I had to take action to put it out, or I could end up alienating my husband for good.
Chapter 16
“Of course it’s about sex,” said Elle, ensuring that everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and turned to look at us.
“What?” she asked, to her shocked classroom. “Get your stuff out and get ready to paint, you nosey bastards.”
I really should have known better than to try and confide in the loudest person on the planet, but I needed a soundboard and she was all I had.
“Just screw the man and we can get back to our world domination with a chain of coffee shops to destroy dictator-mum-types,” she continued.
“It’s not that simple,” I hissed.
“Have you forgotten how to do it? Have I awakened some dormant bisexuality? You think he’s repulsive? Let me know when I’m getting warm.”
“Please, stop talking.”
I hated talking about this type of thing. I was always embarrassed at the thought of anyone asking me about my sex life, or worse still, anyone asking me for advice on it. I was never comfortable in my own skin and although I was finally kind about my body (mostly) I would never dream of a world in which I would gladly step into a lingerie department and kit myself out for a night of kink with the husband.
“When’s the last time you fooled about with him, or anyone?” She quizzed.
“Anyone?”
“Yeah, maybe you can’t be bothered boning him because you’re doing the nasty with someone else.”
“Just so I know, how many euphemisms for sex should I expect in this conversation?”
“A few hundred I suspect.”
“Excellent,” I replied flatly.
I explained that I wasn’t sleeping with my husband because the sheer effort to shave my legs was enough to put me off the notion completely, never mind shave anywhere intimate to impress a new man.
“What has shaving got to do with it? I once let my underarm hair grow so long I was able to dye it violet. I couldn't deal with the upkeep though, the dye kept sweating off and ruining my bed sheets.”
“Can we stick to my problem please?”
“Well, no, actually I have to teach. The world doesn’t revolve around your little-repressed arse. Now, sit over there. Here’s a pencil and try to keep your clothes on during this class.”
I snatched the pencil and glumly walked over to a free space. I had no idea why I agreed to this class. I can’t draw nor do I want to learn how to draw a bunch of grapes in a fruit bowl. I decided on doodling on the paper until someone needed their brushes washed. I didn’t need to wait long before hush descended on the class and Elle commanded yet another room she was at the centre of. I was starting to see a pattern here.
“We have a newbie tonight guys, this is Amy and she can’t draw for shit. Everyone say ‘hi’.”
I glared at her direction as I heard an unenthusiastic welcome from my classmates.
“Right, you know the score. The model will be changing position every five minutes so you guys have to get used to the movement and the change in shadows from every angle. Let's get to work then.”
Model? Great, now I get to stare awkwardly at anywhere but the direction of this poor shmuck student, who is so broke they need to get their kit off in front of a room full of strangers.
The first thing I noticed about this stranger was that he wasn’t remotely young. He was old, not death-knocking-on-his-door old, but still old enough to know better. He was balding at the back and was wearing a cosy looking gown. As he turned to face us and bare all, as it were, I looked at the man and quickly realised he wasn't a stranger at all. Instead, I saw the man I respected more than anyone else on the planet, the man who I measured all other men up against, the man whose penis was eye level with me and I had nowhere to run.
“MOTHER OF GOD, PUT IT AWAY!” I screamed as loudly as my lungs could manage.
“Amy? Oh, Christ what are you doing here? You can't draw. Oh Jesus, don't tell your mother. Givemethetowel, givemethetowel!”
In his hurry to grab the robe he managed to tumble sideways giving me – and the rest of the class – a full view of his anus. I was tempted just to gouge my eyes out with the pencil just so this horror would end.
Elle was busy trying to help my Dad up, whilst shooting daggers at me for interrupting her precious class. I sat wringing my hands as if I were Lady Macbeth trying to get that damn spot out and I hadn’t realised I was muttering to myself until I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder trying to shake me back into the room.
“What on earth is happening, Amy?” asked Elle.
I couldn’t manage words yet, I was still trying to process what had just happened.
“Damien you don’t have to raise your hands if you want to ask a question, this isn’t a classroom. Well, it is but you don’t need to be such a brown-nosing little twat,” she said.
He sheepishly put down his hand and said: “Was that one of his poses? Should we be sketching now?”
“No, Damien,” I said in my best attempt at keeping my voice steady. “I would prefer if you didn’t spend the next two hours sketching my father’s arsehole from memory.”
Unfortunately, by the time I reached the end of the sentence I was screaming again. My fingers rubbed at my temples and I was waiting for the room to stop spinning. By the time I looked up my dad was nowhere to be seen and I could see Elle struggling to contain her laughter. I shot a look which seemed to convey ‘I dare you to laugh, I double dare you’ and it seemed to do the trick because her cheeks dropped and her face was serious once more.
“Where is my father?” I asked.
“He must be getting changed in the storeroom; maybe you should go have a chat with him?”
“You think?” I replied as sarcasm dripped from my voice.
I picked up my jacket and bag and headed towards the storeroom in order to confront my exhibitionist father. I knocked the door deliberately and louder than necessary to ensure that I wasn't going to be walking into anything else mentally scarring.
He opened the door, just a fraction, so I could see one eye peering out from his cupboard of shame.
“Are you kidding me, Dad?”
“Amy, just meet me outside. We can go grab a drink and have a chat.”
I thought a stiff drink was the best idea I had heard all evening. I nodded, turned on my heel and walked out into the evening air to wait for a completely unsatisfactory reason for why my father was getting his kit off in front of strangers once a week.
By the time he managed to get his clothes back on and come find me, my rage level had built back up to a fury but I decided not to start screaming at him in the street. The thought of a large vodka kept things on the inside as we walked side by side in silence to the nearest bar we could find.
It was a relatively old one, with three men sitting at the bar quietly watching football on the obscenely large flat screen that didn't fit in with the decor of the rest of the bar. The bartender was young; he looked like a schoolboy and also didn't fit in with the rest of the antiquated feel of this place. I ordered a vodka and tonic and left Dad at the bar to order his while I skulked over to a seat. The table was sticky and I had a feeling that there was more than one mound of chewing gum – or worse –lurking underneath this table.
“Vodka for the lady,” Dad attempted jovially.
I said nothing and waited for him to start explaining.
“What a night, eh?” He tried again.
“Yes, it was full of surprises like I didn't realise that my dad's arse was quite so hairy.”
“Keep it down, love,” he pleaded as he sipped his pint.
One of the barflies must have overheard my sentence because he began to readjust himself on the stool to hear what we were saying, whilst pretending to still watch the football. His curiosity was betraying his nonchalance as I saw him nudge his companions and whisper to them.
“I think you should start explaining things. Now,” I continued
.
“Well, there's not much to explain, love. It's nothing seedy or dirty – it's art.”
“Art? Since when were you such a champion of the arts? I wanted to take a dance class when I was little and you told me you’d might as well just ‘throw money directly into the bin, dancing won’t get you a job.’ I never bothered to ask you permission for any type of ‘pointless’ artistic hobby ever again.”
“Well, it didn’t crush your dreams and, let’s face it, you really don’t have any rhythm, it would have been a waste of money.”
His attempt at turning this into a trip down memory lane wasn’t going to work. I wasn’t letting this lie.
What else don’t I know about him? Who is this man?
“I can see that head of yours working away, pet. Questioning your very existence over there aren’t you?” He asked with a smile.
“No,” I lied. “You’re a grown man, you can do whatever you want but if it’s not ‘seedy’ then why haven’t you told Mum yet?”
I knew the answer already of course. Mum would probably have a fit and accuse him of fancying someone in the class. He would have to spend the rest of his life trying to convince her he wasn’t giving another woman a free show.
Now, my father wasn’t an ugly man but the thought of another woman being impressed by his middle-aged spread was really more disturbing than anything I had thought so far. Even my inner bitch was remarkably silent; apparently, she was off pouring vodka straight into her eyeballs and leaving me to deal with this on my own.
“I saw a leaflet on the notice board at the pool, you know how I like to have a read of them when I’m waiting for your damned mother to get out of the changing rooms,” he said. “It said they were looking for a live art model of any age, no experience and I decided to give it a go. It wasn’t some big plan to dip my toe in the world of naturism. I thought if there was a nice picture at the end of it I would buy it from them and get it framed for your Mum's birthday. See? I was planning on telling her, just in a more indirect way.”
Mum’s birthday is always a stressful time for both of us. Presents are ridiculously hard for us to think of; simply because she’s never once liked anything we’ve gotten her. I still remember, when I was little, most other mother’s fussed over the handmade card they were handed by their children, my efforts were greeted with ‘what is that?' along with other such soul-crushing retorts. I was starting to think that maybe the pressure of gift-giving had finally got to Dad. After decades of eye-rolling at his efforts, he'd finally cracked and this art class was the repercussion.
“When were you planning on presenting this masterpiece to her?” I asked.
“Well, I need to see if there's one that would be nice and get it framed. I don't know, at her birthday meal.”
Ah, the birthday meal.
I dread this spectacle every year. It's usually in an uncomfortably posh restaurant which makes my blood pressure skyrocket as I try to keep the children in their seats for an unbearably long time. Sometimes I think she chooses these places on purpose, just to watch me crumble under the pressure. Now I can add the prospect of seeing my dad naked again, on canvas.
“It’s not for another eight weeks, so I’m sure there will be something finished by then,” he said.
“Are you sure she would want that?”
“What does that woman ever want other than to accuse me of smoking and write letters of complaint to the local council about the bin men. She’s taken to calling them the mafia, you know?”
“The council?”
“No, the bin men. They’re threatening to bar her from the dump altogether if she keeps making trouble.”
I resisted the urge to ask why, or even how, her relationship with the weekly refuge collectors had come to this. Knowing her, it was down to some larger social issue; but I was in no mood to find out what.
We finished our drinks, and as the warm glow of the alcohol hit my cheeks I started to view my nudist father as more of a rebel and pretty adventurous for a man of his age. I promised to keep his secret, but he declined my invitation to go back to the class.
I returned to the art studio to face Elle and the rest of her students.
I climbed the stairs and wondered if I would ever be brave enough to try something like that.
Maybe that’s what I need to kick-start my love life again. I could do one of those boudoir shots. Editing could erase the damage from under my eyes, caused by years of poor sleep. It could even get rid of the cellulite that’s taken up permanent residency on my ass, making it look like cottage cheese.
I peered into the classroom and found Elle clearing up by herself. I was thankful that I didn’t have to face her students after screaming the word ‘arsehole’ at them. She looked up and relief washed over her face.
“There she is,” she beamed, with her arms outstretched for a hug.
I reluctantly walked over for the embrace and breathed her in. She smelled of white spirits and coffee.
“So, have you banned him from my class and told him you’re the only one in the family that’s allowed to get their kit off in front of strangers?”
“Hardy har har. No, actually I’m quite the free thinker since I almost had a heart attack whilst faced with my papa’s prostate. I figure he can do whatever he wants. Although I don't think I'll be joining your class anytime soon.”
“Fair dos,” she conceded. “Anyway, we’ve got a more important project to get on with.”
“Which is?”
“We are going to make you sexy, Amy.”
Chapter 17
As I ruminated on the school run the next morning, I could feel myself thinking my way into a bad mood.
‘Make’ me sexy? I’m plenty sexy
Yes, I was a bit rough first thing in the morning, but I bet even supermodels had morning breath – although theirs probably smelt of angel sweat not of garlic dip with cheese and onion crisps. This particular combination was caused by a midnight pit-stop at the fridge before bed, last night.
Things were still not great with Ben so I was comfort eating, which was best described as my normal level of snacking but with an extra side of guilt.
I resented that Elle condensed the problems in my relationship down to ‘not having enough sex’ and worse still, that it was my fault. I used to have a perfectly healthy libido and our love life in general, once verged on vulgar. I could have blamed the pesky mental breakdown and subsequent antidepressant intake, but in truth, I knew it wasn't that. Most of all, I resented the fact that she was right.
I couldn’t quite put my finger on the exact reason why I couldn’t bring myself to sleep with my (mostly) charming husband, but I knew that slapping on some lipstick wasn’t going to kick-start my desires and suddenly make me want to hump all over the house.
“Mum?” my self-destructive train of thought was interrupted by a panicked-looking Adam.
“Hmmm? Yes, love? What’s wrong?”
“You have to unlock the door, people behind us are beeping for us to go.”
Fuck.
I flustered with the unlock button and shoved an apologetic hand out the window to the car behind, who was staring a hole into the back of my head for making her wait. My mind was too caught up to sit in the house, or even to have a normal conversation with someone to take my mind off my self-diagnosed failings as a wife so I kept driving.
I drove until I heard Arthur start to snore and only stopped when I reached my lake. The lake.
Despite what associations this place had for me, it was still my only secret place to come and be alone. This was another secret I kept from Ben. As far as he knew I hadn’t returned, not since my thankfully failed suicide attempt.
The truth was I had been here countless times since it happened. At first, I came to find Malcolm. I had hoped that one day he would be out walking his dog and he’d be able to see I was (relatively) happy and (relatively) healthy but I never managed to orchestrate that meeting.
I left the car doors
open so I could hear Arthur snore, while I sat on the bench facing the lake. It was peaceful yet cold, and for once the horrible swans decided to leave me alone for a change.
What does sexy even mean at this stage in a relationship?
The question seemed like a cop-out, even to myself. Just because we’d been together for fifteen years shouldn’t give me an automatic ‘out’ for making an effort. I know that. That was the curious part of my depression: I knew the things I should be doing and how I should be acting towards those that love me, but I couldn’t. I had created this wall surrounding me which let me function as a ‘normal’ person in my day-to-day life but I had no desire to break down that wall and let someone get close to me again, even Ben.
Self-preservation? Maybe. Self-loathing? Almost definitely.
I had been on a path of self-destruction for so long that I didn’t even know when I was doing it. Even with Elle pointing it out, I was still in denial.
She was wrong about one thing though: I already knew how to be sexy.
I knew how to fake cheekbones and straighten my unruly hair and even what my legs looked like without four months’ worth of hair growth on them.
I knew I would enjoy the feel of his stubble brushing up against my skin and even when I thought about the last time we were together my hand instinctively touched the right side of my neck, where he liked to bite.
I smiled at the thought of him nibbling at my left ankle like he used to. Lazy weekend mornings, before the kids were likely to come bounding into the room, were a particularly pleasant place for my mind to wander to.
I remembered a time when I used to call him ‘gigil’. Apparently, it’s a word of Filipino origin which means: the urge to pinch or squeeze something that is unbearably cute. I read it out to him from a Sunday morning newspaper because I thought it described him perfectly. I hadn’t called him that in years. The days of adorable nicknames were long gone.
I still loved his smell. After a fight, when we hugged, I would breathe him in as deeply as I could – it was like a healing balm and the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Amy Cole has lost her mind: The perfect laugh out loud, feel-good comedy (The Amy Cole series Book 1) Page 13