Life Drawing for Beginners Read online

  He had to choose one of the Tuesday classes, because Tuesday was the only evening he could make his escape, and he needed an escape, so life drawing it was. He made his way to the room where the enrollment was taking place—and as he walked in and drew attention to himself, he realized that he’d made a colossal mistake.

  What had he been thinking? Who said he had to sign up for any evening class at all? Couldn’t he sit in a pub for a few hours, couldn’t he go to the cinema if he wanted a break from home once a week?

  As he opened his mouth to say thanks but no thanks, the large woman beamed at him.

  “No, we’re not full,” she said. “You’re very welcome. Do come in.” She took a step towards him, putting out her hand. “I’m Audrey Matthews, the teacher. Come and let me introduce the others.”

  And she looked so genuinely happy to see him that he found himself ridiculously unable to disappoint her. He stepped forward, his heart sinking.

  “James Sullivan,” he said.

  The name felt odd, but he’d get used to it.

  —————

  This was going to be a laugh. Irene signed the enrollment form with a flourish. Talk about eye candy, when all she’d come for was a bit of fun, something different to do on a Tuesday night. Pity the Pole wasn’t stripping for them—now that would be interesting. Bet he had some body under that tight black T-shirt and faded chinos.

  All in all, today had shaped up pretty well. Not that she’d fancy driving into the gatepost every morning, but it had turned out to have its upside.

  “Not too bad,” the mechanic had said, running his hand along the dent. Oil under his nails. Short, broad fingers. “Not too deep. Could be worse.”

  The sleeves of his overalls pushed up past his elbows, arms covered in dark hairs, muscles taut. Probably didn’t need to work out, plenty of stretching and weight lifting with his job.

  “You’ll have to leave it with us,” he’d said.

  Irene had stood close enough to let him get her perfume. Men went mad for musk. “How long?”

  He’d leaned against the car, arms folded. A head full of dark hair, cut short the way she liked it. Brown eyes. Bet he tanned as soon as he looked at the sun.

  “Thursday at least, we’re busy right now. Give us a call Thursday morning.”

  “You couldn’t do it any quicker?” she’d asked, a hand reaching up to touch his arm oh-so-briefly. “It’s just that I use it a lot, for work.”

  Hard muscle, not an ounce of fat there.

  “I wouldn’t ask,” she’d said, flashing her newly cleaned teeth at him, “only it’s really awkward being without it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he’d said then. “Give us a call Wednesday morning.”

  “There you go.” Irene handed her form to the teacher, whose bright blue blouse with its tiny pink polka dots and horrendous turquoise flowery skirt were probably meant to be terribly artistic—​and that must be her yellow jacket slung over the back of that chair. How could anyone seriously wear that collection of colors and patterns all at once?

  Must be very liberating all the same, not to give a damn what you looked like.

  —————

  On the whole, Zarek Olszewski was quite happy living in Ireland. He accepted that the erratic weather system was what you got when you chose to live on a tiny island perched beside a huge ocean quite far up in the Northern Hemisphere. He’d grown accustomed to cars traveling on the wrong side of the road, and after four months he’d learned—just about—to live without his mother’s spicy dumplings and sauerkraut soup.

  He shared a small flat with two other immigrants, one of whom produced a very edible dinner each evening in return for ignoring every other household chore, an arrangement that suited all three perfectly.

  Zarek worked behind the counter in one of Carrickbawn’s fast-food outlets. His salary was modest, but his expenses were few. By shopping almost exclusively at Lidl and avoiding the pubs and restaurants of Carrickbawn, he managed to send a small monthly bank draft to his parents in Poland, and he squirreled away what little was left towards his eventual return home.

  His single weekly extravagance was a €2 lottery card every Friday on his way to work. By the end of August he’d claimed two free cards and had won €4 enough times to keep investing in them. And just this morning, he’d scratched away the silver covering as usual and revealed €250 three times. Two hundred and fifty euro!

  His first thought was to send the entire amount to his parents—​what did he need it for?—but later that day, as he struggled during his fifteen-minute break through Carrickbawn’s free local paper, the Senior College’s autumn schedule of evening classes had caught his eye. Life drawing, he’d read, and his pocket dictionary had confirmed that it was what he thought it was, and enrollment was that very evening. The lure had proved irresistible.

  A hundred and fifty euro would be a perfectly respectable windfall. His mother could fill the freezer, his father could get a new pair of trousers. They’d be perfectly happy with €150.

  And now he was signed up, and the teacher was friendly and jolly, and he looked forward to the classes. He read the materials list for the second time and wondered again if he could ask the teacher what a putty rubber was.

  —————

  Audrey bundled the five enrollment forms together and slipped them into her canvas bag. She tucked checks and cash carefully into the bag’s side pocket and zipped it closed. She took her yellow jacket from the back of the chair and slid her arms into it and fastened the red toggle buttons.

  She locked the classroom door and returned the key to Vincent at the reception desk, who told her that two people had asked him to lodge a formal complaint about the naked drawing classes to the college authorities.

  “Lord,” said Audrey, alarmed. “What should I do?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Some old people just love to have a moan.” Vincent was seventy-five if he was a day. “If they come back, I’ll say someone is looking into it. See you Tuesday.”

  In the car park Audrey unlocked the chain she’d wrapped around the front wheel of her newly repaired moped. She placed her bag in the basket and puttered down the short driveway of Carrickbawn Senior College. Five people signed up, five checks paid over—no, four. Zarek, bless him, had paid in cash.

  Nice to have a non-Irish student in the class, made it feel quite cosmopolitan. After several months in Ireland, Zarek’s command of English was still a little precarious; and of course the language employed during the classes could well be a little specialized, “putty rubber” being a case in point. Maybe Audrey could suggest he bring a dictionary to the classes, to make sure he understood the instructions.

  She wondered what he did to earn a living. What did any of them do, these five strangers who’d opted to spend two hours a week in one another’s company from now till Halloween? No doubt she’d find out in due course.

  Interesting, too, to see how the dynamics would go, who’d get along and who’d have nothing in common. Would the women stick together, or would there be personality clashes? Would any attractions surface? Imagine if one of the three women made a play for Zarek; they’d all looked gratified to have him in the class. There might be a torrid affair—

  She stopped. Listen to her, creating drama where there was none. They were simply a group of adults sharing a common interest, planning to spend a couple of relaxing hours together each week, no pressure to be anything else but amiable companions. Torrid affair, indeed.

  But it would be nice if they bonded as a group; they might get quite chummy over the six weeks. There might even be a call for an advanced life drawing class after Halloween—if they weren’t run out of town before then by Mr. and Mrs. Scandalized.

  And purely as an observation, with no hidden agenda whatsoever, James Sullivan had a beautiful soft Northern accent, and hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring. And looked to be about Audrey’s age.

  Oh, he was probably attached, most pe
ople were by the time they reached his age, and lots of men didn’t bother with rings. She wished he’d taken off the hat—not that it mattered at all what kind of hair he had, but Audrey would have liked to see it. Presumably all would be revealed on Tuesday—he hardly wore the hat around the clock.

  And speaking of all being revealed, there was still the problem of a model—or rather, of no model. So far Audrey had had three inquiries over the phone, one male and two female. The male had lost interest when he’d heard what money was being offered, and neither female had shown up for the subsequent face-to-face interview.

  On the plus side there’d been another phone call just this afternoon, and a meeting had been arranged for the following day. With the first class looming, Audrey was keeping her fingers crossed that Jackie Moore turned up at least.

  She’d sounded pleasant on the phone, and hadn’t seemed to mind the pay. Maybe a little unsure about the actual stripping, but that was to be expected. Happily, it wasn’t in Audrey’s nature to worry unduly—she’d hope for the best, like she always did, and see what happened.

  And if Jackie didn’t work out and nobody else responded to the ad, there was always Terence, who taught science at Carrickbawn Secondary School and who’d been a little too eager to offer his services as soon as Audrey had mentioned the classes in the staff room. Terence would certainly not have been Audrey’s first choice, but he’d do in a pinch—as long as she kept a good eye on him.

  She motored unhurriedly along the early-evening streets, still quite bright just after eight o’clock. The thought of the winter months ahead didn’t alarm her. Winter brought big coal fires and deliciously spicy curries and rich meaty stews, or bowls of steaming soup to dip soft floury rolls into—not to mention the occasional hot port when she came home wet through and frozen to the bone.

  Summer’s food and drink, in her opinion, wasn’t a patch on winter’s. She’d never been a big fan of salads. Lettuce was just too leafy, no matter how you dressed it up. And she’d never really seen the point of cooking out of doors, with everything either burned or half cooked, and always the danger of food poisoning from carelessly barbecued chicken. And chilled white wine hurt her teeth; give her a glass of warm red any day.

  And this winter, she remembered with sudden delight, if all went according to plan, there would be two of them sitting in front of the fire. She considered making a detour just to have another look at him—but the pet shop was at least twenty minutes out of her way, and of course he wouldn’t be there at night.

  And she was starving, having eaten nothing since a tomato sandwich at four, and a steak and kidney pie was waiting at home. She loved steak and kidney pie, admittedly not the most nutritious of dinners—precooked in a tin like that, God only knew what kind of meat you were getting—but terribly tasty. And so handy, just whip off the lid and pop the pie into the oven, ready in no time.

  She increased her pressure slightly on the accelerator, causing her flowered skirt to billow out. She’d go there first thing in the morning and get him, she couldn’t wait. She’d go straight after her rashers and sausages breakfast.

  And maybe a bit of white pudding.

  —————

  James put the pint glass to his lips and took a deep swallow. As long as he had an hour off he may as well use it. Once he got home he’d be back to being Dad, who got precious few hours off.

  So he was all signed up, he’d written his check for €90 and handed it over. He could always stop it in the morning, before the teacher had a chance to get to the bank. He could cancel the check and forget about fooling around with pencil and pad in the company of strangers for the next six weeks.

  He drank again, feeling the stout coursing through him, relishing its pleasant malty taste. When had he been able to do this, could he even remember the last time he’d gotten away on his own, even for an hour?

  Work didn’t count. He was never alone there; always someone around the office asking him questions he couldn’t answer, or telling him things he didn’t want to know. But he had to pretend, he had to make out it was where he wanted to be, otherwise they’d get rid of him, and he’d have nothing. He hated to acknowledge it, but the truth was he’d been lucky to get any job in the recession, even if it was one he despised. Better surely to be going out to work than sitting at home all day, trying to pass the time till Charlie finished school.

  He glanced around the small pub. Two old men in the far corner, sitting side by side and saying not a word to each other. Another man on a stool at the counter, licking a thumb to flick through the pages of the Carrickbawn Weekly News. Not exactly the most exciting place on earth.

  Which was fine by him: He hadn’t been looking for excitement when he’d applied for the estate agent’s job, when he’d uprooted Charlie and brought her here. As far as he was concerned, the less excitement Carrickbawn had to offer, the better. But after coping on his own with a six-year-old for over a month, James realized that he did need some sort of a break—and the drawing classes would probably be as good a way to achieve that as any.

  He wouldn’t get involved, he’d keep his distance from the others. He’d speak if he was spoken to, but not otherwise. They’d get the message eventually, they’d leave him alone. And if they thought he was an unsociable so-and-so they’d be dead right, for that was exactly what he had become.

  He checked his watch and saw that his hour of freedom was almost up. Better not push it, or Eunice might find a reason not to babysit in future. He drained his pint and left the pub.

  —————

  “So,” said Pilar, spreading peanut butter on dark rye bread, “you join the artist class?”

  “Yes.” Zarek slung his jacket on the radiator and took a carton of apple juice from the fridge. “I join.”

  “That is good.” Pilar arranged banana slices carefully on top. “How many peoples?”

  Zarek thought. “Three…no, four, and me.”

  “Five people, small class.” Pilar cut the bread carefully into neat triangles. “You like some sandwich?”

  “No, thank you.” Zarek poured juice into a glass, listening to the guitar music that wafted softly from the next room. A savory scent still hung in the air, echoes of the rabbit casserole the three of them had eaten earlier.

  “I go to have bath,” Pilar announced, taking her supper with her. “I come out in half hour.”

  “Okay,” Zarek replied. Left alone in the kitchen he leaned against the fridge and sipped his juice and let the music wash over him.

  Saturday

  How much is that doggy in the window?” Audrey tried to keep a straight face, and failed utterly.

  The man behind the counter didn’t appear to see the joke. He studied Audrey over his steel-rimmed glasses. “You want to buy the pup?”

  Audrey’s smile dimmed slightly. No doubt he’d heard the line before, but it cost nothing to be pleasant. Thank God she’d decided against singing it—she’d feel even more foolish now. But she had no intention of letting one dour man disturb her Saturday-morning good humor.

  “Yes, I’d like to buy the pup,” she said, keeping her voice determinedly friendly. “He’s adorable—I’ve fallen totally in love with him.”

  As soon as the words were out, it occurred to her that expressing such a sentiment might well hike up the dog’s price. It was probably a bit like raving over a house you went to view, so the estate agent knew you’d pay as much as you could possibly part with. Ah well, nothing to be done now.

  The man continued to regard her as if she were a slightly irritating disturbance to his day. “He’s a she,” he said flatly, “and she’s fifty euro.”

  Audrey’s mouth dropped open. She’d been prepared for twenty, thirty at a push. “But isn’t he—she—a mongrel?” she asked. “I mean, she’s gorgeous, but she’s not a…thoroughbred, or a pedigree or whatever it’s called, is she? I mean, she doesn’t look—”

  “Fifty,” he repeated, lowering his head again to the newspaper that wa
s spread open on the counter. “Take it or leave it.” He turned a page.

  Audrey stood before him, feeling the last of her good humor dribbling away. Was he simply going to ignore her, just read his paper and pretend she wasn’t there?

  She stood for another several seconds, looking down crossly at his thinning, greying hair. How rude. She should leave, forget the whole thing.

  Only, of course, she couldn’t.

  She turned and walked over to the window and crouched by the carrier. Its occupant began a frantic yapping at Audrey’s approach, tiny tail wagging furiously, her whole rear end wriggling, her small pink tongue darting at the fingers Audrey poked through the grille.

  “Hello, sweetie,” Audrey said softly. The pup scrabbled at the grille, demanding to be released. Audrey yearned to open the carrier and gather the little creature into her arms, but decided against it. Who knew how that disagreeable shop assistant might react?

  She returned to the counter. The man continued to read his paper. Audrey determined to stand there until he did something. He couldn’t ignore her forever.

  The seconds ticked by. Audrey prickled with annoyance. Had he never heard of customer relations? How on earth did he manage to stay in business if he treated everyone this way?

  Finally he raised his head and regarded her silently.

  “I’ll take her,” Audrey said curtly, opening her bag. “Have you got a box?”

  “Box?”

  She was tempted to say, You know, a container with four sides and a top, generally made of cardboard. Really, his manner was appalling—​but she wasn’t going to stoop to his level. She was going to remain polite if it killed her.