Paul had stopped drawing while Ursula was talking. He looked at her now, not as a model but as the girl who was sitting with him on a park bench and had begun to cry.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t be!’ Ursula said with the same tone of voice as Paul had used to her, and looking at him through water-eyes, smiled, and added, ‘I don’t mind. I did at first. But not now.’
Paul smiled back at her echoing his words.
‘At least they haven’t threatened to chuck me out,’ she added.
‘Maybe,’ Paul said, ‘we could both do with something to drink?’
Ursula nodded and wiped the tears away.
Paul handed her a paper hankie. ‘I use them for making smudges on my drawings,’ he said.
‘More to being an artist than meets the eye,’ Ursula said.
‘More to being most people than meets the eye,’ Paul said.
‘That’s for sure,’ Ursula said.
They walked across the park to a café by the gate, bought a couple of cans of Coke and sat at a picnic table outside.
Ursula had recovered herself. Paul had gone quiet.
‘Can I see your drawing?’ Ursula asked.
Paul took his pad from his bag, opened it, and put it down on the table in front of her.
She was looking at herself as she had never seen herself before, and yet it was herself as she felt inside.
She was so surprised she couldn’t say anything.
‘You don’t like it,’ Paul said.
‘I love it.’ Ursula could only just get the words out. Tears were forming again.
‘You do?’
She looked at him, eye to eye.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘You’re saying it,’ he said.
He reached over, touched her cheek with a finger, and drew it down to her chin.
‘Some people have beautiful faces,’ he said. ‘Or you think so when you first see them. But when you draw them, when you look really close, you find there’s nothing much in them—nothing much behind them, if you know what I mean? And some people who you don’t think are beautiful at first, when you draw them, you see they are, because of what’s behind them—what’s in them. And they are the faces that are really beautiful. Your face is like that.’
Ursula drank the last of her Coke and squeezed the tin till it crumpled.
They regarded each other. There was a new understanding between them.
‘You know something?’ Ursula said.
‘What?’
‘When I was in the hotel room I had a shower and afterwards I looked at myself in the mirror. And you know what?’
‘What?’
‘I realised I don’t like clothes. I never feel right in them. I never seem to be me in them. But without clothes I feel whole. I feel myself.’
Paul smiled.
‘Do you understand what I mean?’ Ursula said.
‘Sure I do. And do you know what?’
‘What?’
‘You looked a lot better after your shower than you did before.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I saw you dressed when I collected the tray and I saw you after you’d showered.’
‘When I was in a bathrobe.’
‘True. But you still looked better.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I do.’
Ursula waited a moment, to be sure she wanted to say what now came into her head.
‘You know you said you needed to do more . . . what did you call them . . . life studies?’
‘Drawings of nudes.’
‘And how they are expensive and you can’t afford them?’
‘Are you going where I think you’re going?’
Ursula gave him a wry smile. ‘Maybe!’
‘Would you?’
‘I’d like to, if you would.’
‘If I would what?’
‘Like to draw me naked.’
He laughed. ‘Would I!’
‘Then let’s do it.’
‘You’re sure?’
Ursula nodded.
‘With one condition,’ she said.
‘Which is?’
‘You’re naked too!’
Paul roared and drummed a tattoo on the table with his hands.
‘Why should men have all the fun?’ Ursula said.
‘OK,’ Paul said. ‘It’s a deal.’
Now Ursula was bubbling with laughter.
‘No, no! I was only joking!’
‘But you’re right. And you know what they say about jokes?’
‘No, what do they say?’
‘Jokes always tell the truth. So that’s what you want! And that’s how it will be. Both of us starkers!’
When they had got over their laughter, Ursula said, ‘Where and when?’
‘My house, tomorrow afternoon. My dad will be at work, not back till six. So we’ll be OK.’
‘What about I wait for you outside the hotel at twelve and you can take me home with you?’
‘Good thinking.’
So it was arranged. And Ursula hadn’t felt so happy since before the unmentionable was revealed.
On the way home she passed the library, but felt too excited to go in and speak to Martin. I’ll see him tomorrow before meeting Paul, she decided. I’ll tell him that I met Griselda Walsh and I’ve started her new book but already feel I’ve grown out of her books now. I won’t tell him that they are Cindy’s books, not Ursula Oracod’s. And Cindy doesn’t exist anymore. She never really did. Just like the stories in Griselda Walsh’s books. They aren’t real. They’re only fantasies. Cindy liked fantasies. They comforted her. Ursula Oracod likes real life.
When she arrived home everyone was out.
She changed into her own clothes, put Imogen’s back where she’d found them and sat in her room imagining tomorrow afternoon.
Imogen and Beatrice turned up an hour later. They were banging on, as usual, about their day’s excitements.
Imogen had chucked her latest boyfriend.
Beatrice had bought a new pair of shoes.
They were planning an evening of boy hunting.
‘Oh, hey, Cindy,’ Imogen said, ‘what’s for supper? Could you rustle up a pizza for us? We need to change and get going.’
‘No,’ Ursula said. ‘I couldn’t. If you want any rustling done, why not do it yourselves for a change? And by the way, my name is Ursula, not Cindy. And that goes from now on. OK?’
She left them to their shocked stares, returned to her room, and managed to retain her victory smile until she had closed her door.
The athletic type.
Not as tall as me. I look down at him.
He doesn’t look at me.
Beside him I feel weedy.
He has black hair, cut very short all over, bristly.
Needs to shave every day already so doesn’t, just to prove he could.
Wouldn’t have thought he’d be her type.
Maybe it was me who wasn’t but she didn’t know till she tried.
Like with her clothes. She’d put something on, certain it was what she wanted, then decide it wasn’t, put something else on that was quite different, and say it was exactly right.
Trial and error.
Nothing wrong with that.
The scientific approach.
She’d do the same with food.
We’d go somewhere—Mac’s, Papa’s Pizzas, KFC, wherever—buy what we wanted.
She’d take a bite or two of hers and then say she wished she’d chosen something else. I’d say ‘What?’ she’d say, ‘What you’ve got,’ and I’d say, ‘Have mine, and I’ll have yours.’
We’d swap and she’d be happy.
Got to the point where I’d always buy what I thought she’d like and suggest to her that she buy something I’d like. Very offhand, not, you know, assertive, or she wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t say I’d like it, you understand, only suggest she might. She’d b
uy that, take a bite or two, say, ‘I wish I’d chosen something else,’ I’d say, ‘Have mine,’ and that would be that, both of us happy.
She never blamed me for suggesting she choose what she chose and then not wanting it. She’s not like that at all, never tries to put the blame on the other person. She’s good that way.
Never blames herself either.
Just gets on with it because that’s the way life is.
I was sitting in the Happy Eater.
Don’t like the Happy Eater much. Don’t like it at all, to tell the truth. But my girlfriend’s new boyfriend does. I’ve often seen him going in there.
They came in. She saw me. Waved. Smiled. No animosity between us. Didn’t ever split up really. Not the way some do. Acrimoniously, if you know what I mean. She just said she wanted to go out with her new boyfriend, did I mind? I said she should do what she wanted, it was her choice. I knew she would anyway. Saying I minded wouldn’t have stopped her.
She did and we haven’t been out together since.
She brought him over to where I was sitting, at a table for four, no one else there. She sat opposite, he sat beside her.
They’d been to a football match, she said.
Not my sort of thing.
She was all fresh air and rosy cheeks.
Very my sort of thing.
Going on to a party at one of his mates. Birthday party, parents leaving them to it. Be a smash. She said he wanted to eat before they went. ‘Get stoked up’ is how she put it. Not her sort of talk usually.
He said nothing, just ate. French fries, pie, French fries. Lots of fries. Lovely manners. Chewed with his mouth open. Breathed through his mouth at the same time. You know what I mean.
Didn’t look at me once.
She asked why I was at the Happy Eater, knowing I didn’t like it. Said I felt like a change.
She asked what I was doing after. Said I was going to a movie.
Wasn’t, just said it. She always liked going to movies. Just about her favourite thing. Holding hands. Always held hands. She liked holding hands, said it was the best part. Didn’t matter whether the film was good or bad, what she liked was being in the dark, the warmth, being close together, and holding hands while watching the movie.
I like holding hands as well.
She also liked ice cream before the start. (‘Wish I’d chosen yours.’ ‘Swap.’)
She asked if I was going with anyone. I said no.
She wanted to know which movie. Said I’d make up my mind when I got there.
She didn’t say anything after that.
Gave him a long look though.
He said nothing, except, ‘Don’t you want that?’ meaning her food, which she’d only taken a bite or two of. She said, ‘No, I wish I’d chosen something else.’ He said, ‘I’ll have it, then,’ and took it and ate it, head down, using his fork like a shovel, mouth open, breathing.
His hair really is very short. Not like mine, which is longish and thick. ‘Nice,’ she used to say, running her fingers through it. Could see his scalp through the bristles. Grey. I’d thought it would be nicely tanned like the rest of him, but it wasn’t, it was grey. Like the skin of a lizard. Put me off my food, to be honest.
When he finished, he got up straightaway and they left.
She looked back at me from the door, and smiled.
When I thought it was about right, I walked to the cinema.
Stood in the foyer.
Studied what was showing on each of the five screens. Picked out the one I wanted to see and the one I’d suggest.
Don’t think she fancies boys any more than I do.
I wouldn’t have, if I’d known I would be a kangaroo.
All it said in the advert was Want to be an animal and be paid for it? If you do, your local theme park needs you.
I applied. Met the ‘human resources manager’—a middle-aged woman in a black pin-striped suit pretending to be a man.
I’d have turned tail there and then but needed the money.
You know what it’s like in the summer. Or it is for me, anyway. The word ‘holiday’ does not exist in my father’s vocabulary. I am expected to ‘apply’ myself, as he puts it, ‘find out how the world works’, ‘engage in gainful employment’, and generally ‘improve my knowledge of people and life’. Otherwise, no more weekly allowance.
I wouldn’t say my father is mean or harsh. Strict, yes. Careful with money, yes. Canny, my grandfather calls it (with a wink and usually when bunging me an extra dole of cash). But not mean. He’ll buy me pretty well anything, if he can afford it and thinks I deserve it, or it will ‘assist your progress in life’. (The high quotient of pomposity in his diction is the result of too many overtime hours spent as a lowly clerk in a law firm; I think he thinks it makes him sound authoritative and wise.)
So the point is I needed a summer job, and there was nothing else on offer which I would demean myself by doing. I’m rubbish at waitressing—can’t remember who ordered what and won’t suffer imperious customers gladly. Refuse to be a barmaid and put up with the lewd jokes, gropes, passes, and inebriated slobberings of male boozers. And trying to sell anything is a humiliating experience, besides which I wouldn’t give away the crap you’re expected to persuade people to buy, never mind sell it. That left being an animal in the local theme park, which seemed like a reasonable solution to an otherwise intractable problem. As a little girl I’d had fun times there, those being days when my father still had some fun in him.
Because of what happened in the end, I’ll have to tell you about my boyfriend, Bret, and my dad. They get on well together, which is one of the wonders of the world. For starters, Bret is the opposite of pompous. He’s a bricklayer, which my father would usually think makes him not good enough for me. My dad is small and weedy and also very possessive of me, and more than a touch jealous. Bret is tall and well-built and thinks the world of me. And so, as I say, I can’t imagine why they like each other, but they do. It’s true they do have one thing in common. They are obsessed by the movies of Clint Eastwood. They watch them together all the time. They must know them backwards. ‘Make my day’ is a running joke between them.
Why my father likes such violent films is a puzzle I have yet to solve. My mother says it’s his way of releasing pent-up aggression that boils up inside him, working as a humble office clerk. She also says he likes Bret because Bret is the kind of hunky male my dad wishes he was. And that he approves of Bret and me being together because he wants me to have that kind of man. (My dad as Bret, or Bret as my dad? I’d rather not think of that, thank you.)
Well, my mum could be right, she usually is. But I don’t know. What I do know is that Bret turns me on, is always good to me, makes me laugh a lot, and I always feel safe when I’m with him. He’s also five years older than me and is a proper man, not a silly boy, which is what all the boys my own age seem to be. What more could a girl want?
As for Bret, he says he likes my dad because my dad likes him, which I suppose is a good enough reason for liking someone.
Anyway, the point is I had to be an animal at the theme park as a summer job. Bret also approved, because he thought it was unlikely that, with me dressed as a stuffed animal, any rival predatory male would make a pass at me. As you’ll guess from this, Bret is even more jealous of me than my dad is. The only time he gets really bad tempered is if another man comes on to me. I am secretly pleased by this, but of course, never let on to him that I am.
When I applied for the job I didn’t know I’d be a kangaroo or I might have had second thoughts. Not that I have anything against kangaroos per se. I’ve only ever seen them in the flesh once, in a zoo. I don’t exactly like them. They look like dusty creatures, and smelly, to me, and I don’t like their little sharp faces and little forelegs that make a funny contrast with their big fat thighs and long back legs and long thick tails.
If I’d had any choice in the matter I’d have been a happy lion or a cuddly bear. But no go. The man call
ed ‘the coach’ dished out the animals as soon as we turned up for the first session of the required two days of training, and as I was inevitably last to arrive, being always late however hard I try not to be, I was lumbered with being a kangaroo.
I should mention that ‘the coach’ was an Australian, and indicated as he handed me my costume that he regarded being a kangaroo an honour, it being a creature accorded special affection by his fellow Australians, for whom it was (is) a national symbol. Or is that a wallaby? I get them mixed up. (I’m rubbish at biology, names of animals, plants, trees, etc.) All I can say is there’s no accounting for taste. I should also add that you did not argue with him, for the simple reason that he not only resembled but behaved like a sergeant major as seen in the American war movies my father enjoys—e.g., Platoon, Apocalypse Now, etc., etc. (if you haven’t seen them, be thankful).
Not that I was the only kangaroo. There were three of us. There had to be three because it was so hot inside the costumes that health and safety regulations stipulated that no one was allowed to be in their animal costume for more than twenty minutes an hour in case you expired from overheating, hyperthermia, dehydration, and other forms of exhaustion. Which meant that three people were needed per animal, each with our own costume, so that there was always one of us on duty, ‘performing’ among the public while the other two rested. Twenty minutes on, forty minutes off, from opening time to closing time each day.
The Kissing Game Page 4