his, hips thrusting forward, arms clutching. His response matched hers, making her well aware of his arousal. At length, they released one another and stepped back, stunned and short of breath.