by Sue Nicholls
Eventually she looks up from her magazine to see Luke hobbling towards her. His knee is swathed in a huge bandage, only slightly whiter than his face. Beneath the dressing, he reports, are four stitches.
Thankfully, the car has not been clamped, and Twitch collects Luke from the entrance. ‘Where shall I take you now?’
‘Could you drop me at the bike shop? I’ll direct you. I don’t live far from there. Honestly, I’ll be fine.’ This last remark is to block her attempted objection that he cannot possibly walk anywhere. She relents only when he has accepted her contact details and promised to ring if he needs her - and to call when he knows the repair cost of his bike.
As she drives away from the bike shop, she wonders where he lives. In the rear-view mirror, she sees him standing on the pavement, a buckled wheel in one hand and the rest of the bike supported by the other. He is staring at the back of her car and continues to watch until she has turned the corner.
Chapter 44
Fee puts her elbows on her desk and covers her ears with her palms to cut out the chatter in the office, which has risen to compete with the car tyres swishing through the rain and flurries of water slashing against the windows. Even more distracting are nervous thoughts of her forthcoming lunch with Supermarket Man - as she has dubbed him.
Part of this document does not make sense, and she stands up to attract the attention of her assistant. ‘Nick, can you spare me a moment?’
The young man nods and stands up.
By the time they have sorted out the report and decided how to make it clearer, it is twenty past one and she is late for her date. This does not stop her from ducking into the Ladies’ to check her reflection, put a comb through her hair and apply a fresh coat of gloss to her lips. Swinging her head from side to side she watches her glossy locks brush against her shoulders and fall back into place. In the foyer the weather beyond the heavy glass doors has not improved. Summer is ending, and she turns up her collar and raises her umbrella before diving out into feverish rain. With the point of her brolly facing into the wind she struggles blindly along the pavement and wonders if she will recognise Will. She can picture his hands, and brown hair, maybe.
At the entrance she reverses through the door, folding her umbrella and shaking droplets onto walls and floor. The temperature inside the Bistro is cosy, and as her eyes scan the noisy crowd, she notes with approval the wooden tables and boarded floor. Customers, young male and female office workers, stand shoulder to shoulder at the bar, sipping white wine or halves of lager. Cheery diners devour slow-cooked, home-made food from earthenware bowls, and raise glasses of wine to one another. In their midst, Supermarket Man rises from his chair with a welcoming smile and beckons her to his table. Ah yes, she remembers him now, how could she not? The casual strength, the stylish posture. Fee pushes between closely packed seating to reach him feeling untidy and flustered. Without artifice he places a kiss on her cheek, takes her coat and pulls out her chair.
They face each other across the table and Will raises his voice to offer a drink. She chooses a house white, dry for preference. While he is at the bar she fiddles with her coaster. It has been a long time since she dated anyone. While Will tries to attract the attention of the busy staff behind the bar, her confidence plummets. What on earth is she doing here? Panic almost lifts her from her seat and back into the rain, but then Will is elbowing his way back with their two glasses, and it is too late.
They pass the potentially awkward first few minutes discussing food and getting it ordered, and once the waiter has departed, Will proves himself admirably equal to the task of entertaining her. After a short time, and with the relaxing influence of her drink, Fee finds herself having to resist spilling out her whole life story, battering, screaming, the lot. Not advisable on a first date. First date?
He is talking about his flat, but Fee is distracted from his words, watching in fascination as he runs his fingers through his hair, ruffling it carelessly in his enthusiasm so that it stands on end. She jerks her attention back to what he is saying.
‘I’ve chosen the colour scheme. You’ll have to come and see it when I’ve finished.’
She smiles, commenting that she is not very good with colours. Will looks crestfallen so she changes the subject. ‘Tell me more about your job.’
He explains that his work involves four weeks on the rig and two weeks at home. He is responsible for the diving crews and the maintenance of their equipment in the exclusively male environment. ‘The men relieve their boredom with stupidity,’ he explains. ‘I remember one time, a huge piece of machinery was delivered, wrapped in bubble wrap – masses of the stuff.’ He sweeps his glass of wine through the air. ‘One of the engineers unwrapped it and ended up with a whole sheet spread across the floor. He couldn’t resist trying to pop the bubbles with his toes. He was prancing all over it like a ballerina and when he looked up there were three blokes watching him from the door.’ Will shakes his head and guffaws. ‘He didn’t live it down for weeks. It’s sometimes mentioned even now, and it must have happened a couple of years ago.’
As Will describes life on the rig, the practical jokes and lewd humour, Fee wonders if this man is quite her type. He chats on, describing jocular punching and play fighting. ‘I steer clear of it all. Give me a good book and some Pavarotti, any day.’
With a sense of relief Fee joins in a discussion about literature and finds they have a liking for many of the same authors, although when Will admits to hiding recipe books in his room, she tells him that is not something she would ever do.
‘I enjoy eating though. Millie cooks for us all the time at home.’ She hesitates and murmurs, ‘Cooked.’
Will does not notice her muttered amendment and offers instead another parried invitation, to taste one of his culinary creations. He chats comfortably and she learns without needing to ask that he has never been married although he is not averse to the institution. ‘Just never met the right person,’ he shrugs. ‘There have been women, you know, but nothing that’s worked out. I’m not ready if I’m honest - working on the rigs isn't ideal for a relationship.
Fee stops herself from remarking that the shifts might not matter too much if he met the right person. A woman with her own life and career would be happy to have that kind of marriage. They chat around the usual first date subjects: homes, films, music: they are both tone deaf, work: they are each dedicated to their careers, and holidays. Fee reveals that she has not had a holiday for years as she has had ‘personal’ things to cope with. ‘My work and my daughter take up most of my time, now. In fact, my passport expired nearly a year ago.'
They have hardly finished their meal when she has to leave, unwilling to take more than her allotted hour.
Outside, the pavements are still wet, but a dazzling sun now blinks between speeding clouds. She squints into the light, then turns to thank Will for lunch. He stands on the step looking down at her, one hand on the jamb and the other with its thumb stuck into the pocket of his jeans. His hair is everywhere. She smiles inwardly, ignoring an urge to go back and hug him.
Chapter 45
Embarrassment and curiosity over the incident with Luke keep sliding into Twitch’s mind. It has been three weeks since it happened, and she wonders how his knee is.
After their encounter she was struck by the idea of owning a bicycle of her own and ignoring the risky nature of the pursuit, ventured one day into a local store to purchase a middle of the range road bike in a dashing electric blue.
She had not ridden a cycle since she was a teenager, but after rejecting her flowing skirts in favour of jeans, and wobbling round the block a few times, the skill returned and now she uses the bicycle for most local trips, loving the sense of freedom, of being in the open air and the convenience of reaching her destination with speed.
The evenings are beginning to draw in, but tonight she is pedalling in daylight towards another new experience.
It was Fee who spotted the advertisement for life classes in the local paper.
‘Why don’t you give it a try? It would do you so much good.’
Twitch rang the number the following morning and found herself carried along by the loud and enthusiastic voice of Anna, a retired teacher who, she boomed down the line to Twitch, returned to the profession because she, ‘missed the thrill of watching students grow and blossom.’
‘Do come along,’ Anna begged in her public-school accent, and Twitch found herself replying with an enthusiastic, ‘I’d love to.’
The classes are held in a school. Twitch is amused to secure her bicycle to a bar in the bike shed, and wonders if she should have worn a navy-blue, pleated skirt. On her back a rucksack containing paints and pencils, long unused, bounces loosely with her steps as she crosses the playground. A few other adults stroll towards the front of the school, in pairs or alone. As they too are carrying bags and one man has what appears to be a drawing board under his arm, she assumes she is going the right way.
Inside an echoing foyer she spots a dayglo-orange poster, hastily scrawled with the words Life Class, subscribed with an arrow, pointing to a long corridor. Further posters direct her through heavy swing doors and up several flights of stairs. Eventually, another eye-catching sheet informs her that she has reached her destination.
A strident monologue comes from within, exhorting students to find a spot and set up. Twitch pushes the door into a room bustling with activity, and Anna waves her over from across the heads of several students of varying ages and genders and bellows cheerfully, ‘Hello. You must be Stitch.’
Twitch eases her way between men and women erecting easels, fixing on paper and selecting brushes, pencils or pastels from their bags.
‘Twitch.’ she corrects, and Anna beams unapologetically, ‘Sorry, useless with names. Bit of a problem when you’re a teacher, eh?’
When Twitch spoke to Anna on the telephone, she had pictured a stout, middle aged woman in tweeds - she sounded so very much like the iconic dog trainer Barbara Woodhouse. The person before her could not be further from that. Although definitely in her middle years, Anna is tall and angular. She is dressed in an Indian style skirt and shirt of a startling blue, printed with a gold and red paisley design. Round her neck are several garlands of beads, and many-coloured bangles encircle her wrists. Her shoulder length hair is rusty brown, wiry, and heavily woven with grey. As she speaks, she drags it impatiently behind one ear or the other with bony fingers, causing her jewellery to jingle.
Sitting to one side of the room, wearing a thin, pink satin dressing gown, an auburn haired, double-chinned young woman reads a paperback novel, ignoring the crowd gathering around her.
‘That’s Jess.’ Anna nods in the direction of the girl. ‘She’ll be modelling for us when this lot get settled.’ she raises her voice to chivvy some late arrivals. Twitch has been to life classes before and knows that models are chosen more for their interesting features than their beauty. There will be plenty of opportunity to shadow and highlight Jess’s generous curves.
Most students have adjusted their easels by now and are chatting to one another in low voices. Anna explains to Fee that paper, paints and so on can be supplied for a nominal sum, but that most people tend to bring their own. She can recommend a good shop if Twitch wishes.
Twitch already knows where the art shop is in Chelterton, but she needs paper for this evening and once she has paid for it, dropping a few coins into Anna’s cupped and charcoal-ingrained fingers, finds a space near the wall. It is not a great position, and she makes a mental note to arrive earlier the following week.
Anna ‘arranges’ Jess, on a bench that has been draped with rose coloured velvet – probably an old curtain. Twitch lets her eyes roam around the room. Childish artwork embellishes the walls, and on a table near the window, some half-finished models made from papier-mâché balance in a crooked crowd.
She has an uncomfortable sense that someone watching her and turns her head. A person she recognises smiles shyly back from a short distance away. For a moment she cannot place him, then her attention darts to his knee, clad in a new-looking pair of jeans. She looks up at his face again and he nods as if to confirm his identity and comes towards her with the faintest trace of a limp.
‘You paint then,’ he notes.
‘Yes. Well, not for a long time. How’s your leg?’
‘Not too bad. I had the stitches out yesterday. The bike’s taking longer. I’m picking it up at the weekend.’
‘I was wondering when you would call about that.’
Around them painters and sketchers settle to their task. Twitch turns her eyes to the scene in the room. Jess is in the centre, and students are spread round the room, standing sideways to their easels, and staring at her in deep concentration. The model is leaning on her left elbow. Her pendulous breasts hang almost to the table, and her hips are draped with a satin sheet. The glow of the lights in the satin, and the more absorbent nature of the velvet will be a challenge to reproduce on paper.
Twitch notices Jess’s feet. The toenails have been carefully filed, and painted with pale pink varnish, and the soles look as if they are regularly scrubbed and moisturised.
Her attention returns to Luke. He has gone back to his easel but smiles across at her and mouths, ‘We’ll talk later.’ His thumb jerks in the direction of the classroom door behind him, and Twitch nods and smiles back. What on earth is he doing here? He lives near Oxford, doesn't he? Well, no doubt she will find out soon enough. Jess’s impeccable feet are pointing straight at Twitch. Deciding she does not feel ready to use her paints, Twitch begins sketching in rough shapes, struggling with the foreshortening. Soon, she is absorbed in her task.
Anna jingles up behind her and after asking permission, takes the pencil from Twitch’s hand. Bellowing in Twitch’s ear she explains that the dainty feet need to be much larger. She holds the wooden pencil at arm’s length, across Twitch’s view, turning it from the perpendicular to the horizontal to demonstrate the size of Jess’s feet in relation to the width of her shoulders beyond, and deftly sketches in new lines. Twitch is dismayed at how out of practise she has become. ‘Don’t rub out your lines yet,’ Anna instructs. ‘Just keep going. When you start blocking in the shadow, all this will disappear’. She sweeps her hand across the paper to indicate Twitch’s attempts, and the gaudy bracelets fall across her thumb. ‘You can tidy it up when you’re happy with it’. She moves off with her skirt flowing behind.
They take a short break to give Jess a rest. The model stretches her arms above her head and so does Twitch. While the model covers up her chubby body and rotates her head to ease aching muscles in her neck, Twitch finds Luke waiting to catch her eye. He sets off ahead of her and despite his injury, stays well in front, swinging a thermos flask in one hand. When Twitch reaches the refectory, he has vanished. She purchases mint tea in a thick white mug, and sweeps her eyes over the smart room, but there's no sign of him, so she strolls between tables looking to left and right until she discovers him behind a pillar at the back. He grins attractively as she takes her seat, saying, 'You hid yourself away. I wondered where you'd gone.'
'Playing hard to get.' He smiles playfully, and Twitch is startled by the unexpectedly flirty remark.
She feels awkward, and sounding accusing, says, ‘You’re the last person I expected to see tonight.’
‘I know.’ Luke looks uncomfortable ‘What a surprise. I knew you lived somewhere round here, but I really didn’t expect to see you. I started coming over on my bike, you know, training. The countryside’s glorious once you get out of town. I stopped for chewing gum in a corner shop up the road and saw the advert on the notice board. I thought, well, it'll give me a reason for the ride.
‘Of course, I’ve had to come on my old bike.’ He smiles to take the criticism out of his words, and Twitch tries not to feel guilty.
‘It’s a long evening for you,’ she observes.
‘Yes, but it’s so great. The ride and the drawing, they help me unwind.’ He pauses and then as though reali
sing the unlikelihood of this scenario, adds quietly, ‘Sometimes it’s difficult to let go of the stuff I have to deal with.’
Twitch nods. ‘How long have you been painting?’
‘I’ve been coming to Anna’s classes for a few weeks – when I can get away. She’s great, isn’t she?’ He is less shy today, enthusing about Anna and discussing art. ‘I haven’t painted since I was at school. I got an A’ level but I never went to college, I’ve always regretted it.’
‘I’m the same!’ Twitch’s eyebrows shoot up and her mouth forms an ah. ‘I’ve been thinking about it lately, how I gave up everything to have my children, and that I should be doing something to make my life more fulfilled. That’s why I’m here. Dipping my toe back into the water, so to speak.’
‘Well, it’s good to see you again.’ Luke looks briefly into her face. ‘I know we didn’t meet in the best of circumstances, but…’ he stops talking, then says in a rush, ‘It’ll be nice to get to know you better on these evenings.’
Twitch is horrified to find herself blushing. She stares into her pallid coffee. ‘Yes, that might be good,’ she mutters, then to change the subject, shares the fact that she has bought a bicycle. He is immediately interested, asking technical questions she is unable to answer. She tells him he will have to come to the bike sheds to see it for himself, then tails off in further embarrassment. Luke misses, or maybe ignores, her unintended innuendo, and says he will do that when he has his bike back, then he can show her the differences between their two models.
They make their way back to class, Twitch slopping her half empty cup into the black-lined bin and Luke screwing the lid onto his flask.
At the end of class, Twitch is rather pleased with her efforts. She will certainly come back, so hangs back to sign up and pay for the rest of the term. Luke leaves without a wave, and a delighted Anna hands over a sheet of A4 detailing holiday dates, and a receipt with her flourishing signature at the bottom.