Super Host

by Kate Russo

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  As the train pulls into King’s Cross, Bennett can’t help but wonder what Owen’s reaction would be to the area now. Does he ever think about that girl? Nobody even asked her her name. Bennett himself doesn’t think about her much. She’s only returned to his memory over the last year when he pictures his own daughter walking down Caledonian Road. The mews is gone now, replaced with blocks of luxury flats.

  Lingering memories of King’s Cross in the eighties aside, Bennett was nervous when Mia announced her intention to study art at St. Martins. He’d hoped that she’d follow her mother’s path into publishing. Though hardly the stable force that it once was, it’s still a hell of a lot better than the art world—Penguin hasn’t yet announced its intention to publish only dead writers. Yes, he is worried about Mia navigating the ultra-competitive and male-dominated gallery scene, and he doesn’t want her to feel the constant financial uncertainty he now feels. But there’s another issue: he isn’t sure how much talent she really has. It’s a horrible thought, he knows that, one he dares not utter to anyone. When he looks at her work, he isn’t sure he sees its potential. It’s only her first year, he tells himself, and his opinion is hardly the be-all and end-all of art criticism. He’s probably too close. And what does he know? He’s out of fashion, better off dead.

  He exits the station, adjusting his coat and scarf against January’s piercing damp. Only in London can mist feel angular and aggressive. He thinks about his new guest, Alicia. Maybe he should send her a message to let her know there is a spare blanket on the top shelf of the upstairs linen closet. He pulls out his phone, but hesitates. No, she can probably figure this out. She mentioned her master’s degree. Linen closets won’t be an elusive concept to her. Still, he can’t help but think of her, alone and shivering. He types a message as he weaves through the throngs of commuters. Hi, Alicia, it occurs to me you might get cold tonight . . .

  Alicia responds quickly: Thank you, Bennett. I suppose I didn’t pick the best month to visit. :) He remembers that sweet, self-deprecating smile she gave him when he opened the door to her earlier that afternoon.

  Change gears, Bennett.

  A few minutes later he’s standing in front of St. Martins. He takes a deep breath. His own alma mater, it’s the last place he wants to be, given his recent decline. He stops in front of a large water fountain in the school’s courtyard, where water squirts up in patterns from the cobblestones, lit by spectacular colored lights. Equipped with motion sensors, the water stops when someone attempts to step into the stream, so a person can walk through it without getting wet. This concept is currently blowing the mind of a four-year-old girl, who runs back and forth through the fountain, squealing. Her mother watches on, impatient.

  To Bennett, this kind of opulence at an art school makes no sense. War heroes get fountains, not art students. They’d surely be more interested in a giant cigarette machine. This is further evidenced by the four students who are currently huddled together, lighting up a single fag and blocking the entrance to the school. Mia, thank God, isn’t one of them.

  “Pardon,” Bennett says to the group, removing his earbuds. The students ignore him at first, preoccupied with protecting their solitary rollie from the mist that threatens to put it out. They take notice only when Bennett pulls out his old-school iPod and holds down the pause button to turn it off. They watch, captivated, as he flicks the switch on the top to lock it, before wrapping the earbuds around the device and sticking it in his pocket. They look him up and down. A stylish and distinguished-looking man, his clothing is in direct conflict with the iPod. One girl focuses on his jacket, a dark grey wool peacoat with tortoiseshell buttons. She passes the cigarette to the guy next to her, who takes a drag while inspecting Bennett’s checkered wool scarf, the kind you see Brad Pitt wearing in celebrity magazines. The other young man focuses on Bennett’s dark indigo jeans. They look expensive, because they are. Bennett washes them inside out and on delicate, just like the label suggests. The final young woman hones in on his polished brown leather boots with waxed khaki laces. All of the clothes are several years old; he can’t afford Selfridges anymore, but these little shits don’t need to know that. They all look up to catch his gaze at the same moment.

  “Alright, mate?” one of the young women asks. She’s wearing a pair of denim dungarees with just a mustard-yellow lace bra underneath. She’s chosen a red-and-black flannel shirt, unbuttoned, to wear over the dungarees and a bright orange wooly cap over her purple-dyed hair. She’s hopping around uncomfortably in the cold.

  He wants to tell her to button up her shirt and that he is not her “mate.”

  “You Mia’s dad?” she asks.

  “I am.” How can she possibly know this? “Are you all in her year?”

  They all mutter some form of “yeah,” then stare down at their inadequate footwear; three pairs of canvas sneakers and a torn pair of leopard-print ballet flats.

  “I’ll take you in,” says one of the young men, wearing black skinny jeans and an INXS sweatshirt, after taking a drag. “I share a studio with Mia.” It’s impossible to tell by his expression whether this is a good or a bad thing. He hands the rollie to one of his mates. “Follow me, Bennett Driscoll.” He draws out the name, his voice suddenly going fake-posh, like he’s Piers Morgan. He opens the door, gesturing grandly for Bennett to enter, while his mates snigger. What is so fucking funny? Bennett wonders. Is it possible these kids know that the name “Bennett Driscoll” doesn’t open as many doors as it used to? Is that why this kid is flamboyantly opening this door for him now? Sarcasm?

  Bennett looks back into the courtyard one more time. The little girl still runs through the fountain, shrieking in wonderment. Why is he following this grimy-looking boy into the building? He could use a run through a fountain. The kind that actually gets you wet. Reluctantly, Bennett follows him in.

  “You went to St. Martins, right?” the kid asks. His skinny jeans are so tight they shorten his stride.

  “Once upon a time.”

  “Then the Royal College?”

  Has this weirdo been reading my Wikipedia page?

  He’s not sure whether to be creeped out or flattered. Maybe this night could be the ego massage he needs.

  “That’s right.”

  “Nice. Pretty ideal, mate.”

  I spent the morning scrubbing blood off white sheets. Not ideal, mate.

  “I’m Evan, by the way.”

  When was the last time you washed your hair, Evan?

  “Pleased to meet you.” He gives Evan the professional smile he used to give collectors at openings. It feels unfamiliar. He hasn’t had to use those muscles in a while.

  Evan opens a fire door, which leads to a narrow hallway, once again letting Bennett through first. “Second door on the right.” He points for good measure.

  The door is wide open and voices are pouring out. Bennett pokes his head around the corner of the large studio, set up for around eight students to share. The grey-painted floors never change from art school to art school, decade to decade. The smell of turps and glue makes him feel twenty years old again. For a second.

  “It’s cool. Go on.” Evan smiles, sensing Bennett’s lack of confidence. “You’re Bennett Driscoll.”

  Stop saying that.

  “Can I get you a beer, Mr. Driscoll?”

  You can fuck off.

  Bennett meets Evan’s eyes and immediately feels guilty. The sticky kid looks genuinely honored to fetch him a beer.

  “Dad!”

  Oh, thank God.

  He turns around to see Mia. She is waving aggressively from the corner of the room, clearly not wanting to approach Evan.

  “I’ll check in with my daughter first,” he says, leaving Evan standing alone in the center of the studio.

  He scoops Mia in his arms, but stops just short of l
ifting her off the ground. She’s still light enough to swing around, but that doesn’t mean he should, even though it allows him to think, however temporarily, that’s she’s still six.

  “Evan is the worst,” she whispers in his ear, mid-hug.

  Yes, he is.

  “He’s not so bad.” He hopes his daughter will be more tolerant of other human beings than he is, though so far it’s not working out.

  It occurs to Bennett that, unlike her classmates, Mia has made an effort in her appearance this evening, wearing a red wool dress and thick black tights. Her hair is halfway down her back in long brown ringlets, just like her mother’s, only Mia has a curly fringe. She smiles brightly, the freckles on her face always seeming to exude enthusiasm. He realizes now who the little girl running through the fountain reminded him of. In his mind, Mia will always prefer to run, squealing, through a fountain over sharing a cigarette with a group of ironic idiots.

  “Which piece is yours?” he asks.

  Mia steps out of the way to reveal what appears to be a five-foot-square painting of . . . a vagina. All the innocence of his previous thoughts is annihilated. She says nothing and lets him take it in. Suddenly, the thought of his daughter smoking a fag with ironic idiots is preferable to contemplating the origins of this painting. The silence pounds in his head as he stares at it, unsure of what to say. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, any bare skin now feeling too exposed, and tries to convince himself the painting is depicting a flower, a Georgia O’Keeffe kind of thing, but it isn’t. It’s definitely a vagina. For all his worry about her God-given talents, or lack thereof, she has, in this case, effectively captured the essence of her subject matter, its depths conveyed, its contours rendered.

  Was this what Evan and his friends were laughing about? Maybe they weren’t laughing about him being washed-up. Maybe they were laughing because they knew what his daughter was about to present him with. It would be bloody hilarious, if only it wasn’t happening to him. He keeps his eyes focused on the painting, but now he wonders if he’s spent too much time looking at the vagina, like, a creepy amount of time.

  Jesus, is it hers?

  “You’re speechless,” Mia finally pipes up.

  Does he look at her or keep staring at the oil-paint clitoris? Is he capable of looking back and forth between his daughter and the giant minge she’s painted? He doesn’t know. He’s never had to ask himself this kind of question before.

  “Yes,” he finally spits out, deciding to keep his eyes on the clitoris.

  “You painted nudes, Dad. Same thing.”

  No, it’s not.

  He removes one hand from its sheltering pocket to check if his hair is still in place.

  Yep, it’s still in place. Now what? Say something not creepy.

  He can only think of one question. “Is it painted from . . . life?”

  So much for not being creepy.

  He finally turns to look at her, her expression fighting back laughter.

  “Photograph.”

  “Right . . .”

  “From a medical journal.” She indicates the large textbook sitting on her desk. “I’m getting really into anatomy.”

  At last, he can smile a little. “I should say so.”

  He’s relieved, although he doesn’t really understand why. It’s still a five-foot vagina painted by his own daughter. In fact, if she told him that she was a lesbian and this was her lover’s vagina, he’d probably, weirdly, be thrilled. Lesbianism would certainly be preferable to a lifetime with one of the Evans of the world. Or one of the Bennetts, for that matter. He’s always been suspicious of his own gender’s cruel nature, so much so that he suspects his daughter purposely doesn’t share any of her love life with him. She knows he doesn’t have the stomach for it.

  He puts his arm around her. “I’m proud of you.” He kisses her on the head. Her hair smells just like Eliza’s. “So what are you working on next? Or don’t I want to know?”

  “Feet are really hard.” She points to a stack of drawings on her desk, all of feet and toes from different angles. “A lot of these are from life.”

  He flicks through them, relieved to be looking at something else, and stops on one particular charcoal drawing that looks like a man’s foot, hairy with deep grooves in the toe knuckles. He smiles to himself before asking, “Is this Evan’s foot?”

  “Eewww. No!”

  How can it be so easy to horrify the girl who is voluntarily exhibiting giant genitalia on her studio wall? It warms his heart that he can still send her from zero to completely flustered in two seconds.

  “That’s Richard’s foot, Dad! Don’t you recognize it?”

  “Thankfully, no, I don’t.”

  The thought of Richard’s bare feet makes him uncomfortable. Bennett’s been aware for the last few years that Richard, Mia’s good friend from childhood, fancies him. He’s long past being flattered by it. He’d hoped that Richard would go off to university and direct his misguided sexual energy on to one of his professors, but he’s still in London working in an antipodean coffee shop in Soho and sharing an ex-council flat with Mia in Dalston, along with their other friend from school, Gemma.

  “Mr. D!”

  Speak of the devil . . .

  Bennett turns around to see Richard, a rail-thin, walking oxymoron in a mesh tank top and a tweed jacket. He arrives with Gemma, a loud and lanky girl whose greatest aspiration in life is, as she puts it, “to tame a banker.” Tonight, she looks ready for a photo shoot in heavy makeup and three-inch heels. She clocks the painting and shrieks. “I can’t believe you actually painted it!” she says, shaking Mia’s shoulders.

  “Looking sharp!” Richard steps back and takes in Bennett’s style with genuine admiration. “I love your scarf.” He reaches out and thumbs the fabric. “Where can I get it?”

  “Selfridges.” He holds out his hand to Richard, hoping the kid will stop stroking him.

  “Damn. I was hoping you’d say Primark!” Richard skips the handshake and comes in for a hug. He smells like a grammar school gym class: sweat, mesh, and cheap cologne.

  “How’s the coffee business?” Bennett asks, trying to wriggle out of the embrace.

  “It’s good.” Richard lingers on the words, nodding contemplatively as though being a barista were a career choice rather than just a job. “Brilliant celebrity spotting in Soho. Why haven’t you come in? I’ll make you the best flat white you’ve ever had!”

  The only flat white I’ve ever had.

  “I don’t make it to Soho much anymore.” Not a lie, actually.

  “Not even for me?” Richard slaps him playfully.

  Oh boy.

  Bennett is forced to turn to the vagina painting for relief. “What do you think, Richard?”

  Richard looks at the painting and jumps back.

  “Terrifying!” He turns to Bennett and, with all sincerity, he says, “That’s my worst nightmare.”

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  Occupying the same courtyard as St. Martins is London’s hippest vegetarian restaurant, Acreage. “They make vegetables taste just as good as meat!” Gemma exclaims after Bennett enquires where they should have dinner. “It’s all small plates,” she adds, her tone suggesting this is a good thing. Mia has been a vegetarian for the last five years, so when his daughter’s face lights up at the idea, Bennett is happy to oblige.

  “You haven’t been yet?” Bennett asks, arm around Mia as they exit the school.

  “I can’t afford Acreage!”

  You can’t afford small plates of vegetables?

  “Good.” He pulls her in. “Glad we could do it.”

  Gemma and Richard are several strides ahead of them, walking as though they’re running late. Bennett and Mia adopt a more leisurely pace.

  “Have you ever walked through it?” he asks,
gesturing to the fountain as they pass it.

  “Yeah, we all did on the first day.”

  “I saw a little girl running through it earlier. She reminded me of you when you were small.”

  Mia cringes. He knows she is weary of his post-divorce sentimentality.

  “Try it. It’s fun,” she says, giving him a little shove.

  “Nah. We’re all hungry, let’s eat.”

  “It’ll take two minutes.”

  He looks at the water shooting up to the sky. There is no one around now, he’d have it all to himself, but he can’t admit to his daughter that the fountain makes him nervous. He knows it’s irrational, but he’s convinced the water won’t turn off when he steps in. Why does he so consistently believe that certain “givens” are not given for him? He’s certain the water will continue to shoot up in his face and soak his clothes. The kind of experience that would have had his schoolmates Stuart, Jay, and Owen in stitches if such a fountain had existed in their youth. He stares up at the dark sky. He must look like he’s praying, which means he looks ridiculous. But this, he decides, is his only defense against the water. Could such a fountain even be able to detect the presence of a man who’s been standing still for the last twenty-five years and didn’t even realize it?

  “Do I need to hold your hand?” Mia asks.

  Cheeky little shit.

  “Go stand in the middle.” Mia pulls out her phone. “I’ll take your picture.”

  He walks over, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He closes his eyes and puts one foot on a spigot. All the spigots around his foot suddenly turn off. He opens his eyes and looks down at his beautiful brown boot, dry as a bone. He looks back at Mia, who wills him on like he’s a small child making his first attempt on the monkey bars. He walks in cautiously, savoring each trail of water that shuts off in his presence. Finally, at the middle, he turns to face his daughter, who’s taking photos as water shoots up in the air from a safe radius all around him. He takes his hands from his pockets and reaches to the sides, waving his arms around and commanding the jets of water to stop and start, stop and start. He’s detectable. He’s alive.