Life Class

by Allan, Gilli

  Chapter Forty-six - Fran

  Fran had begun to collect together the makings of the evening meal. It had been a beautiful day – perhaps it would remain warm enough to eat outdoors? Maybe even a barbecue? Less than an hour ago it was an idea she would have rejected as unthinkable. Barbecues required a lightness of spirit, relaxation. All had been notable by their absence from family life recently. Yet suddenly anything seemed possible.

  The sun was lower in the sky and was casting diagonal patches of bright light across her table. Fran noted the artistic tumble of salad vegetables illuminated on the chopping board, their different colours, shapes, and textures. Creamy salad onions nestled against purple chicory, the romaine lettuce a fresh green backdrop to the dark pitted avocado and the polished scarlet of the tomatoes. ‘These aren’t any old salad ingredients …’ she intoned to herself with a smile. If they were going to do this, it was worth doing properly, she thought, and searched the freezer for fillet steaks.

  Though only a matter of weeks, it felt like months since she’d been cast as the villain in a melodrama, the one the audience hissed at as soon as she made an entrance. But everything had changed and shifted. It was a subtle change. She had cried, but there’d been no big reconciliation. Just an admission on both sides that they’d taken the other for granted. It was a start. She wasn’t going to jeopardise this chance. But there was something else that had come out of the conversation with Peter – other than the sense that he was beginning to forgive her – which fuelled her optimism. It was an idea she needed to mull over. For one thing it would be expensive, but it was an idea that was infusing her with a growing excitement.

  The back door opened. Expecting to see Peter coming in from the garden, Fran turned. A nervous jolt twisted her stomach. It was Melanie, the Chihuahuas at her heels.

  These days, every time she saw her daughter, Fran felt the same sick lurch of relief and shame. She recalled herself at the same age – full of unshakeable confidence that she was right and the older generation invariably wrong. Since the previous summer, Mel had grown taller, but she’d also lost weight. Her tan, though still a flattering golden glow against her long, white-blonde hair, had faded drastically. ‘Because of being held prisoner,’ Mel kept reminding her.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ Fran said. ‘How was Jacky?’

  ‘All right.’ Melanie lingered by the scrubbed pine table, picking at off-cuts of the salad her mother had begun to prepare. Nelson and Jimbo were following up the scraps that dropped to the floor. They soon lost interest when they discovered it was all vegetable and, to add insult to injury, raw.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to buy it in bags? Jax’s mum always buys bagged salad.’

  ‘It starts to brown too quickly. It’s no trouble putting a few leaves together. Though annoyingly, since the bagged salad boom, it’s harder to find the ingredients I want, like endive and radicchio.’ Fran heard her own voice maundering on about nothing. There had been no histrionic outbursts from Melanie for a while now, but they still didn’t talk about anything important. A conversation about salad was about as deep as it got.

  ‘I wouldn’t know endive and radicchio if they jumped up and bit me.’

  Fran smiled. ‘You might not know the names, but you would recognise them. Has your dad finished mowing?’

  ‘He’s clearing up now,’ Melanie said. ‘It’s amazing how much he can find to do out there.’

  As the whirlwind of house clearing had gradually subsided, the garden had taken over; he seemed to spend virtually every waking minute out there. Peter was a gentle, non-combative man. In their relationship she was the temperamental one, he was the negotiator and diplomat. But suddenly, he’d had to deal with his own anger and maybe with some guilt too. Every task he’d thrown himself into since bringing Mel home had been a diversion and a retreat, his way of coping, she thought. If he avoided coming face to face with his wife, he avoided the conflict.

  Except it wasn’t a conflict, Fran thought. Her husband’s reproach was well deserved. There’d been no way of fighting him, of finding excuses or wriggling out of the blame. She simply had to bow her head and accept it. No argument. And though Mel didn’t know the full extent of her mother’s lapse, her reproach was equally well-deserved. But had the lowest ebb already been reached? Was she at last coming out of the black hole she’d found herself in? Fran crossed her fingers beneath the table.

  ‘When I’ve my own place I’m having a paved garden, with patio pots,’ Mel said. ‘Much less trouble. There’s no way I’ll be doing all that weeding and clipping and mowing. So boring!’

  Fran smiled. She’d felt the same when she was a teenager. Gardening was for old farts.

  ‘You should have seen the garden your aunt and I looked at today,’ she said. ‘Even you couldn’t think it was boring. There were all these different levels and walled areas with oriental sculptures, a huge ornamental pond with a fountain and … you’d have liked this … a heated swimming pool.’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘And a changing room with a loo, and showers, a washer-dryer, an airing cupboard for towels and cossies … everything you could possibly think of. And Michael’s not just rich; he knows loads of fascinating people. Dory and I were celebrity spotting as we went around.’

  ‘Has he got a son?’ Melanie asked, eyes sparking.

  ‘He has got a family. The eldest boy has one of those Hooray Henry names – Barnaby or Miles, or something. He’s at St Andrews, I think.’

  ‘Cool,’ Mel repeated. ‘You must get me an introduction.’

  ‘Anyway, how was Painchester? Was there anywhere open on a Sunday?’

  ‘It’s a tourist town. Loads of places were open.’

  ‘Did you buy anything?’

  ‘We bought tops. But mainly we just hung out.’

  Fran thought she knew what hanging out meant. She’d done the same as a girl. You went to places where you thought there’d be young men and you paraded up and down, hoping to be chatted up. It rarely led to anything but, for girls in particular, the need to flaunt was evidently a necessary early stage of the mating ritual.

  ‘Honestly, Mum, Jax is such a child, I’m not sure I can put up with her much longer … except she’s got the car!’

  ‘If it hadn’t been for Jacky …’

  Melanie sighed. ‘I know. I know. She’s got balls. But she’s still kind of immature. And all she, like, thinks about, is men and getting famous!’

  ‘How does she intend to fulfil that ambition?’

  ‘No idea. She can’t sing! Anyway, I was telling you. We went into Virtual World. It’s a game shop. And Jax got talking to this bloke. He’s a bit Goth, with all this long, black hair. She’s so into that kind of thing. We got talking and ended up going for a coffee. When Jax discovered he was younger than her, she went right off him.’ Melanie rolled her eyes. ‘I mean, it’s only by a few months. What’s it got to do with anything, anyway? I think he’s sweet. Kind of quiet and shy, but kind of streetwise.’

  ‘He’s not called Dominic Barnes by any strange coincidence, is he?’

  Melanie’s jaw dropped. ‘How …?’

  Fran sat down abruptly. Her heart began a rapid patter. ‘I didn’t. It was a wild guess. He’s the only young man of that description I’ve ever known in my life. You mustn’t … he’s not … he’s gay, Mel!’

  ‘Mu–um!’ Melanie objected. ‘I’m not gagging for a relationship! I met him. I liked him, you know? Gay? Straight? I don’t care! There is such a thing as making friends with people of the opposite sex. I’ve no plans to jump into bed with him. Honestly! Parents are just totally one-track minded!’

  ‘You can’t blame me for worrying.’

  Melanie came around the table and looped her arm round her mother’s neck.

  ‘Please don’t worry, Mum. I’ve grown up a lot in the past few months. I’m not planning on getting into that kind of thing for a very long time. Just the thought makes me shudder. I don’t fancy Dom, he’s so not my type. And
anyway, he wasn’t … like … coming on to me or anything. But what I was going to say was that he really kind of impressed me. He’s dropped out of school, admittedly not a very grown-up thing to do, but since then he’s been doing classes … though I didn’t realise he was going to the same class as my mum! What a laugh! He’s joining the Art Access year at Strouley College in September. He hasn’t had his formal offer yet, but he seems confident.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And there was Jax, twittering on about who she fancied, and whether she could get an audition for X Factor, and I just thought … Dom was just so much more sussed about everything. So much more mature and determined, like, to make college work for him. And he’s had such a tough life. He told me in private that he grew up thinking his mother was his sister! Anyway, we gave him a lift home and dropped him at the bottom of Bull’s Hill.’

  The back door opened and Peter came in. One of the dogs yipped excitedly and they skittered over to him, jumping up at his legs. ‘Finished the grass,’ he said, turning on the tap and washing his hands at the kitchen sink.

  ‘Well done,’ Fran said automatically. She stood up again and reached for the bunch of spring onions, taking off the rubber band.

  ‘If it keeps hot and dry like this I shouldn’t have to do it again for a fortnight. What do you think about me digging out another vegetable bed?’

  ‘What do I think? If you want another one …?’

  ‘I mean … are there any particular veg you’d like me to grow?’

  Fran stopped chopping the onions and looked at him. Had she heard right?

  ‘Go on, Mum, you know,’ Mel prompted. ‘You can’t have forgotten already. Honestly, Dad, she’s so forgetful. She was just talking about not being able to find them in the shops. What are they called again?

  Endive and radicchio?’

  ‘Oh, OK. Good thought. I’ll look them up online, see if I can find any info; conditions, soil, and so on. Perhaps we’d need a cold frame or a greenhouse.’ He squeezed his daughter’s shoulders. ‘And how are you, cherub? Had a good time in Painchester?’

  ‘Yeah. I was just telling Mum. While I was out I met this really nice guy. Actually, talking to him made me think about what I’m going to do. If I’ve not left it too late I think I might apply to Strouley college, you know, to retake my A-levels.’ Melanie was interrupted by her Blackberry giving a ‘message received’ chirrup. As she rapidly clicked through the buttons, Fran and Peter raised their eyebrows at one another.

  Today was a day of coincidences and strange conjunctions, Fran thought. When she’d come in and had that conversation with Peter up in the spare bedroom, a similar idea had taken root. Why couldn’t she go back to college and redo her art degree? The more the thought swirled around her brain the more she liked it. She could do it from home. There were plenty of colleges and universities offering degree courses within easy travelling distance. But she needed to look into it, see what the provision was these days for mature students and how much it might cost before she sprang the idea on husband and daughter.

  Scrolling through the messages, Melanie’s eyes grew wider. ‘Oh, yuck! Hey, guess what?’ She glanced up at her parents with an exaggerated grimace. ‘Dom’s just got in. He lodges with this sculptor bloke up on Bull’s Hill. I won’t read out exactly what he’s texted, but he says, like, there’s evidence his landlord’s got company. There’s a car parked outside. You know, a yellow KA, like Aunty Dory’s! But there’s no one around … except the bedroom door’s shut, and Dom’s just heard noises! Eurrgh!’ Melanie began to giggle.

  Another set of connections clicked together in Fran’s brain. She put the knife carefully on the chopping board, sat down, and lowered her head into her hands. ‘Oh my God!’ she muttered.

  Chapter Forty-seven - Dory

  Arms around each other’s waists, it hadn’t taken long to get from the barn to the house. Just outside the rear door Stefan stopped and pressed her back. Palms flat against the stone wall either side of her head, he leant in and kissed her again, languorously insinuating his tongue between her lips. If his claim to be out of practice was true, he was remembering fast.

  ‘Where’s Dom?’ Dory asked huskily as soon she was in possession of her mouth again.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Stefan said. ‘I’ve been in the barn most of the day. He could be downstairs watching TV. He could be painting miniatures in his room, or playing computer games. Or he could be fast asleep.’

  ‘At five in the afternoon?’

  ‘Never underestimate teenagers’ capacity to sleep. He could be out, of course.’

  ‘In Strouley or …?’ The implication of her question was not lost on him.

  ‘I don’t ask. It’s down to him now, isn’t it? I’ve done everything I can. I can’t stand guard.’

  They began to whisper as soon as they got inside – the back stairs weren’t wide enough to ascend in tandem, yet they were both loath to release the other. Their attempt to creep only made their ascent more awkward, and the fact they were trying to be quiet infected them both with giggles. The more they tried to repress their amusement, the more hilarious the situation seemed. They stopped and kissed several times, snorting and spluttering, before reaching the landing and pushing through his bedroom door. Three paces in and they fell onto his disarrayed duvet.

  Suddenly sober, Stefan said, ‘I don’t really know why we’re trying to be quiet. Dom’s a big boy. I doubt he’d be embarrassed.’

  ‘It’s not as if he’s inexperienced himself.’ Dory stared at the ceiling in wonder that she should be here in this position. ‘I feel totally drunk.’

  He sat up and leant over her, pushing her hair back off her forehead. ‘What were you drinking at Michael’s garden party thing?’

  ‘There was champagne, Buck’s Fizz, or Kir Royal … at a price. But all Fran and I drank was tea, because we were driving.’

  ‘Very abstemious.’ He was looking down at her, stroking his hand over her face again, as if learning her features. He followed the line of her jaw then drew his hand down the column of her neck and fitted the pad of his thumb into the hollow at her throat. Stroking along the curved edge of her clavicle, he eased his hand under the strap of the camisole and cupped it over her shoulder. She watched his face, his intent expression, almost hypnotised. ‘Would you like a drink now? Make the illusion a reality,’ he asked.

  ‘No. I want to be fully aware of everything.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re sure about that? I can’t guarantee my performance. It’ll be ten out of ten for effort but style may fall a bit short.’

  Her answering laugh was a series of shuddering gasps, as his hand moved from her shoulder to her bare leg, sliding up under her skirt. She shook her head at his self-deprecation and reached up, twining her arms around his neck. His eyelids drooped and for minutes they were lost in another daze of kissing, which grew wilder and wetter. Her skirt was pushed up, the camisole pulled down. Unsuccessfully, she tried to unbutton his faded denim shirt. He wrested her hands away and dragged it open, revealing the buttons to be popper studs. She made an attempt on the zip of his jeans but again was foiled. Instead of a zip, there were buttons.

  ‘You’re wearing trick clothes,’ she said, and then wondered where he was going as he turned and left the room. Moments later, he was back.

  ‘Where …?’ she began, but he laid his finger over her mouth. Nothing more was said. The only noise was the rustle of clothes coming off and the creak of the bed as they writhed and wrestled, striving for maximum contact. Knees scuffed, elbows jabbed, teeth clashed. Noses got in the way and mouths squashed into unexpected corners. Damp trails crossed exposed skin. Each touch tormented, yet was achingly missed as soon as it ceased.

  In a sudden moment of calm, after Dory had captured his hands and pushed them back over his head, she gazed down at him. It was a long time since she’d been in this position with a man, a very long time since she had been with anyone other than Malcolm. In all honesty, she could
n’t say she really knew the man who looked up at her, and yet here she was in his bed.

  Narrowing her eyes, his body became a pattern of black and white, each patch of dark clearly delineated and surprisingly symmetrical. She stooped, fastening her mouth to his and their tongues played tug of war. She breathed in his breath, chewed and sucked on his lips, buried her face into the hollow of each armpit in turn, scenting and licking. Her nipples rubbed against his chest, sending electric shocks zipping through her nervous system and charging her arousal to almost unbearable heights.

  Then suddenly, he was struggling to sit up. ‘Wait, wait!’ he hissed gruffly, kissing her and tumbling her onto her back as he wriggled out from under her legs. ‘I’ve got to …’ He sat, stooped over, on the side of the bed. His head drooped. ‘Oh shit!’ She ran her fingers down the knobs of his spine, to the crease of his buttocks. He still muttered to himself as he bent lower. There was the rustle and snap of tissues being dragged from a box. When he turned, all urgency had dissipated. Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed it. Stefan fell back, his head on the pillow beside hers.

  ‘What did I say about style? Nul point!’ Turning to look at her, his expression was full of regretful apology. ‘Seems I can’t cope with the condom moment,’ he added. ‘And it wasn’t even mine. I had to raid Dom’s store.’

  Instead of telling him it didn’t matter, that she couldn’t care less who the original owner of the condom was, a surge of laughter began pushing up from her diaphragm. Desperate not to offend him, she covered her face with her hands and held her breath, trying to repress the urgent vibrations.