Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  She had helped create an Angel.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jane turned the volume up to loudest, so that the rowdy rampant rock music crashed around the studio, its insistent beat thumping through the walls. Christopher would hate it, reserved his precious hi-fi system for his string quartets, his operas, his Boulez, Berio, Birtwistle. But Christopher wasn’t there.

  She tossed her tangled hair back, started dancing to the beat; her body twisting, circling, while her mind zoomed up to Manchester. It had been there and back a dozen times already, spying on the artist, following him all day; from the site-meeting that morning with the architect he idolised, to lunch with the contractors, and now the fund-raising reception with the mayor. She could see the swanky salon with its painted gilded ceiling, flunkeys pouring wine, silver trays of supercilious food – caviare, smoked salmon – the crush of stylish people talking art and money, the Wife in her designer-dress the centre of attention. If only Anne had been abroad, he might have taken her. Then she’d have been the escort sparkling at his side, the one who charmed the famous Stanton Martin, asked profound perceptive questions about the proposed new Civic Centre, met architects and sculptors, dignitaries, tycoons.

  Instead, she’d been excluded, left behind like a superfluous young kid, and with nothing much to do while ‘Daddy’ was away. The artist had refused to let her continue cutting glass, without him there to supervise. She glanced up at the screens, which seemed blank and almost dead with no outside daylight to kindle them. They had been cutting for a week now, and the window looked an uncompleted jigsaw; some parts blank, some filled, but mostly dull and dark, save for the orange-yellow gleam of the selenium, and a shimmer from the palest of the blues. She resented breaking off when she’d just got into the swing of it, and was gaining speed each day, enjoying the real feeling of achievement.

  She checked her watch. Only ten to eight. The day had lasted a century already. She was so used to being busy, to falling into bed at nine, exhausted. She wasn’t tired at all now, only twitchy and frustrated, and even her energetic dancing didn’t help. She skittered round the room once more, avoiding glass and furniture, feeling half-embarrassed bopping on her own; longing for a partner, someone who might change her restless mood. Perhaps they’d be dancing up in Manchester later on this evening – go on to some night spot; the artist cheek to cheek with Anne beneath the pulsing strobe-lights; exotic-coloured drinks in frosted glasses; Stanton Martin soliloquising about Art and Truth and Beauty. She skidded to a stop, turned the record off – one of Rowan’s she didn’t even like. Rowan had lent her a pile of books and records; Isobel bought her a small television from what she called a junk-shop. Both of them were worried about her living on her own, stuck out in the wilds with no company her age, no family, no flat-mates, not even any neighbours, no other house at all within a mile or more.

  ‘Why not move in here?’ Isobel kept urging. ‘It would be company for me. And it wouldn’t affect your job. I could drive you to the studio each morning, fetch you back at five.’

  She’d been tempted once or twice. It would be a comfort and relief to have someone there at night, to share an evening meal, instead of spooning cold baked beans straight out of the tin; to see a friendly face at breakfast-time, or go to bed with a cat curled on her feet. But she enjoyed all that at weekends, and there was something rather special about living in the studio as well as simply working there. She felt like its custodian – the protectress and night watchman who kept it safe, prevented any harm from coming to the glass. And she liked the links with Christopher – sleeping in his bed, eating in his kitchen, using all his things – the sheets and towels which had touched his skin, the soft and pillowy duvet which had lain on top of him. And if he wanted to start early or work late, she was instantly available, not tied to other people or to meal-times. She still also had the feeling that Isobel objected to her close bond with the artist, though she had no proof of that at all. It was just an intuition, perhaps a fabrication, but, even so, it meant she kept resisting the older woman’s lures.

  Today she felt quite different, would have gladly stayed at Isobel’s, except Isobel was out herself, had been gone the whole long day, visiting a relative in Bournemouth. She envied her her car. If only she had transport, and had passed her driving test, she could motor into town, see a film – or another human face; buy a pizza, window-shop. Isobel had lent her an old bike, which had proved extremely useful for running Christopher’s errands, but she wasn’t keen on riding it after dark. She prowled into the kitchen, hacked herself a lump of cheese, ate it standing up. She could see the artist’s sharp white teeth crunching into canapés; hear his voice ringing out as he dazzled all the women – sophisticated women dripping jewels and culture.

  She glanced down at her own rough shirt, stomped back to the studio, switched on the television, ran through all the channels: snooker, and a soap opera, a commercial for shampoo, a depressing documentary about torture and corruption in Turkish prisons. She switched off the ravaged face of a lifer in Ankara, slumped down at Christopher’s desk, fiddling with his paperweight and pens. Wasn’t this her chance to write that letter to her parents, the one she had been postponing for so long, the one she’d promised Isobel she’d send? She went to fetch a jersey, suddenly felt cold, as if just thinking of the letter had chilled her brain and fingers, so that she could hardly hold a pen, or work out what to say. She tucked a second sweater round her knees; didn’t like to turn up all the heaters, waste fuel and money when the artist already paid her more than she was worth. She’d been saving money, actually; feeling some vague sense of dread that she couldn’t rely on anyone or anything; must have some resources of her own, something to fall back on if her job were snatched away.

  She took a piece of paper from the drawer, wrote the date in her neatest slowest handwriting – December 3rd. The December stopped her dead. Only three weeks now to Christmas. Could she really spend a Christmas separate from her parents? She never had before. Home and Christmas had always been synonymous: the same solemn yearly rituals, with both her mother and her father playing crucial roles – the wrapping of the presents, dressing of the tree, the cooking and the carving, the lengthy preparations which had probably started even now.

  ‘Dearest Mum and Dad,’ she wrote, then stopped. They weren’t ‘dearest’ any longer – weren’t even Mum and Dad. The letter would be full of lies. How could she explain where she was living? Her parents would be profoundly shocked to know she spent all day alone with a man a decade older than themselves, who had already tried seducing her. She could give Isobel’s address, but then they’d come to find her – and would soon discover Christopher as well, unless they hauled her back immediately. She wasn’t ready to return, couldn’t face the turmoil, the recriminations, questions. Best to write a scant two lines, confirming she was well, but giving no address at all. She picked up the pen again. ‘This is just to tell you not to worry. I’m quite all right and …’

  Of course they’d worry. Her mother always worried, even when she’d been living safe at home. She began again on a second sheet of paper. ‘I know you must be worried, but …’ That seemed callous and offhand, especially when Isobel had pointed out that they’d be torn apart with grief and guilt, and would have no real means of tracing her, since the police were loth to help when the missing person was officially an adult, and anyway so far from her stamping-ground. She’d been relieved to hear that, yet also disappointed; somehow wanted them to track her down, even if she fled again.

  She crumpled up the sheet of paper, started on a third one. ‘Dearest Mum and Dad, This letter is extremely hard to write.’ That was true, at least, but how should she continue? Did she have to write at all? They had heard her voice already on the phone – knew she wasn’t dead. But she couldn’t break her promise when Isobel had been so kind. ‘Dearest Mum and Dad, I’m living with a lady who’s been absolutely marvellous.’ No. That would make them jealous and resentful.

  She kicke
d her chair back, rattled up the stairs, removed her parents’ photo from its hiding-place. They looked sadder now and older, seemed to be reproaching her, reminding her of the good they’d done, when she stressed only the bad. Isobel’s story of her own adopted baby had made things still more complicated. Angela had been rescued from being a ‘bastard’ and a ‘leper’, from a life of insecurity, with no money and no home. Did the same apply to her, and should she therefore thank her parents, rather than resent them?

  She traipsed downstairs with the photo in her hand still, glanced around the studio, wishing she could turn it into a warm and cosy sitting-room. It always seemed so bleak at night, with no carpet, no coal fire, no easy chairs or sofa. If she were back at home, she could go and call on Sarah, or phone John and Helen and suggest they met at Crispin’s. She was missing all her friends, missing the local wine bar, where they often met on Saturdays; even missing Mrs Appleton, who always stopped her in the street and warned her about the dangerous rays from television. Home was more than just parents and a house; included neighbours, weather, views – even the way their milkman whistled on his rounds, or that dog which yapped and slobbered in number twenty-five, or the smell of Brylcreem curry in their local Pakistani shop. It was milder in the south, yet she almost longed to feel the cruel north wind grabbing at her hair, see the sulky rainclouds pressing low on purple hills. She had tried to keep her mind off all those things, stop her thoughts from sneaking back to Shrepton; had put up a ‘No Entry’ sign around the whole rolling windswept county, so why was it returning there today? Maybe because the artist had gone up north himself, and she was missing him, rather than her parents and her home. Or had he become home, in a way, so that the studio without him was empty, pointless, bare?

  She was relieved to hear the phone ring, rushed to pick it up. It was probably Isobel, reporting she was back, suggesting she came over for a meal. Two hours at the Mackenzies’ would distract her from the artist; from receptions, night clubs, rumpled double beds in grand hotels.

  ‘Hallo. Who? Oh, Hadley! Yes, I’m fine. And you? What, this weekend? I’m not sure if … Well, I suppose I could get down, but …’

  She tried to sound coherent and decisive, not flustered, even panicked. She hadn’t heard from Hadley since their one brief meeting fifteen days ago; had assumed he’d changed his mind about the play, or forgotten all about his invitation. Yet now he was phoning to give her dates and times, taking it for granted she’d be free. Well, she was free at weekends, so why was she still dithering?

  ‘You see, I’m miles from any station here and there isn’t any bus or … Your mother? Yes, I expect she would, but … Oh, I see. You’ve already asked her. Fine, then. The only other problem is …’ she paused. What was the other problem? She couldn’t quite explain it, not even to herself, except it was concerned, of course, with Christopher; the strong but subtle bond she felt between them, as if they were committed to each other, forbidden to accept all outside invitations. She could suddenly see the artist offering his wine glass to an enchanting Felice-clone, kissing her wet lips beneath the smirking cherubs on the sumptuous Town Hall ceiling. Committed? He’d already had three wives, might even now be tracking down a fourth one among the Lady Mucks of Manchester. ‘It’s okay,’ she said to Hadley. ‘Friday will be fine.’

  Friday. Three short days away, and a working day on top of it. She would have to leave early to make the play in time. Suppose Christopher objected, refused to let her go? Well, she wouldn’t stand for it. He wasn’t her strict father; had no exclusive rights to her, and no compunction whatsoever in wooing other women. Anyway, she ought to be with people her own age. Both Isobel and Rowan had warned her it was unhealthy to live the way she did, with no normal social life, no circle of young friends. Christopher was fine as an employer, but far too old for any other role. He was probably only playing with her, wheeling out his wife for all the glitzy social occasions, while treating her as a useful minor stand-in.

  ‘Yes, sorry Hadley, I’m still here. How are you? How’s the course?’ She tried to leave the artist up in Manchester, concentrate on Southampton. It could be quite exciting, meeting Hadley’s friends and fellow actors, attending the cast party. She was flattered that he’d phoned, glad he seemed in no hurry to ring off, but keen to hear her news. She hadn’t any news, so she talked about the glass-cutting, aware that she was claiming more experience and expertise than she had in actual fact. But she liked the admiration in his voice, the way he obviously saw her as a trained and skilled professional, someone to respect.

  By the time she’d said goodbye, she believed the myth herself, rushed into the kitchen, flung anything and everything into Christopher’s old frying pan – cold potato, sausage, a chunk of luncheon meat, tomatoes, peas and beans. Let them choke on caviare up in the Town Hall. She would have her fry-up, her glass of sparkling apple juice, and she would be Miranda in The Tempest – adorable Miranda, whose name meant ‘a girl to be admired’ – Miss Clarke had told them that when they’d studied it at school. She’d wear her new green dress and dangly earrings, and Hadley would admire her, and if there was any sign of tempest from the artist, she would magic it away, like Prospero.

  She turned the gas to low, while she sprinted to the studio, found one of Hadley’s records which Rowan had entrusted to her, a group called Up and Coming, which she put on now, full volume, leaving both doors open, so it would flood into the kitchen. She had created her own night spot; was no longer even alone, had the whole cast of The Tempest sitting down to supper with her; Hadley on her right, playing not Alonso, but the smitten Ferdinand:

  ‘Admired Miranda!

  Indeed, the top of admiration …

  O you,

  So perfect and so peerless, are created

  Of every creature’s best!’

  She laughed, served up her fry.

  ‘Rose! Rose – where are you?’

  Jane opened her eyes. Who the heck was Rose? She’d spent all night as Miranda, full fathom five in dreams; Hadley dressed in green velvet doublet and hose over thin blue-silk pyjamas. She groped out for her watch, leapt up from the covers when she realised it was almost noon, and Christopher was calling from the studio. She hadn’t expected him back till after lunch. He must have got up at the crack of dawn, hurtled down from Manchester at ninety miles an hour. Typical of him, though, not to lie around in bed, or waste his precious time on lazy hotel breakfasts, but hotfoot it back to work. He’d be all the more annoyed that she had overslept herself, with no late night to justify it. Where was Anne, she wondered? Had he dropped her off in London at her job; she, too, back in harness after only four hours’ sleep?

  She squirted herself with Eau de Rochas, as a substitute for washing, dragged on her old jeans, tore the tangles from her hair, then stumbled down the stairs.

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry, Christopher, I just didn’t …’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you want a coffee? You look still half-asleep.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she began again, then realised he was joking, not complaining. He seemed hyped up, his whole face and body animated as he swept into the kitchen, talking as he clattered cups.

  ‘The trip was quite fantastic! Stanton and I hit it off immediately. He’s a fascinating man, Rose, a strange mixture of idealist and autocrat. He believes that buildings can damage your health – depress you and destabilise you, even lead to bankruptcy for businesses, or divorce for families. He’s got this vision of architecture raising up man’s spirit, working like religion, almost. Yet he’s a tyrant in a way, hates any opposition. If one of his staff tries to question his ideas, or change some detail of the plans, the old man will hardly listen, and there’s always a huge argument before he’ll ever compromise. Right, coffee coming up. Want some toast or something to go with it?’

  She was amazed that he was waiting on her. It was her role to make the toast. But he seemed benevolent, expansive, as if Stanton Martin’s idealism had over
flowed to him.

  ‘Have we time?’

  ‘Time? Of course we have. I don’t intend to cut today. I’m going to pop in to the art school to use their reference library. Stanton and I have decided that the panels should be figurative – female figures, mainly, to represent the arts, so I want to get some details of the Muses – Calliope and Clio and …’ He turned round, to touch her hair. ‘Will you be my model, Rose?’

  ‘Your model?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll need to do some studies of the female figure. It’ll mean keeping still for quite a while, holding a few poses. Could you manage that?’ He pressed the toaster down, went to fetch the butter from the fridge.

  Jane sipped her coffee nervously. Didn’t artists’ models normally pose nude? She couldn’t quite imagine him drawing Muses in blue jeans. ‘You mean, pose with nothing on?’ she asked, trying to sound impassive, unconcerned.

  He nodded, spread lumps of cold hard butter on the toast, passed the plate across to her.

  ‘None for you?’ she asked, reaching for the jar of grapefruit marmalade, which she had brought from Isobel’s.

  ‘No thanks.’

  She bit hard into her toast, taking out her anger on the crusts. Posing nude was clearly just a ploy, a clever way for him to coax her clothes off. He’d been foiled in his first attempt, so now he was dissembling, disguising sex as work. Did he really think she’d fall for it, that she was so pathetically naïve she couldn’t see right through him? He’d just returned from a junket with his wife, had been sleeping with Anne, obviously, and now wanted some variety, something on the side. Well, she refused to play that role; be nothing more to him than some casual model whom he shagged, to provide a bit of spice.

  ‘Well, what d’you say?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What d’you mean, ‘‘no’’?’