One-man Woman

by Jessica Ayre

  His easy good humour was strangely contagious and despite herself, Jennie found herself smiling in return. But her smile stopped halfway. Daniela's words had suddenly popped into her mind: 'Hard as granite'. Difficult to imagine that now as he towered over Mrs Owen and explained to her why it was far better for her to be eating brown bread instead of white.

  As they neared the check-out counter, Derek vanished for a minute, only to return carrying two enormous boxes of chocolates. 'My contribution to the provisions,' he commented wryly.

  Jennie noticed the cashier gazing up at him with adoring eyes and then glancing at Jennie with new respect.

  Women! she mumbled to herself contemptuously, judging each other by the partners they happened, perhaps randomly, to be with.

  'Something troubling you, mysterious lady?' Derek murmured out of Mrs Owen's hearing as they left the store. 'And yet I've been on my best behaviour.'

  'Not all my thoughts are linked to you,' Jennie found herself saying, barely veiled hostility in her voice.

  'Oh, of course, how stupidly patronising of me to presume—' his tone was light, but the ferocity in his eyes made Jennie shudder.

  They had reached the flats. 'You must both come up and have some tea with me now. It's the least I can do to thank you,' Mrs Owen's voice invited them kindly.

  Derek glanced at Jennie, met her eyes, and shook his head. 'No, no, Mrs Owen, I really mustn't impose myself on you any longer. Besides, I should be heading back.'

  Mrs Owen turned to Jennie. 'Do convince him to come up, dear, I'm sure he'll listen to you.'

  Jennie tensed. She was being cast in an impossible role. But it would mean so much to Mrs Owen, a brief adventure in the midst of her lonely life. She forced herself to smile warmly. 'Do spare us a few minutes, Derek. Mrs Owen makes a good cup of tea.'

  Derek took in the irony of the situation and his smile mocked her. 'Well, a few minutes won't, I guess, make much difference. My appointment can wait a little.'

  'There I knew you could win him over, Jennie,' Mrs Owen all but bounced up the stairs to the door of her flat. 'Not very grand here, but it's ever so much better since Jennie so kindly painted it for me.' She looked gratefully at Jennie, who could feel the warmth of Derek's gaze on her.

  They placed the groceries on the small kitchen counter and Jennie busied herself putting them away, while Mrs Owen brewed the tea and chatted gaily.

  'I've always thought of writers as being pale and sullen and—well, superior,' Jennie overheard her say, and almost dropped the tin she was putting up on a shelf. 'But you're not at all like that.'

  Derek chuckled. 'You must be confusing writers with painters, Mrs Owen.' Jennie cringed. 'But perhaps you're right. I'm just wearing my Californian mask at the moment.'

  'California? Do you spend a lot of time there?'

  'As little as I can. They don't treat their writers very well in Hollywood. But I was partially brought up there. My mother was American.'

  Mrs Owen poured the tea into her best cups, put out some freshly bought biscuits, and opened the large box of chocolates Derek had given her. 'And your father?'

  'English as they come,' Derek smiled. 'A great believer in the public school system—sent me off to one as soon as he could. Amazing really that I survived. But then it was back to the United States for holidays, or Italy, where my mother's side of the family lives. So I'm a bit of a chameleon,' he drawled, his accent broadening as he broke into American.

  Jennie listened attentively. She had been so preoccupied with fending Derek off that she realised she knew almost nothing about him, except from professional hearsay.

  'Belle donne, mille grazie, but I must be off.' Derek emptied his cup and stretched to his full height, dwarfing the tiny room even more. 'Thank you for a very pleasant afternoon.' His gaze lingered on Jennie for a moment, but his smile was merely polite, warming only as Mrs Owen urged him to come again, any time, and not only to carry groceries.

  As she saw him vanish through the door, Jennie felt oddly Hollow. A wave of disappointment surged through her. What had she expected? Mrs Owen's comments on the nice young man and so handsome, too, only served to irritate and she escaped to the solitude of her flat as soon as she could without hurting the old lady's feelings. She flung her sketchpad down on the sofa with unusual force and sat down beside it, pulling her high boots off her slender legs.

  A restlessness overtook her. She paced the room, looking desultorily around her, and finally picked up the sketchpad to gaze at the somewhat crumpled portrait of Derek. Yes, what had she expected? That that look of desire should persist despite her offhand and even at times insulting manner? Shame crept over her, making a heavy pulse beat at her temple as she thought of her childish lack of graciousness. And what did she want? Derek in her room now, touching her with his hands rather than his eyes? No, not that. She felt her knees grow weak and she sank down into the sofa, a tremor passing over her. Surely not that? She had been right to rid herself of him in any way she could. It was his unusual persistence which had undone her, the sheer power of his gaze which stirred something unfamiliar in her. It had taken so much effort of will to give her life a semblance of order, and to allow it to be disrupted now, just when things were under control, was lunacy.

  Jennie gave herself a mental shake, stood up and undressed slowly as she walked towards the bathroom. A shower—that was what she needed. She let the needle-sharp water pour over her slender frame, lathered shampoo thickly into her hair, washed it off and rubbed herself pink with a large towel. Then she walked naked into the studio room. Catching a glimpse of herself in the long mirror she had propped against the wall to help her see her paintings from different angles, she stopped to confront her own image. A delicately curved body looked back at her, its shoulders sheathed in black hair, a face insignificant in its finely moulded features, but for the wide dark eyes, now slightly haunted.

  Jennie shrugged and pulled a dark blue towelling robe over her. This self-examination was puerile. She took Derek's portrait out of the sketch pad and pinned it up on one corner of an unused canvas. She looked at it steadily for what seemed like a long time. Then, almost like a sleepwalker, she prepared three colours. With swift, jagged brush strokes, she painted a glistening golden mask, hollow-eyed, its metallic hardness crystallising in the cruelly mocking tilt of its lips. Beside it, merged with it, a man's face, ruggedly warm, mellow with tenderness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jennie slept fitfully that night. She woke late, feeling bruised, unsure of her whereabouts, the images of her dreams still hovering just behind her eyelids: masks— coldly gleaming, frighteningly wrinkled, ripely wanton, and sadly derelict, danced bodiless to hollow laughter around the face of a bemused, wide-eyed little girl.

  Jennie rubbed her eyes and tried to stretch some life into her stiff limbs. Then she lay still for a few minutes remembering the previous day. Shame engulfed her once more. But she flung her blankets back and got out of bed. 'That's that!' she said out loud. 'Finished with. Pointless brooding. And the painting is going to be good.'

  She wrapped her blue robe over her shoulders and made her way to the kitchen, pausing for a moment to glance at the work of the night before. A smile came over her face. It really wasn't bad. She should be grateful to Derek. A perky little tune came to her throat as she brewed some strong coffee and then sipped it slowly, savouring its rich flavour. Her second cup followed her to her canvas and stayed there, growing cold, as she immersed herself in her painting.

  A knock at the door reminded her that she wasn't yet dressed. She drew her robe more tightly around her and padded barefoot across the room, fully expecting to see Mrs Owen's cheerful little face bearing Sunday greetings.

  As she opened the door, she automatically looked down. to where Mrs Owen's white curls usually were, but what confronted her instead was a stretch of worn denim. Jennie's gaze travelled nervously upwards to meet the sea-blue of Derek's eyes, and she jerked backwards.

  'Sorry, didn't mean
to startle you. But I thought I'd take advantage of that nude portraiture today. Sundays are so tedious.' His voice was light, but his eyes carried a deadly seriousness. 'It's after twelve, you know,' he added, taking in her dressing gown. 'I'm sorry if I got you out of bed.'

  Jennie's voice wouldn't surface. Derek's presence loomed over her, charging the atmosphere of her fiat with what was almost a tangible danger. She gazed mesmerised at his animal litheness as he walked past her into the room. Finally she found her voice. 'I've been working,' she said, hoarsely but evenly, and as an afterthought, because she had to busy herself with something, 'Would you like some coffee?'

  He laughed. 'I think that's the first civil thing you've ever said to me without prompting! I would be overjoyed.'

  Jennie ground some beans and made some fresh coffee, trying to still her agitation. She could sense his eyes burning into her back.

  'I'll just put some clothes on while this is brewing,' she said, attempting lightness.

  'Not much need, is there?' His broad chest blocked her exit from the kitchen. 'If I'm to strip, I'd really feel more comfortable if you weren't too properly clad.' He lifted her face to meet his eyes and chuckled. 'Don't look so frightened,' he touched her cheek lightly with soft lips. 'I'm not in the habit of assaulting women. Though you do provoke one.' His eyes travelled down her slender form.

  Jennie brushed past him, unable to find any retort, and went into her room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Tears tingled at the backs of her eyes, but she held them away. She could feel her heart beating a quickened rhythm, her pulse racing. What was she to do now? She pulled on yesterday's jeans and a fresh shirt and then, unable to come to any resolve whatsoever, walked back into the studio room.

  Derek was looking thoughtfully at the painting on the easel. 'Perhaps you don't need me to pose after all,' he said as she came to his side. 'In all of this,' he gestured at the canvas, 'my physical presence seems somewhat redundant.'

  She managed a laugh. 'Coffee? Black? White?'

  He didn't answer. 'I don't know whether I should be flattered or dismayed. Flattered at having inspired something as good as this,' he paused, 'or dismayed at the way you see me.' He looked up at her. 'Black, please,' and then back down at the canvas. 'Dismay wins, I think.' He chuckled grimly. 'I don't think I dare trust my poor naked body to you after this. Your eyes would demolish it.'

  She handed him his coffee. His hand brushed hers as he took the cup. She flinched and he caught her eyes.

  'No, perhaps I will after all,' he said reflectively. With slow deliberate movements he placed the cup on the table and started to remove his jacket.

  'No!' Jennie's voice was shrill. 'Not now.'

  'I'm only taking off my jacket. It's warm in here.' His laughter was teasing. 'Yes, perhaps I dare after all. It would change your way of seeing.'

  'I may just call your bluff.' Jennie met his tone, riled now at his obvious teasing, his implicit criticism.

  He looked at her suddenly with deadly seriousness, his eyes measuring her as they travelled from her face slowly down her body and then back to meet her eyes again. She was aghast at the challenge she had unconsciously issued, and moved away from him desperately, feeling her knees buckle under her. As she reached the distance of the sofa and sank gratefully into it, trying with little success to keep her coffee from spilling, she heard him murmur almost inaudibly, 'Might you, now? I wonder just who's doing the bluffing.' Then, more loudly, in a voice tinged with irony, 'Whenever you're ready. Do I decide on the pose or do you dictate it? Or perhaps we should establish a little intimacy first. I'm told that's the rule between painters and their models.'

  Before Jennie could find her voice, he was beside her, his strong arms lifting her out of the sofa, and crushing her shape to his. His lips sought her mouth with a wilful pressure. Jennie could feel herself drowning, suffocating in his embrace. Her fists rose to pound his back, his sides, his chest. 'Don't touch me,' the words emerged in a strangled sob.

  Abruptly he released her. His eyes were black, relieved only by golden flecks, his lips drawn in a grim line. He pushed a hand through his thick hair. 'Not quite the intimacy I had in mind,' he muttered sardonically.

  'Please go now.' Jennie's voice was icy in its quiet firmness.

  He looked at her, meeting her eyes sceptically. 'Yes, I will, now.'

  It seemed to Jenny that he took decades to pull on his jacket, reach for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, offer her one, light one for himself, take a long slow puff and then walk towards her door. At the threshold, he suddenly turned. 'When you've stopped playing little girl games, mysterious lady, do let me know.' He nodded and walked away.

  Jennie slammed the door behind him hard and rested her length against it. As her tensed body relaxed, sobs racked her. She went over to her bed and flung herself down on it, the tears streaming from her face. It had been so long since she had cried, really cried. And as she cried now, she could see herself as a little girl, huddled up in her bed in one corner of the dark room she shared with two others, trying to stifle her sobs so that no one could hear her. She had cried then, cried endlessly, every night until sleep overcame her.

  The house had been a strange one, filled with the tumble of children who paid little attention to her but to tease her. Strong, oddly self-sufficient children, who seemed immune to pain. They were her cousins, she was told by a smiling woman who was apparently her aunt and who expected her to fit into the chaotic routine of the household with little ado. But she hadn't fitted in, not even when she had stopped crying and learned to smile; not even when she had learned how to create a small secret untouchable place within herself where no one could penetrate. It was this space in which she reserved her difference, her dreams, the first of which was to leave.

  Jennie's mother had died when Jennie was seven, leaving her all but an orphan. Her stepfather, Harry, who had lived with them for only a year, had promptly deposited her at her aunt's in York and vanished. Her aunt and uncle, Jennie later realised, were kind enough, but what with four young children of their own, they had little special time for her. And the noise and bustle of the house had only made her draw further inwards, made her yearn for some kind of privacy.

  Ever since she could remember, she had wanted to be on her own. To be on her own so that she could stop pretending to be like the others; to be on her own so that she could stop being grateful to this surrogate family who had taken her in. She had worked hard at school, even sometimes enjoying her studies despite the fun the other children had made of her seriousness. And it had been worth it. She had received a grant to go to art school in London where she had a place.

  London had been like a burst of fresh air. All at once she felt she could be herself, share her interests, even though she had at first been terrified of her teachers, frightened of the sophisticated girls with whom she shared lodgings. By managing her money very carefully and saving her earnings from portraits in the Park, and by simple good luck, she had eventually managed to get her own bed-sit. The sheer joy of having a place of her own had made her buoyant. Life had seemed magically transformed. Wonderful.

  And then she had met Max.

  Jennie's tears had ebbed and she turned over on her back and looked at the blank whiteness of the ceiling. Max. No, she hadn't allowed herself to think of him for a long time now. She rose and went to her tiny bathroom, splashed cold water over her reddened face and looked at herself closely in the small mirror. It was after Max had left that she had begun to cry again.

  Max was a lecturer at the art school, not all that much older than she was despite his seniority of place. He had taken an interest in her work, encouraged her. Then they had started going out for coffee or drinks together after sessions. Jennie had been amazed by his fluency, his knowledge of painting and the art world. He had talked to her for hours and she had listened breathlessly, taking it all in. One night he had told her to get dressed up. He would take her out for a proper dinner.

  Jennie smiled a
s she remembered now the care she had taken to look well, digging into her savings to buy herself a new dress for the event, a brightly-coloured Indian print which set off her dark hair and ivory skin. He had taken her to a well-known Soho restaurant and wined and dined her regally. Then he had driven her home and asked if he could come in for a cup of coffee.

  She had hesitated. Max had never been to her place before and somehow the thought of him in those close quarters filled her with dread. But she had acquiesced. They had talked and sipped coffee. And then he had kissed her, softly at first and later with growing intensity. Jennie had felt herself shrivel, grow slightly sick at his faintly acrid smell. Yet she hadn't withdrawn, hadn't quite known how to. He was, after all, the first man she had kissed and perhaps it was a business that took some getting used to. When he had left her, he had patted her gently, had said reassuringly it would be better next time.

  Jennie had never had time for boys, never thought much about them. All her dreams had been about leaving the place she was in. If she thought about men and marriage when the other girls talked of nothing else, it was all somehow relegated to some distant haze of a future. Meanwhile there was the task of escaping and setting up on her own.

  Max had been the first man to intrude on her enough to leave an impression. She realised now, as she tried to brush some order into her hair, that she had talked herself into being in love with Max the man. in order not to displease Max the teacher. And she had been in love in a way: in love with the Max who talked about art, about the ideal union between man and woman. Had been in love except when he touched her. Then she retreated to that small secret place in herself that she knew from childhood. She had tried to return his kisses, don the mask of attraction, but something in her had turned away in faint repulsion. She saw it as a fault in herself which she had to overcome. And he encouraged her to see it in that way, making it quite clear that if she couldn't respond to him, the lack was entirely her own.