Life Class

by Gilli Allan

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Four people hide secrets from the world and themselves. Dory is disillusioned by men and relationships, having seen the damage sex can do.  Fran deals with her mid-life crisis by pursuing an online flirtation which turns threatening. Stefan feels he is a failure and searches for self-validation through his art. Dominic is a lost boy, heading for self-destruction. They meet regularly at a life-drawing class, led by sculptor Stefan. They all want a life different from the one they have, but all have made mistakes they know they cannot escape. They must uncover the past ? and the truths that come with it - before they can make sense of the present and navigate a new path into the future.

Release date: September 24, 2015

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter Two - The Previous September

‘… And you’d rather miss your first life class? For Christ’s sake, sis, there’s more to life than the speed of your broadband!’

‘Look, Fran, I don’t want to miss it, but the engineer should have been here an hour ago, and …’ Mobile cupped against her ear, Dory looked around at the packing cases that still took up much of the floor space in her small sitting room. ‘There’s still masses to do. I’ve boxes yet to open, let alone unpack.’

‘There’ll be time enough for all that boring stuff later. After all, today is the first day of the rest of your life.’

‘Have you been reading your fridge magnets again?’

‘Why do you think we fall back on platitudes, Dory? Because they’re based on universal truths. So?’

Glancing at her watch, Dory walked back into the kitchen. Her sister had a point. Even if it had been against her better judgement, why agree to enrol for the class if she wasn’t prepared to make an effort and attend it? She reached across the sink to close the window. Below her first-floor rented maisonette, a dahlia enthusiast had filled his small garden with the blousy blooms, their colours magnified in the morning sun. They weren’t a favourite of hers but, momentarily transfixed by the implausible flare of luminous pinks, reds, and oranges, by the crazy deckchair stripes, she felt her spirits lift.

‘OK. If the BT bloke doesn’t arrive in the next ten minutes, I’ll reschedule the appointment. I might be a bit late but … See you when I see you.’ Dory pressed the red button and breathed. Despite the tower of packing cases, a great deal had been accomplished in a very short time. Storage solutions still had to be found, but it would all be sorted. How could she regret the London house she’d left behind? What price prestige, location, success if you’re unhappy in your relationship, if you’re not doing what you want to do?

Now she’d taken the first steps to real independence, what was she going to do with it? How was she going to live the rest of her life? Maybe today would prove the cliché. It might yet prove to be the beginning of something; a different direction, a different way of thinking. After all, science had always come second to art when she was growing up. How had she found herself in a science-based career?

The future was a clean sheet, waiting to be written. But it was her wish list, not her sister’s. In her mind’s eye Dory could see the words, ‘Start a business (something creative?)’ as the first entry on that imaginary blank page. Ignore what Fran thought her priorities should be. There was little likelihood that ‘men and relationships’ would figure on the list any time soon … if ever.

The woman who’d come out of the office would have looked more at home at a music festival than standing here, hands spread on the reception desk. Behind small, round glasses, her eyes were smudged with greasy black make-up, and her layers of baggy clothes looked as if they’d been assembled in the dark. The acidic taint of sweat hung in the air. She waited, mouth pinched, for him to identify himself.

‘I’ve been engaged to teach art classes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Stefan Novak. Mornings; Monday, Tuesday, and today.’ He was already tense about the new job – let alone the fact he was starting on a Friday, which felt weird in itself. Now he was getting the distinct message that his arrival was as unexpected as it was unwelcome, and was preventing this woman from getting on with far more important work. Maybe it was an overreaction that said more about him than it did about her. Even so, he could do without the assault on his confidence – wherever it came from. There was nothing to stop him turning on his heels and walking out. He didn’t have to do this. Except that he knew he did. He couldn’t live on air. He had to do something until the big breakthrough – if it happened at all.

‘Ah!’ Sitting down abruptly, she swivelled towards the computer monitor and banged the mouse several times on the desk. She raised her hand to her head and raked through her short hair, leaving it sticking up in all directions. He noticed the colour – an unnatural orange – was growing out, giving her roots a faded, almost greenish-brown tint.

‘I didn’t recognise you as staff. And you’re too early to be a student.’ It seemed a half-hearted justification of her ungracious manner. She still stared at the screen. ‘So …’ Rapid clicks of the mouse. A muted swear word. ‘You are … Stefan Novak?’ she eventually read out, as if he’d not supplied his name already. She looked towards him accusingly, eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve taken over from Sandira Benfield?’

He shrugged. ‘So I’ve been told.’ There was a pause.

‘Everyone liked Sandy.’ Stefan wondered if he should apologise. ‘Do you know where your class is? First floor, right at the top of the stairs, second door along.’ She handed him some keys, pointing to each in turn. ‘That one’s the class and that’s the storeroom. When he gets in I’ll tell Gordon, the head of department, that you’ve arrived.’

As he mounted the stairs he was aware of the tension still gripping him. Was it a kind of stage fright? Anxiety about standing in front of a class? Only natural, he supposed. After all, he wasn’t a teacher. Never had the slightest instinct or ambition to teach. Yet here he was. He’d heard the horror stories, but this wasn’t an inner city comprehensive; it was an adult class. The students were here by choice. And one of them – if he turned up – he already knew. At least he needn’t worry about meeting resistance or having to win the class over.

Dom sniffed surreptitiously in the direction of his armpit. Didn’t seem to honk too badly, and it would’ve made him late to go back to wash and change. It was more important to make sure he got the bus. And if he had shown his face, what’s the betting he’d’ve had to listen to another bollocking about staying out overnight, or endure another sermon about going back to school?

Didn’t they get it? He’d had it with school. If the Principal was to be believed, school’d had it with him, too. What was the point? At his age he didn’t have to go any more, and he wasn’t about to beg to be allowed to. Anyway, there was only one subject he was interested in, and doing this three whole mornings a week had to be better than one poxy art lesson with a roomful of kids who didn’t care and a teacher who’d given up trying to make them. He’d show them all!

Across the pavement from the bus stop the shop window was plastered with tempting adverts. No point trying to buy smokes. Dom guessed he’d be challenged about his age and didn’t have any ID on him. Perhaps he could blag some off Stefan. He couldn’t be bothered to waste energy arguing about it now. But crisps and cola were another matter. He’d not eaten since …? As he struggled to recall, the pang of hunger and thirst that gripped his belly was irresistible.

The Asian woman filling a shelf on the back wall behind the counter turned at the piercing chime of the doorbell. She visibly stiffened. One hand clutched the filmy scarf thing around her neck, and the other curved, kind of protectively, over the till drawer. What did she think? That he was going to rob her? Didn’t she realise he was in more danger of being mugged than she was?

The other night they’d taken his iPod and some cash, but he’d escaped without being badly hurt. That was the main thing. And he’d already recouped the money. Withdrawing his right hand from the pocket of his low-slung jeans he double-checked the screwed-up bank notes in his grubby palm. And it felt like there was some change at the bottom of his pocket, too. He didn’t need to pinch anything … well, not from people like her. If he did ever nick stuff – his left hand encircled the new iPhone in his other pocket – it’d be from the big shops in the city centre. Whatever Stefan said … it was, like, a victimless crime, wasn’t it? Although recently, Stefan had stopped asking him how he acquired his stuff or where he got the extra money.

The strap of his backpack now comfortably heavy over his shoulder, he returned to the bus stop, swigging from one of the six-pack of cola he’d bought. In the distance, the bus appeared and the queue shuffled forward. Somehow, since knowing Stefan, he’d become more aware of his environment, more aware of light and shade, of form and substance, colour and texture. Taller than the bloke in front of him, Dom had a view of the top of his head, pink scalp gleaming through silky strands of white hair. Then, as if suddenly sensing something, the man glanced over his shoulder. The crazed skin of his face was almost grey, a spider web of blue on the cheeks. Blurry, yellowed eyes narrowed and his mouth compressed into a puckered slash. Taking a distancing step, the old geezer turned away and began to mutter. Slowly, they boarded the bus. Dom stepped up behind him and heard snatches of his ramblings before the driver cut him short.

‘…Out there … our brave boys … Queen and country … likes of you …’

‘All right, mate. Everyone knows it’s a scandal. Where to?’

‘The engineer was due at eight, but when I spoke to Dory he’d still not arrived,’ Fran told her husband. She lifted her jacket from the hook. ‘So she might be late for her first class. OK, I’m off.’

‘That’s a shame.’

Fran watched bemused as Peter crossed the wood-block flooring of the large hall and picked up her art bag. He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, sliding his socked foot into one of his Crocs.

‘Where are you …? What are you doing?’

He stood on one foot, attempting to hook Jimbo away from the other shoe with his upturned toes.

‘Out the way, bird-brained animal!’ He stretched out his hand towards Fran. ‘I’m helping you. Car keys?’

Helping? ‘I’m capable of carrying …’

‘But I can help now I’m home. This bag’s heavy. Is everything in here strictly necessary?’ Both Chihuahuas leapt and skittered around his feet as he walked to the back of her car.

‘I never know what I’m going to want. I may as well take everything.’

‘And it’s disgustingly filthy. You don’t want dust and charcoal and goodness knows what all over your clothes.’

‘But Peter?’ I’ll be lifting it out of the boot and carrying it into the school, unless you’re planning to come with me as my porter, she argued silently.

‘Why don’t you get yourself a new bag? Then you can rationalise the contents and chuck this one out. Bet you’re lugging stuff to and fro you’ll never need.’

She acknowledged his last remark with a tight smile as she took the car keys he proffered and slid onto the driver’s seat. Was this what it was going to be like from now on? His view of early retirement had been rosy and optimistic. Hers had been more cautious, one that was beginning to look justified. ‘Now he was home’, he’d said with that indulgent smile, as if there was nothing but good to be gained from his continual presence. This ‘helping her out to the car’ was exactly what she was afraid of. A kind of well-meant suffocation.

She was still a young woman – not yet forty – fit and attractive and up for a good time, which in her book did not mean a trip to the pub for lunch with your husband every other Wednesday. She wasn’t ready to embark on the kind of Saga existence that he presumably envisaged. She enjoyed her freedom; she liked to do exactly what she wanted, when she wanted, without explanation or interference. It was early days but having him hanging around her house 24/7, with nothing to do but wonder what she was doing, was already getting on her nerves big time.

You are being petty, she reproved herself. And you’re not being fair. But guilty conscience didn’t stop her feeling this way. But she could forget home and husband for a few hours. She was on her way to the first life class of the autumn term. The class changed little from year to year, but this time her little sis would be there … and maybe one or two other new members. A buzz of anticipation grew.

‘Give my regards to …’ Peter called after her as the car began to move away, crunching over the gravel.

Chapter Three - Dory

Had it moved? Dory frowned, glanced back at her drawing. Hard to be sure. But the more she studied it, the more positive she became. Back to square one. She rubbed out her first sketchy attempt to reproduce this area of the figure. Pencil poised, she raised her eyes again and this time she saw the movement – the slight pulse and thickening – as it shifted a few millimetres.

Well aware that it was a part of the body that men – poor things – had no conscious control over, Dory was still surprised. Had she thought about it in advance, she’d have assumed that posing naked in front of a room full of strangers would have a depressing effect on the male genitalia. Not that she was bothered; she’d probably seen more cocks than most people here had eaten hot dinners, so why should this one’s twitchings give her problems? It was what men did with it that caused the trouble. She just happened to be one of the professionals who had to deal with the fall-out. But men, sex, and the day job were off the agenda today. In her personal life, it could be that men and sex were off the agenda full-time. She gave herself a mental shake. Get on with what you’re here for.

Now, glancing at his face, Dory saw the model was looking at her. No. Not just looking, staring. Look at the rest of the figure, she told herself. Her gaze swept over his reclining form, identifying the patterns and shapes; her hand tentatively followed across the paper, attempting to reproduce the angle of the head, the slope of the shoulder, the splay of hand on thigh. It was then she noticed his reproductive paraphernalia was on the move again. Drawing from life was hard enough without this added distraction.

Dory had known she’d find the class challenging. The reality was even harder than she’d suspected and the model was in on the conspiracy to defeat her. She wished she could have caught her sister’s eye to share the joke, but even if they’d had an unobstructed view of one another, Fran was behind the model. Dory looked around – no one else had her grandstand view. The tutor was standing at an easel just a metre or so away, dark brows drawn together as he worked on his own drawing. Not much tutoring going on, Dory reflected. From his angle, even if he was unaware of the life model’s disconcerting stare, he must have noticed the waxing and waning of his genitalia. But what could he have done about it?

Typical of her to have been the sole latecomer, and then find her new drawing pad was so tightly sealed in its crisp plastic wrapping that it gave new meaning to the word ‘rustle’ as she tried to extract it. Typical too that she should find herself in this full-frontal position. All the other students – some standing at easels, others, like her, straddled over low benches called donkeys – had arranged themselves in a semi-circle behind, or to the sides of the mattress on which the model reclined.

She’d only had a moment, after making her apologetic late entrance, to exchange a quick smile of recognition with Fran, before a man left his easel and, with an audible sigh, approached her. For a split second she felt she recognised him, but immediately discounted the idea. There was no one amongst her acquaintance with shaggy, dark hair like that, no one with a close-cropped dark beard. After pointedly looking at his watch, the man moved his own easel to one side then dragged one of the low benches forward to take its place.

‘Use this donkey,’ he’d said, giving her no alternative. ‘Here’s a board. You’ve got paper? I’ve asked everyone for an accurate drawing. Pencil.’ Thankful to be able to settle quickly, and with minimal added disruption to the rest of the class, she was not about to object to her view of the model, even if she’d known it would give her extra problems. ‘Don’t get bogged down with detail.’ Again the tutor checked his watch. ‘Forty minutes left.’ With no time to feel intimidated, she just had to put pencil to that first virgin sheet of paper and start.

Apart from her sister, there was no one in the class she knew. She was on her own in this private struggle. Story of my life at the moment, she reflected, wondering why she was even doing this. She had recently made a resolution not to allow others to organise her life for her, and yet here she was, doing something her sister had pushed her into. Typical of Fran to come up with an idea that she thought was good, then steamroller it through.

It was early summer, and the two of them had been on the common, taking the Chihuahuas out for their exercise when Fran first came up with the idea.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Dory had objected. ‘I’m only here on a flying visit. I’ve not even made up my mind about leaving London. It’s a bit soon to be signing me up for adult education classes!’

‘You have made up your mind about moving back. You know you have. It’ll be great. You and me, babes …’ Fran squeezed her arm. ‘And if you are interested in doing the life class, you can’t afford to wait for official enrolment. There’s a waiting list. We all re-enrol directly through Sandy, our teacher, before the end of the summer term. I’ll sign you on as well. You’ll adore Sandy. She’s a real sweetie.’

‘However nice she is, you’re jumping the gun a bit.’

Dory had been staying at her sister’s. There’d been another funeral to go to – one of the few reasons the family all got together these days – and suddenly it had seemed like a turning point, a time to reassess her life. The money from the split with Malcolm might not yet be in her bank account, but the amount had been grudgingly agreed. What was there to keep her in London? But this walk was the first time she’d articulated the thought, and Fran had run with it.

‘If you want to sign on for a class, particularly the life class, you might as well make the decision now,’ Fran persisted. ‘And you know what they say. You have to get back on the horse.’ A couple of helmeted women began to rise up above the edge of the plateau, as if emerging up through a stage trapdoor. Then, in a surreal coincidence, their mounts appeared. The horses crossed the path sedately. Their riders, elegantly imperious in full riding gear, scarcely glanced at the sisters, who’d stopped to let them pass. Fran’s dogs began to yap.

‘Hush, Nelson, hush, Jimbo!’ She threw a rubber bone in the opposite direction and the dogs raced off, disappearing into a dense forest of grass in frantic pursuit of the jingling toy.

Dory angled her head towards the retreating riders. ‘Did you clock the kit?’

‘Part of the attraction, an expensive uniform that sets you apart … and being elevated above the hoi polloi. There’s no alternative but to peer down your nose.’

It was a typically chippy Fran response, Dory noted. She looked about her. The common offered views in every direction.

‘Hey, do you remember that time we picnicked up here? There was a gang of us, plus our mums. I must have been seven or eight. So you were around ten. I’m sure it was near here. We clambered down that bank.’

‘Nearly thirty years ago!’ Fran smiled in recollection of the adventure. ‘And we climbed into the garden of the witch’s house. Where was it?’ The sisters strolled over to the edge of the hill. Beyond the steep slope, diagonally slashed by the bridle path the riders had just ascended, there was nothing to see but the densely wooded slopes. The two women looked out over the tree canopy to the hills beyond.

‘In amongst those trees somewhere,’ Dory said. ‘And do you remember …’

‘Meeting that strange boy?’

‘We were the strangers. We’d invaded his garden.’

Fran didn’t argue, but when she spoke again it was to revert to the previous subject. ‘You have to get back out there and start socialising again. You’ll never meet anyone otherwise.’

‘Fran, is persuading me to join this class a matchmaking ploy?’

‘I just want you to rejoin the world. You’re not to sit at home and mope. The life class happens to be something I really enjoy. Let’s do it together. It’s been such a long time since we did anything with each other. It’ll be fun.’

‘For you, maybe. You’ve kept it up since your college days.’

‘You always loved doing art, you know you did. You were so disappointed when you had to give it up after GCSEs.’

Ironic, Dory thought. I wonder who pushed me towards science? No point in rehashing the past. Her sister always had a different memory of their shared history.

‘Enjoying art at school a very long time ago is not the same thing as having talent,’ Dory persisted. ‘And I’ve not done any since, unlike you.’

Fran made a dismissive gesture. ‘People do it because they want to, not necessarily because they’re talented. But you’re right, I’d be lying if I said it’s just the art I go for. It’s the whole social thing that makes it fun.’

‘Exactly. You’ve all been doing it for years. I’d feel like an interloper barging my way into an established club of like-minded people.’

‘We’re hardly all like-minded! There’s a completely mixed bag. And some real characters. An old ad-man, an aromatherapist, a retired psychologist, an ex-diplomat turned antiques dealer, a millionaire –’

‘You are trying to fix me up!’

‘I’m not. In fact, the majority of the class are women. And Michael the millionaire is married!’ Fran retorted. ‘But I worry about you. You seem intent on living like a hermit for the foreseeable.’

‘I’ve not been well, remember?’ Dory shook her head. ‘And as for men …!’

‘You can’t nurse a broken heart forever.’

‘I’m not, Fran, believe me. I’m well rid of the bastard and not interested in a replacement. All that dating palaver just makes me feel tired and old.’

‘That’s crap!’ Fran said crossly. ‘You’re younger than me. I’m the one who’s nearly … Age is all to do with attitude of mind. If you see yourself as old then that’s how men will see you. Look at Kylie, she’s older than us. Not to mention Madonna, who’s even older still.’

‘Who are you trying to convince?’ Clearly the subject had touched a nerve.

‘It’s never too late. Even for starting a family. Our mother –’

‘That was circumstance.’

‘These days it’s a lifestyle choice. There’re loads of women our age or older planning their first babies!’

A baby? A chill breath lifted the hairs over her body. ‘Sounds a bit mechanical. Is it a boyfriend you’re trying to fix me up with, or a genetically healthy stud to impregnate me?’ Dory’s laugh masked the shiver. ‘Why bother with a relationship at all? A turkey baster could do the job! If I was keen to have babies don’t you think I’d’ve done something about it before now?’

‘Look, I’m paying you a compliment. Postponing pregnancy is the trend for intelligent, successful women. Career first, babies later. Not like me. Falling pregnant while still in education is what chavs do.’

‘Only if you’re an underage schoolgirl. How are Mel’s A-levels going, by the way?’

‘Not keen on the linkage between those two ideas!’

‘Sorry …’ Dory covered her face with her hands. ‘I didn’t mean … that came out wrong. You might still have been at art college when you got pregnant with Mel, but you were in a solid, supportive relationship with someone already well-established in his career.’

‘Solid, supportive? Well-established? Is that code for “years older than me”?’

‘That’s not what I mean. And Peter is the least chavvy person I know. Now, please, no more talk about having babies!’ To distract from her genuine aversion to the subject Dory clamped her knees together in a pantomime of horrified revulsion. ‘It’s making me go all funny.’

‘But you’re surely not ruling men out of your life altogether; what about sex?’

‘Sex?’ Dory looked up at the sky, bringing her finger to her lips in mock perplexity. ‘Hang on. I think I remember that. Bare skin? Hot? Sweaty? Writhing around a bit?’ She raised her eyebrows at her sister.

‘Oh, Dory!’ Fran shook her head with an exasperated laugh.

‘I’m not joking. A depressed sex drive was a symptom of my condition and the thin end of the wedge between Malcolm and me. Why resist the advances of a younger model when her indoors is not giving out in the bedroom stakes? The last few years, sex has been at the very bottom of my to-do list.’

Fran stared at her, as if about to take issue with her last statement, but then shrugged. ‘It may not be the most important aspect of life, Dory, but use it or lose it! I’m sure your libido will perk up once you’re living a more relaxed life in the country.’

‘Fran, I am not going to be hassled into making decisions. Before anything else, if I seriously intend to make a permanent move back here, I have to find myself somewhere to live and a job. While I’m here I could make enquiries at the hospital.’

‘The hospital?’ Clearly she’d astounded her sister. ‘You’re not thinking of going back to … not the same kind of work, Dory? Surely you can afford not to?’

‘How much do you think I’ve come away with, Fran? It ain’t millions! Even if I could afford to be a lady of leisure like you, it’s not what I want. I’ve already taken an extended break and I’m getting restless. I need to feel truly independent, not depend on the proceeds of the split from Malcolm.’

‘You told me you were thoroughly fed up with your job.’

‘True, but let’s face it, it’s all I know. I’d only look for something part-time to begin with.’

Fran shook her head. ‘For a moment there, I thought you were planning to bury yourself in the old nine to five routine. There’s so much more you could do with your life.’

‘What else have you got lined up for me?’

‘There are local action groups you could join. My committees are always looking for new members.’

‘Like Save our Skylarks or No to the Wind Farm? My idea of fun … not!’

Fran looked momentarily huffy. ‘If involving yourself in the community doesn’t appeal there are loads of other adult classes you could sign up for. Languages, music, photography … Or you could join a gym or a ramblers group … go Salsa dancing …’

A bubbling sensation started below Dory’s diaphragm.

‘Kayaking, clubbing … speed dating.’

‘Fran!’ she managed through the erupting giggles.

‘OK, perhaps not speed dating. All I’m saying is, there’s a whole world out there of things to do, places to see.’

‘So what about you, Mrs Dynamic? Apart from the art class, what fun things do you do with your life? As far as I can see it’s just walking the dogs and shopping.’

Fran looked away. ‘Come on, time to go, home time, chaps!’ Shrill barks came from a nearby copse and a snaking trail of disturbance ploughed towards them through the long grass. The dogs erupted from their tunnel of green. Fran bent to ruffle their feathery heads. ‘Where’s your bone, naughty boys?’ It was a few moments before she straightened. She shrugged, as if aware an answer was still awaited. ‘Me? I’m not independent, am I? I always have other people to consider. And it’s just got worse. I was just getting my life back after Mum died and Peter announced he’s taking early retirement. Soon he’ll be breathing down my neck from morning till night! You’re lucky, you’re a free agent. You can start from scratch and create an entirely new life for yourself. I envy you.’

At some point between then and now, a point Dory could not now recall, her objections to joining this class had been overridden. Like it or lump it, she was here in this alien environment, legs uncomfortably astride a wooden bench with an adjustable front flap – apparently called a donkey – grappling with a skill she had almost forgotten.

Subtle odours of graphite, of glue and paint and primer, permeated the atmosphere. And there was something else – a palpable tension, reminiscent of an exam room, every brain focused on a single, unified purpose. No one spoke, but now and then someone would sigh or mutter. Someone hummed tunelessly. Against the whir of a fan heater these subdued, human noises were counterpointed by the surprisingly loud tap and scratch of multiple pencils, the rattle and creak of drawing boards vibrating against easels. Something small hitting the floor was followed by a soft curse, a shuffle of movement, a grunt. The fumble through a bag of equipment was followed by the scrape of blade against wood.

As yet, she had drawn no more than a few squiggles to represent the face. From the tone and musculature of his body, the model looked no more than a fit forty, but the slack ‘been around a bit’ looks and the grey in his oily curls put him as older. Good body, shame about the face, she thought with an inward smile. Engaged now by the lines, puckers, and hollows of his face, she attempted to capture a likeness. Was it a good sign – an indication she’d relaxed – that she could now objectify enough to consider the attractiveness of this stranger, lying stark naked in front of her?

She looked up from her drawing again. In that instant his gaze reconnected with hers in the sa