Hard Rain

by Melissa Vayle

  At least that was what she told herself as warning during the depressed moments when she was tempted to respond to those personal adverts of a coded nature seeking ‘unequal’ relationships. Val. She envied Val whose life seemed so uncomplicated. Why, oh why, can't I be like Val and be happy and normal? Why do I have to have these bloody feelings! And with that, she got up as if to do something about them. But all she could do, was pace out a few steps on a cluttered floor, and turn this way and that, hemmed in and restricted by the mess around her, and knowing, deep down, she was well and truly trapped. It was going to be a long day.

  Chapter 3. The bizarre gallery

  She could not eat much of her evening meal. She was already worked up from the moment she had left work. She showered off the dust of the library and, taking her time while hurrying up, she put on a set of black underwear. She was thinking of Stephen's voice over the phone. She moved over to the full-length mirror and surveyed her reflection. Dirty girl, she thought, and looked long and hard at herself, smiling. She tweaked the hook on the back of her bra. Will he be fumbling with it later? Would the date go that well! Down below, she wore French knickers which revealed inviting glimpses of her buttocks when she turned sideways. Next came sheer black stockings fastened to suspenders and, slipped onto her feet, red high-heeled shoes. She looked gorgeous and felt irresistible. Full of confidence, she then slithered into her favourite red dress, streamlined and rather tight around her body. The woman looking back at her was a different Catherine. Stephen's lucky day.

  No sooner had the thought slipped out when something else crept into her mind. He might not be attractive at all. He might feel her outfit was too tarty. The other Catherine was speaking. She had better not wear it. She took off the shoes and dress and changed into a long, flared dress with a floral pattern. The colour suited her and she looked okay but hardly sexy. She found the shoes and handbag that matched and was almost ready. The morning's careful make-up needed only a few repairs and then she was done.

  Thoughts of Paul surfaced and a twinge of regret at breaking off the engagement and ending the relationship came suddenly to her. What would he think if he could see me now? Cold feet, came the thought. It's just cold feet, and with that, she grabbed her bag and went out the door.

  She was ten minutes late. He was sitting at a table on his own with a drink, reading the Arts Centre newsletter. He looked just like his photograph and she was pleased.

  ‘Stephen?’ she asked, tentatively.

  ‘Why, yes!’ He looked up, and beamed at her.

  ‘I'm Catherine. I'm sorry I'm late,’ she said.

  ‘No problem. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Oh, a glass of white wine would be nice.’

  She settled back in her chair and watched him make his way to the bar. He looked confident, and was casual and relaxed. She felt already put at ease and something told her this would be an evening she was going to remember. He came back with the drink.

  ‘A music library, wasn't it?’ he asked as he seated himself again.

  ‘Sort of,’ she said and began to tell him about Michael Richmond's collection of music works and they soon got onto the subject of opera. Slowly but surely, the conversation moved, bit by bit, on to more personal matters. He was telling her about his divorce.

  ‘Anyone sitting here?’

  They looked up. A young woman, heavily made-up flanked by two similar companions, indicated the chair on Catherine's right.

  ‘Hmm...,’ hesitated Catherine.

  ‘No, go ahead,’ said Stephen and, the other two fetching stools, the trio sat down.

  Catherine could see from the look on Stephen's face that any hope of further discussion on personal matters was now impossible.

  ‘Why don't we take a look at the exhibition upstairs?’ he suggested.

  ‘What's it on?’ Catherine asked

  ‘Images of women.’

  The galleries were quiet and spacious after the noisy, crowded bar. It was hard to tell whether they were actually alone or not. One or two people appeared at random on their own from behind pillars, gazing silently at pictures, only to vanish once more.

  The works exhibited were wide, varied and conventional: Eve conversing with the serpent, an idealized Venus, the Madonna cradling her child. As they progressed through the exhibition, Catherine was becoming slightly bored, especially as Stephen had an opinion on each of them. The middle section depicted more mundane images of women - women of different ages, women at work, realistic nudes - for which he was full of praise.

  ‘Realism carries its own beauty. Take this one. It's full of integrity.’

  Catherine looked at the picture. It was an unflattering portrait of a naked woman, sprawled on a bed.

  ‘Hardly inspiring!’ she said.

  He looked at her uncomprehendingly, but she had already moved on. And that was how it went, from picture to picture; there was little common ground. Then came the final gallery, altogether more surreal, which pushed Stephen's insight to its limits. Suddenly he was speechless.

  The picture that confronted them was that of a woman playing a cello, though it was the cello which was the subject of the piece. Catherine was drawn into the picture immediately and she fixed her eyes on this bizarre black instrument. Its shape was exaggerated into that of a curvaceous female torso viewed from the rear which was, moreover, laced up tight in a shiny black corset. Catherine was struck by this erotic conception.

  ‘I could appreciate the wit but not the attitude,’ said Stephen, ‘I expect you find this offensive?’

  ‘Offensive?’ Catherine was slightly taken aback.

  ‘It's a cheap device, using women as sex objects to get a reaction,’ he added. Catherine would have preferred him to at least see the quirky eroticism of the image. ‘The analogy between the female form and the cello is valid, sure, but the tight corset is a cheap gimmick. It's a device bordering on the pornographic.’

  Catherine wondered how a man's prime response could be to actually intellectualize over such an image and her view of him was beginning to change.

  ‘I think women can dress however they want,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ he said, ‘but this is exploiting women.’

  ‘So you think this is sexist?’ she asked.

  He drew a deep breath.

  ‘Sexism is about an unequal power balance between women and men which is indefensible and intolerable.’

  She smiled to herself as she thought of what she was wearing under her dress. The man was a bore and she looked at her watch.

  He cleared his throat as if to side away the embarrassment he clearly showed at raising his voice, and attempted to smile.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘bit of a hobby-horse with me. Look, shall we move on?’

  Catherine gave a flicker of a smile. ‘Let's.’

  She turned from him, and the picture, to cross to the next wall, and that is when she saw it. It had been earlier shielded from view by a dividing wall in the gallery, purposefully perhaps, to attain maximum impact when it came into view. Its form and content, as a work of art, were uncompromisingly clear and Catherine got its message immediately.

  ‘Good God!’ he uttered.

  But she said nothing, and they moved tentatively toward the object. At least, Catherine assumed it was an object and not a live exhibit posed by a model. They walked round it slowly, in silence.

  Before them, in a truly, almost eerily, life-like rendition, was a life-size model of a woman on a low, black, highly-polished plinth. She - that is, the sculpture - was placed on all fours, arms extended fully, legs apart, back straight, and the face gazing directly into a large circular mirror on the dais.

  It was a beautiful face indeed and no amount of close inspection of the reflection in the mirror of the figure's head could convince that this was not a real being. The skin, or imitation of it, was perfect in appearance and hue but on touch - despite the polite notices, one had to touch this! - was cold, smooth and hard like iv
ory. The blonde locks on the head complemented the face fully and the whole proportions of the figure seemed to convey an ideal, yet a strange ideal indeed.

  The woman was clad in simple but telling fashion. Her shoulders were bare but her waist was constricted by a tight black silk corset, contrasting with the yellow-orange, frilly panties she was also dressed in. Her arms were covered by soft black kid gloves, almost moulded to her, which reached up to within several inches of her shoulders. This semi-attire was completed by knee-length, high-heeled black leather boots, laced up tight at the back. The sexual content of the composition was clear but the finishing touch made the final statement. The posture was rigid as it was functional, as a thick sheet of clear, polished glass rested on the figure, supported by the head, the straight back and the flat upper buttocks. It was perfectly balanced and level. In short, the woman served as coffee-table.

  A soft thrill went through Catherine. She peered once more at the reflection in the mirror and saw an almost vacant stare in the eyes, a look of silent acceptance in the face, and, in the slight hint of a smile on the lips, that the woman liked this.

  ‘Well, what can one say?’ came the voice over her shoulder.

  She said nothing but continued to take in the riveting spectacle before her.

  ‘I mean, you do see what I was getting at earlier over the cello, don't you?’

  Silence. ‘And this is precisely the kind of stuff where it leads to - porn dressed up as art, or should I say ‘erotica’?

  Silence.

  ‘Too high-brow for Soho, I'll bet!’

  Silence.

  ‘There's money to be had from here. There are mugs aplenty for this!’

  She gazed upon the marvel of the bare flesh rendered on this figure and touched it once more. But its cold, inanimate hardness tricked her, the way a mirage fools its victim. The soft texture of the real glove, the smooth feel of the satin corset, the pinching leather of the tight boots, all convinced her yet that the woman might suddenly get up and walk.

  ‘Granted it looks real and is technically well done, but it's preposterous in tone and content. I can't understand what possessed the galleries to exhibit this!’

  ‘Images of women, remember?’ responded Catherine at last, hardly taking her eyes off the exhibit.

  She resented his presence, his intrusion into this private experience. For here was a sister, a kindred spirit, whom Catherine wanted to embrace and to know all about, who spoke to her clearly from her platform, who gave her, in that moment, what no amount of actual words could give her - reassurance - and, as the strength surged up within her, reinforcement, of what she was and what she deep down longed to be.

  ‘A coffee-table!’ came his voice, tut-tutting. ‘Is that the best he could come up with? Some cheap, porno, gimmicky stick of furniture for an idea?’

  A delicious idea, she thought, a beautiful idea. How she envied this object.

  ‘Hmm, Catherine...,’ he said. ‘You're quiet. How does it strike you?’

  Like a slap on the arse, she thought, Oh go away, go away - please! But he persisted.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I'm fine,’ she said, and then, drawing a deep breath: ‘How does it strike me? I think it's bold, disturbing, provocative - you name it.’

  ‘Provocative!’ His voice was raised. ‘That's an understatement!’

  She knew the way this was going and the thought crossed her mind: she wished she was wearing those boots, perfect to kick him straight where it would hurt the most. This flash of aggressiveness emboldened her all the more and taking a final, fond look at her stunning sister, she walked off, leaving him standing there.

  ‘Catherine! Where are you going?!’

  She was going home. She did not slacken her pace as she raced through the galleries they had come through earlier, all the way to the exit, with him trailing behind, bewildered and flustered, calling to her ‘Catherine! Catherine!’ in half-whispered shouts.

  ‘Look, Stephen,’ she said, halting abruptly in front of the main entrance and turning round to him. ‘Look, Stephen,’ she repeated, drawing a deep breath. ‘I like you, you're a nice guy. Really, you are. It's just that - well, we're on different wavelengths. To tell the truth, you're a bit too, well, how shall I put it?’ and, struggling with what she wanted to say, looked him straight in the face.

  ‘A bit too what?’ he half-gasped, shell-shocked.

  ‘Clever.’ She did not know where she got that from. ‘That's what you are. You're cleverer than me, and I just know instinctively it won't work out in the long term.’

  ‘Clever?’ he said, his features suddenly becoming less contorted. ‘Well, I suppose I've always had an intelligent approach to life. My friends all say I'm somewhat intellectual …’

  ‘That's it!’ she cut him off. ’Intellectual! That's you to a tee, as for me, well, let’s be honest...,’ and there she trailed off, as if there was no more to be said.

  The rest was easy. They parted ‘good friends’ on the steps of the galleries: she going straight to her car, he standing there, dazed.

  As she drove home through the dark city, she was animated and in the grip of excitement. She had immediately forgotten Stephen and the fact that her precious blind-date was now in smithereens. All she could think of was the woman on her knees and a pressing urge to get home.

  The night wrapped itself round her like a cloak and each street light and neon sign she passed lit up the inside of the car for a brief instant then returned it to a web of shadows. She was oblivious to the play of light and dark on her as the vehicle sped its way along seemingly empty streets. In the flickering light though could be glimpsed something new. Her dress was hitched up over her thighs and she could not leave alone the damp patch on her knickers. Traffic lights on red, others on green, right hand turns, stop signs, filter lanes. She drove on mechanically through the night and all she could see was the spectacle on the plinth.

  Suddenly, she spied something and pulled off sharply from the road and drove down a rough dirt track shrouded by massive thick trees, and going nowhere. She switched off the engine and lights then almost frantically pulled her knickers down. Nothing seemed to move in the pitch-black of the car and its surroundings, not even the leaves on the trees. Slowly, faint at first, then more emphatic, came the sound of some nocturnal creature shuffling around, then some kind of low moan and then what sounded like the rhythm of something jerking back and forth on upholstery, and then, some way off into the far distance, the unmistakeable sound of the bark of a dog.

  Chapter 4. The secret self

  ‘Oh shit!’ she swore, and loudly, as it was the second nail broken within just three days. ‘Bloody hell!’ and this time under her breath, as she surveyed the finger. So much for day-dreaming. She was sick of humping books around, sick of this godforsaken hole and this dead-end job and sick of that stuck-up bitch down the corridor with her supercilious manner who just sat all superior in that bloody ivory tower all day while she was left to get on with sorting out that bloody, awful mess made by that bloody man who couldn't even be bothered to come and say hello. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’

  She flopped herself down hard on the kick-stool, as if totally spent, and was on the verge of either bursting into tears or jumping up and throwing a book at someone. Only there was no-one and she sighed audibly. No-one. Her eyes scanned the cluttered room slowly and settled on the tall poplars visible through the window. But she saw only prison bars. The evening came to mind, and Stephen, and the exhibits. It struck her that she had thrown him away wilfully, and had been abrupt, even brutal with him. God, was I that awful? she asked herself. Now she had nothing in the pipeline and had only herself to blame.

  Strong-minded. The advert came to her suddenly and easily, as if it had never gone away. What was it again? trying to recall the wording. ‘Strong-minded man, 45, tall, attractive, professional, caring.’ Everyone's ‘caring’ in the Lonely Hearts, why don't they all go into nursing? she thought. ‘Seeks comp
liant female for long-term relationship. Discretion expected and assured. Photo, full letter required, reply Box 2638.’

  She knew the wording by heart because she had read it so many times, agonized over it for days, and then finally, with firm resolve and mounting excitement, she had put pen to paper. ‘Dear Sir’, ‘Dear Advertiser’, ‘Dear Master’, ‘Dear Strong-minded’. After endless permutations and convoluted what-ifs, and not without some amusing thoughts, she finally settled on ‘Dear Sir’. The rest was not so easy.

  Her best handwriting was abandoned once the crossing-out began and it quickly became a draft. Then her creative flow ceased as she got bogged down with trying to decide on the right word or phrase and totally lost sight of what it was she really wanted to say. The first draft went into the waste bin, and so did the second. One week on, and she was lost in her fifth version. After two weeks she tore up her ninth attempt. It was hopeless, and that was how she herself felt. Now nearly a whole month since the advert first appeared, she sensed the opportunity had gone. He will have got someone else by now, she decided, but was it with a twinge of regret or relief that she thought that? She felt like she was the pivot of a see-saw which was swinging between two conflicting needs, and the more it swung up and down, the more it pressed her deeper into the ground.

  She sat motionless and silent, as if hypnotized, for some moments then, under the leaden weight of a sense of futility, she dragged herself up off the stool and forced herself to kneel on the floor and begin the tedious task of working through the pile of books in front of her. Each item seemed to stick to her hands as she dithered over what to do with it. Her instincts confirmed to her that whatever she was doing, it was definitely not coping.