The Art School Dance Read Free Page A

did.
    He told me
about his day at the office and it sounded so boring to me, a
repetitive routine with not a spark of creativity involved. Stephen
seemed to enjoy the work, though, despite the complaints he always
had to make, and as I listened distractedly I thought that maybe it
wasn't such a bad idea for a young girl living on a student loan to
have a boyfriend who earned a wage. Not that money was the reason
I’d stayed with Stephen for so long. No. We were still together
because he had actually developed into a surprisingly nice young
man, bright and cheery and not at all bad looking, maybe still a
little too podgy about the cheeks but that was just the artist in
me being a little too fussy.
    In town we
went to the ‘Crofters’ for a drink, not the place I would have
chosen, not the sort of pub I went to with the folk from the art
school; it was too modern and flashy, gassy beer and noisy music
and lights popping whichever way you looked. It had the young
crowd’s atmosphere which Stephen preferred, though, so I humoured
him, we sat at a copper-topped table which reflected so many lights
that it dazzled, me with a half of lager and Stephen with a pint.
It was hot and stuffy and Stephen took off his coat. He still wore
his tie, though, his crisply ironed shirt staying buttoned to the
neck. I knew he would have changed, before coming out with me, but
he still looked as though he’d come directly from work. I smiled to
think of how we used to be, me with my skirts so short that they
were barely visible when I sat down, him with his hipster trousers
and Ben Sherman shirts. Stephen had matured in a lot of ways, in
the years since I first met him, but they were not always ways that
I felt comfortable with.
    When the talk
of his day has been exhausted I told him about mine, mentioned that
it had been the day for the life class.
    ‘ Yes?’
he said, which was his usual monosyllabic response to the subject
of life drawing, hinting that he did not quite approve of it
–especially on those rare occasions when the model was a man- but
understood that it was necessary.
    ‘ I did a
pretty good drawing,’ I boasted, picturing it in my mind, the
delicate line, the comfortable pose which described a woman at ease
with herself.
    ‘ Good,’
he said, but I knew that he would never want to see it. Some blokes
would have been goggle-eyed keen to see a drawing of a naked woman,
in the absence of an explicit photograph a competent sketch would
suffice, but not Stephen.
    ‘ At
least I thought it was good until Ben came along,’ I continued.
‘You know what he’s like, he wasn’t so sure, said that Renoir knew
a nude was finished when he felt he could caress the breasts and
buttocks.’
    ‘ Huh!’
he snorted, slightly disgusted.
    ‘ Tits
and bums, he called them, asked me if I felt the same way about my
drawing.’
    Stephen
frowned, took a quick drink of beer. ‘I hope you didn’t answer
him.’
    ‘ I told
him it was charcoal, said the drawing would smudge if I touched
it.’
    ‘ Good,’
he said approvingly, not appreciating the joke, just glad that I
hadn’t let Ben encourage me. ‘What did he have to say to
that?’
    ‘ He
pulled me across to the model and told me to feel hers.’
    ‘ He
never!’
    ‘ He did.
Dragged me over there and slapped my hands on her
breasts.’
    ‘ No!’
Stephen was as horrified as my mother would have been, if she had
learned of the episode, gulped quickly at his drink.
‘Well!’
    ‘ So
there I was, my hands full of her boobs while everyone watched.’ I
saw the funny side, then, as I went over the story, but Stephen was
not in the least amused; his expression was like stone, hard and
chiselled but with none of the life of an accomplished piece of
sculpture, just cold and vacant.
    ‘ I don’t
want to hear any more, Virginia,’ he said, and it was when he
called me Virginia rather than Ginny that I knew he was peeved,
that I’d better be quiet.
    I went to the
bar for more drinks,