Life Drawing for Beginners

  “Thanks a lot,” he said, “I wouldn’t ask only it’s important.”

  “I assumed that, dear,” she said placidly. “See you in a bit.”

  James hung up and reached for his jacket. Determined not to analyze what he was about to do, afraid it might take away his resolve. Only knowing that he suddenly wanted to tell her everything, and see where that took them.

  He had to tell her, he’d never sleep again if he didn’t. And she had a right to know, hadn’t she? If she ran a mile when he told her what had brought him and Charlie down from the North, so be it. And if she told his story to the whole of Carrickbawn, he’d have to live with that too—but either way, he had to tell her, and he had to tell her tonight. She was taking up too much of his head space, she was there all the time.

  He paced the sitting room floor until he heard Eunice’s footsteps on the path outside. He opened the front door before she had a chance to ring the bell.

  “Thanks a million,” he said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, help yourself to anything in the fridge, or make tea, or whatever.”

  Five minutes to drive to her house, and the same to get back home. That left half an hour at the most to spill his guts, half an hour for her to take it all in. Talk about mission impossible.

  —————

  “I just wanted a word,” James said as soon as she opened the door. “I won’t keep you long.”

  Jackie cursed the fact that she’d already cleansed her face. Not a scrap of makeup on, not even a dab of lipstick. At least she hadn’t gotten into pajamas, which she’d been tempted to do as soon as she’d come home from the art class.

  She stepped outside, pulling her cardigan closed. “Maybe we could sit in your car,” she said. “My parents are inside.” Her palms were suddenly damp. She wiped them on her jeans as she followed him down the path.

  In the car she sat upright, her back pressed against the door. James was turned away from her, looking straight ahead. She smelled licorice.

  “You weren’t at the class,” she said.

  “No.” He hesitated. “I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

  She had no idea what to make of that. She waited, but nothing more came.

  “Where’s Charlie?” she asked, just to say something.

  “At home in bed. A neighbor is there. I said I wouldn’t be long.”

  Another silence. She hugged her cardigan more tightly around her.

  “I want to explain,” he said then. “I want to tell you about…​my situation.”

  His situation? Jackie kept her eyes fixed on his profile, wishing he’d turn and look at her.

  “First of all,” he said, “my name isn’t James. At least, James is my second name. I started using it when we moved down here. My name’s Peter.”

  He’d changed his name. He was a fugitive from justice because he’d killed someone up north, and now he was in hiding. He was in the Real IRA, or he was a loyalist paramilitary. Either way, she didn’t like the direction he was taking.

  “The reason we moved, and the reason I changed my name,” he said, turning at last to face her, “is because two years ago, my wife—” He stopped.

  His wife. Jackie felt a dull lurch in her abdomen. She could feel the cold of the car door through her clothes.

  “Two years ago my wife disappeared,” he said. “She left the house one day to go shopping, and she never came back.”

  Jackie drew in her breath. Charlie’s mum is lost, Eoin had said, and she’d assumed that meant dead. But it didn’t mean dead, it meant lost. His wife was lost. She gave an involuntary shiver.

  “You’re cold.”

  “I’m okay,” she said, but he turned the key and switched on the heater, and in a few seconds she felt warm air at her feet and on her face.

  He turned away from her again. “After she disappeared,” he said, staring straight ahead, “the police launched a massive search. They dragged lakes and sent divers off the coast, and combed woodlands and mountains. They interviewed me so many times I lost count.”

  She thought she vaguely remembered a young mother going missing in Donegal. It had made the headlines for a couple of days, till something else had taken its place. Nothing very newsworthy about someone still missing.

  Had there been a mention of it on the first anniversary? Maybe. There was usually a mention, a fresh appeal for information.

  “Some people decided I’d done away with her,” James went on. “I got anonymous letters, people spat at me in the street, or crossed over to avoid me. When they started asking Charlie if she knew what her dad had done, I decided it was time to move. So we came here.”

  “And she was never found?”

  He shook his head. “Not a trace.” He hesitated. “You’re the only person I’ve told, down here. I wanted you to know, because…”

  He might have killed her. He might have killed his wife and disposed of her body so well that nobody had found it. But he didn’t strike Jackie as a killer.

  “I’m glad you told me,” she said.

  “I’m not free though,” he answered. “Until a body is found, or until she turns up, I’m still married. For seven years, apparently.”

  “I know,” Jackie said. “I know that.” She did know that, without having a clue where she’d heard it. One of the thousand pieces of random information that had found a place in her head.

  Was he asking her to wait? Was that what he wanted? It was what she wanted, she was sure of that.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said then. “I’m staying here in Carrickbawn.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “Eoin would be sorry if you moved.”

  He turned to look at her again. “Just Eoin?”

  “No,” she answered, her heart thumping in her chest. “Not just Eoin.”

  Wednesday

  He watched as Audrey pushed open the door. He waited for her reaction to his lack of beard.

  She stopped dead. “Oh—” her hand reaching up to press against her chest “—goodness.”

  Nobody used “goodness” in a sentence like that. Michael had seen it written in old-fashioned children’s books, but he’d never heard anyone use it in that way. It suited her perfectly.

  He was too old, much too old to be experiencing silly little darts of pleasure, but there they were, hopping around inside him. For God’s sake.

  “It’s so much better,” she said, a warm smile spreading across her face. “I must admit I never really liked your beard.”

  “Me neither,” he said. He discovered a smile on his own face, completely uncalled for. “I came to my senses,” he said, “and shaved it off.”

  They stood grinning at each other for a while. He hoped no wretched customers would come in. She wore a green-and-white skirt and a yellow blouse. She reminded him of a daffodil.

  “So,” she said at last, “you’re having a sale.” She looked around. “I don’t see any signs.”

  It had been all he could think of to get her to come back. He should have made some signs, he hadn’t thought it through at all. He’d never had a sale in his life. He had no idea how they should look.

  “No signs,” he said. “Just twenty percent off everything, keep it simple. You mentioned a kennel.”

  “Yes, so Dolly can be outside while I’m at work. I teach art,” she said, her smile widening again. “I’m on holidays this week, midterm break. And last night my life drawing evening class ended, so I’m completely free.”

  She stopped abruptly, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

  “In that case,” he said, his heart thudding like a two-year-old’s, “perhaps I could persuade you to let me take you to dinner some evening.”

  “Oh—” the hand flew to her chest again “—oh, well…”

  She was going to turn him down. She had no interest in him. He was the rudest man she’d ever met. He was far too old, he must be a good fifteen years older than her. His chin was like a sheep’s shorn arse.

/>   “Well,” she said, “I must say, that would be quite delightful.”

  Michael regarded her round, pleased-looking face. Not at all what he’d thought he’d go for. Nothing like Ruth, who’d been small and slight, and not given to particularly loud clothing.

  “Wonderful,” he replied, leading the way to his supply of kennels, which was located on the farthest left-hand aisle. “Wonderful.”

  —————

  She’d known he’d look so much better without the beard. She wondered what had prompted him to do it. He had a good strong chin too, a bit Rock-Hudson-ish.

  He’d just asked her out to dinner. She’d just said yes.

  She was pleased with the green-and-white skirt. It had been worth the ridiculously high price. She wasn’t entirely sure her yellow blouse was right with it though; she suspected it made her look a bit like a daffodil. Maybe she’d drop into the boutique again on her way home, see what tops they had.

  He was taking her out on a date. He was going to bring her to a restaurant and they were going to sit opposite each other and eat food. And afterwards he was going to drive her home, and when he parked the car she was going to suggest that he come in for coffee, or maybe a nightcap.

  And she had no earthly idea what was going to happen after that.

  He bore no resemblance to the men who’d peopled her dreams for as long as she could remember, men with broad chests and full heads of dark hair who crushed her in passionate embraces and knelt in front of her with little velvet-lined boxes, and who eventually walked her down the aisle, looking adoringly at her. He was as far removed from those men as it was humanly possible to be.

  But he was real. And he wanted to take her out to dinner. And she was looking forward to it with an enthusiasm that amazed her.

  She followed him down the aisle, past the bird feeders and dog collars and little tubs of goldfish food, her heart flooding with happiness.

  Thanks a Million

  To Sara Weiss, Jen Musico, and all at Grand Central Publishing for their help and attention.

  To my Irish stalwarts Ciara Doorley and Faith O’Grady, for always being there when I called.

  To the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in County Monaghan, my all-time favourite writers’ and artists’ retreat, for taking me in whenever I need a week of pure uninterrupted writing.

  To my life drawing tutor Paul, God bless him, who always found something positive to say about my, er, artistic efforts.

  To my family, as supportive as ever.

  To everyone who bought a copy of Semi-Sweet, my first U.S.–published novel, and to all who left a lovely message on my website afterwards.

  To you, for doing me the honour of buying this book. Thank you so much, and I do hope it pleases you.

  Roisin x

  www.roisinmeaney.com

  Back to the Drawing Board

  by Roisin Meaney

  The notion of life drawing has long fascinated me. I’m intrigued by the idea of a group of people coming together with the sole purpose of studying someone else’s nude body for a couple of hours. Who, I wondered, would be sufficiently confident to pose for strangers in all their unclothed glory? I knew it wasn’t something I could ever do, not if my life depended on it—thanks, I suspect, to my Irish Catholic upbringing.

  And what about the students in such a class? How could anyone sit there and not feel like some kind of a voyeur? I wasn’t at all sure I could even do that, shy and retiring little creature that I am, but the longer I spent pondering it all, the more curious I became.

  An evening class in itself was such fruitful ground for a writer—strangers meeting up, colliding regularly for a few weeks. Things had to happen. And I suppose I could have chosen to write about an evening class in, say, car maintenance or flower arranging, but life drawing, by its very nature, seemed more open to all sorts of delicious possibilities. (I hasten to add that no offense is intended to car mechanics or florists, whose lives may well be full of scandals!)

  So in the end I decided I had to investigate. I hunted down a life drawing class and went along to enrollment night. On meeting Paul, the teacher, I told him what I was up to. I had decided to come clean, as I thought my cover would be blown anyway when the book eventually got published. Paul seemed amused at the idea of his class being used for research purposes but was happy to go along with it, so I duly presented myself on the first night, armed with my pencils and putty rubber. (Paul generously provided the paper, unlike Audrey, but let’s forgive her as she was such a novice in the whole area of evening classes.)

  My fellow students, about a dozen, were a mixed bunch, ranging in age from eighteen to about seventy, and the gender split was around half and half. I discovered from chatting to them before the class progressed that when it came to life drawing, I was actually the only total beginner, which made me feel slightly more like an imposter.

  I probably should mention at this stage that I hadn’t exactly been blessed with artistic ability. I’d studied art in secondary school (high school to you), and I could copy someone else’s cartoon drawing fairly well, but that was about the extent of my talent. I had no idea how my attempts to reproduce a real person would go, but I wasn’t hopeful. I reminded myself why I was there—to see how a class operated and to pick up a few tricks of the trade for Audrey to pass on—and I set out my tools, trying to look as if I knew what I was doing.

  In due course our model entered the room, wearing a dressing gown. She looked about nineteen or twenty, and was tall and attractive. I glanced around at my partners in crime—sorry, I mean fellow students—but none of them looked in the slightest bit embarrassed as she undid the belt of the dressing gown, quite nonchalantly, and bundled it onto a chair. Paul indicated the pose he wanted her to take up, in exactly the same tone of voice he would use, I imagined, if he was giving her the weather forecast, or telling her when the next bus was due. And off we went.

  Needless to say, my efforts were disastrous. The poor girl on my page looked as if she was in dire need of immediate surgery to correct her crooked spine, misshapen legs, and distorted hips—not to mention breasts that were separated from each other by at least two sizes. My initial self-consciousness at being less than four feet from a naked female paled in comparison to the mortification I felt every time Paul passed my way and glanced at the fruits of my labor.

  But he was kindness itself, bless him. His murmured comments were beautifully judged, his praise not so fulsome as to sound insincere, his criticism constructive and helpful. When he used the word “energy” at one stage, it sounded like such a positive way of looking at my offerings that I immediately filed it away and gave it to Audrey to use for James, whose artistic endeavors mirrored my own, God help him.

  At break I cornered the model and interrogated her, and discovered that she was a student in the local art college, and well used to posing for life drawing groups. She admitted, when I probed, that the first time was a challenge, but she quickly became accustomed to it, and now it didn’t bother her in the slightest. I made a mental note not to use an art student as the model in my story—I needed poor Jackie to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown on her first night.

  I stayed the course, despite my obvious lack of talent, and I thoroughly enjoyed the classes, thanks to a combination of Paul’s tact, his music choice (Neil Young, Willie Nelson, Diana Krall) and the nicely laid-back atmosphere in the room. Everyone seemed intent on the task in hand, but in a lovely, casual, non-pressurized way. This was an evening class, after all.

  I can’t say I progressed very much in terms of being able to reproduce a human body in 2-D form, but when it came to plotting the book, Paul and the classes were invaluable. I loved writing this one—I know I say that about all my books, but I grew very fond of Audrey, with her bright colors, enormous heart, and enduring certainty that love will find her—and I’m thrilled that Life Drawing for Beginners is joining Semi-Sweet on U.S. bookshelves.

  I really hope you enjoy reading it; do visit my
website and let me know if you do. Even if my artistic skills are sadly lacking, it’s always lovely to hear that my literary efforts are going down well somewhere!

  Reading Group Guide

  Discussion Questions

  All of Audrey’s students are nervous about joining her class. Have you ever taken a night class? What was your experience like? Would you ever join a life drawing class?

  Many characters in this book are single parents. How is parenting portrayed in the novel and how is each parent different? Are you a single parent yourself or do you know any single parents?

  What do you make of Irene? Do you think she is a good person? Why or why not?

  Michael kicked his sixteen-year-old son out of the house because he was a drug addict. Do you think he made the right decision? Would you have made the same choice?

  Zarek is keeping a secret for most of the novel. What is that secret? Why do you think he is finally able to reveal it by the end of the book?

  Do you think it is fair for Carmel to ask Michael for help? Or do you think she is asking too much of him?

  When Valerie meets Barry for the first time she says to Michael: “You’re showing a boy you didn’t know existed up to a few weeks ago more attention than Ethan or I ever got from you. You failed as a father so you thought you’d try your hand at being a grandfather, is that it?” Why is Valerie so angry? Do you think she is too hard on Michael or does she have good reason to be upset?

  Jackie is very reluctant to model for the life drawing class, but she ultimately gives in. How do you think her experience of modeling changes her? Would you ever be brave enough to do what she does?

  Audrey is not a conventionally attractive woman, but Michael finds himself drawn to her. Why do you think that is?

  When does James’s relationship with Jackie change? Why is he able to open up to her?