Cathexis (25 page)

“You're gonna need a bigger boat” Tenielle sniggered. We all fixed her reprovingly. After ten seconds her defiance trailed to the floor.

“Well?”

“Sorry Dolapo” she said.

“Not good enough”.

“I'm sorry I disrespected you, Dolapo” she sighed, “and your picture is wicked”.

“s'OK” Dolapo mumbled.

For the first part of the session, they were to draw each other. I put Dolapo and Tenielle together, keeping an eye on Tenielle's gravity defying cock-comb.

As usual, I'd left my homework until the last minute, papers and notes all over the bed. I worked on my lesson plans, squinting at a small picture of Frida Kahlo on the laptop, or it may have been Madonna, I was having difficulty telling. Dale's brain had something to say, perhaps an endearment, and I looked up as she regarded me affectionately.

“Minky” she said, “I think you need glasses”.

Gasps and giggles and then silence as the woman removed her pink towelling dressing gown.

“This is Jolanta” I announced. “She'll be your life model for the next part of the session”. She sunk onto the wooden chair and I positioned her arms so that one hand was on her hip and the other braced against the top of the back of the chair supporting her head.

“Is that OK for you?”

She nodded. “Perhaps twenty minutes” she said in a long-suffering Lithuanian accent.

As the girls straddled their donkeys, I tilted a small convector heater at her and she gave me the thumbs up. The usual spiel about not just looking at the figure but the shapes around it, the triangular spaces formed between her arms and torso, not starting at the top and finishing at the bottom, how you would interpret the figure and the skeleton, the way the whole body links together. I moved around the group like a border collie and sitting behind them, thought I'd have a go myself, but imagined drawing Dale and my mind raced away with the prospect. I forced my focus back to Jolanta's flesh while charcoal wisped on paper.

She must have been in her mid-fifties, once a handsome woman, good cheekbones and intelligent, azure eyes. Hair bleached, showing dark grey roots and teased so it stuck up on top but straight at the back and sides, like a mini mullet. Her crucifix earrings dragged her lobes pendulous. She looked at her best when smiling, but in repose her face was jowly and baggy. Large bosoms rested on the rolls of her stomach, which in turn sat on her thighs, obscuring her privates. Not fat exactly, more deflated. Heavy thighs and arse sagging over the seat of the chair and purple, lumpy circuitry networked her legs. The skin of her buttocks and hips, corrugated and crepey. I noticed she'd taken the time to paint her toenails coral pink. Despite her obvious secondary sexual characteristics, she seemed oddly mannish.

The fact I would degrade depressed me, the process in action already. Not that I was vain, but it just seemed unfair your body should throw in the towel
just as you were warming up. Of course, I didn't care if Dale went to seed, I'd still love her. But so far I'd seen no evidence of that (except for when she shouted from the bathroom, 'Minky! Have you seen the tweezers, I'm getting a tache', snorting with amusement).

Only when Jolanta flexed her arm and shook out her hand did I realise I'd spent the last fifteen minutes wool gathering. She donned her dressing gown and hobbled about stiffly. The girls still fiddling with their drawings and some looked up surprised to see her gone.

“Some of you are not looking at the model enough” I said
.
“OK Jolanta?”

“Yes” she said. “Maybe next time I lay down”.

I arranged an old green velvet curtain on the floor and strategically positioned some plain red cushions.

“We’ll do one more and have tea” I said, refusing to use the term 'comfort break'.

Jolanta, lowering herself towards the curtain, got so far and then kind of dropped, unbalanced
.
She did a small roll. My eyes shot to Tenielle, suppressing a smirk behind her hand.

“Are you alright there, Jolanta?”, trying not to sound patronising.

“Yes, sank you” she said. “My knees, they are bad”.

The girls swivelled their pads to landscape.

“Let's try and make you comfy”. She reclined her left side on a line of cushions, one leg angled in front, the other crooked up with her knee bent and her foot on the velvet. She raised herself up on her arm and I padded some cushions behind her for extra support. Her left hand disappearing under her body, cupping a bulge where her hip bone used to be, she settled her right arm across her stomach. Standing back, I looked at what the girls would see. Jolanta, strangely transformed, a provocative pose, livid genitalia exposed, bosoms like bread dough set aside to prove, she looked ...well, sexy; an experienced Odalisque. A far more interesting challenge for the girls.

“Don't forget to look at the spaces”, gesturing at Jolanta's raised knee. “There's a great opportunity for a hand study and look at this neck, visualise that arc from the head, sweeping right through the body. She had a small bird tattooed on her right buttock.

“OK, let's get some colour into this”, breaking open brand new sets of chalk pastels. “And don't just use pink, look really closely at the skin tones, look at the shadows. What colour are they?”

The girls woke up in response as I moved behind them, pointing out potential improvements and acknowledging good work. They were coming along well. When they filed out for their break, I proudly sealed the drawings with fixative.

Chapter 7

Dale's forty third birthday fell on a Monday. I cooked her favourite things: scallops with chorizo, my special chicken and ginger with cashews and a hill of profiteroles. My presents, a chunky silver star on a string of leather and a book on Anthony Gormley. After a short hiatus, I gave her a good birthday seeing to.

“I think you're overdoing it with this exercise malarkey” she said as we cuddled in bed, sipping whisky. “You look knackered”.

“Do I?” anxiously. “But don't you think my body's improving?”

“It doesn't need improving” she said. “I just worry it's some kind of displacement activity”.

“For what?”

“Oh I don't know, perhaps you're putting off coming home”.

“Are you serious?”. Horrified she would think this. “I can't wait to come home to you. If I didn't have this stupid council job I'd be glued to your face ninety per cent of the time”.

“What would you do in the other ten per cent?”

“Dunno
...eat lotus flowers. Anyway, it really pisses me off that I have to spend my days doing something I don't want to do”.

“Give it up then”, she shrugged.

“If only I could”.

“You can, rent out your place and come and live with me”.

“With my mortgage it wouldn't be enough to live on”.

“Minky” she said, her eyes burning patiently. “You're not hearing me, I'm asking you to move in with me”.

In my negativity, I'd overlooked this.

“Really?”

“Yes, come and be with me and we'll sort it out”.

“What about Cath?” I said, relentless.

“She can live at yours, instant tenant, job done”. Pleased with herself.

“Thank you”.

“My pleasure”.

“But I insist on paying rent”.

“Unnecessary” she said, stopping my mouth with hers. “Minky, there's something you should know”.

“What?”

“I'm rich”.

“Oh” I said, “excellent”.

The next morning I composed my resignation email to Lionel Beresford. The month I was supposed to serve out, only a week due to unclaimed annual leave ...I hurriedly booked a free council eye test.

Humming to myself, I taped six human sized sheets of paper to the wall. The girls against them, I followed their contours with a marker pen, as close as was decent. Until now, I'd been parsimonious with materials, but today, everything was up for grabs: paints, magazines for collage, chalk, oil pastels, coloured paper – the works. It was up to them how they fleshed out their own silhouette. It was our last session. Dale had baked a cake. The finished pieces, insane and brilliant. I'd put it to Rosamund we should exhibit them in Gallery 3.

Rosamund bustled in to remind me there was a life drawing class at seven and we hastily packed up. Dolapo was the first to hug me, followed by Choi and Magdala. Bazlah shook my hand, as did Toni. Tenielle boxed my fist with hers.

“Minette” Rosamund said, “I'd like a word with you if you could stay for five minutes. Girls, girls, before you go would you be so kind as to fill in these evaluation sheets? Sorry Minette, could you wait in the canteen”.

One of the canteen doors swung open and there it stayed, stopped by Rosamund's hand while she talked to someone in the corridor. Having basically bullshat my way through this, I was pretty sure my luck had run out. Oh well, it was good while it lasted. A whinnying laugh and she hurried in, a folder under her arm.

“So sorry to keep you waiting” she said, sliding the file towards me. “You can take these if you like, I've scanned them in. All positive and I have to say, I'm very impressed - they were a tricky bunch”.

“Not at all” I said. “I've really enjoyed it and it's so satisfying to see their skills develop”.

“Quite, that is why I'd like to ask you if you'd be interested in increasing your sessions to five a week, starting September with a class of eight”.

I coolly agreed, but with the stipulation the class size was no more than six. I would be unable, I felt, to devote enough individual time if there were more.

“Hmmm, agreed” she said, amending her notes. “We're also putting together an exhibition and I wondered if you would be interested in sitting on the selection committee?”

“I'd love to”.

“Excellent” she said. ”I knew you'd work out for us, Minette”.

She stood and pushed the chair under the table. Her ‘phone beeped. “Sorry, I must dash” she said. “Flora's playing up and Nigel can't cope; you know what men are like, it's as if I've got two children sometimes”. Her expression of collusion unravelling slightly as she reminded herself that I probably didn't know what men were like. “Anyway, enough of that” she said. “Must dash! And well done you” she shouted as the double doors flapped back into position, wafting Chanel no. 5 at me. I guess I'll have to put the lotus eating on hold.

At five o'clock on the dot, Todd, Maisie and I nudged into the Duke of Wellington, eyes recalibrating from bright street to Dickensian dim. The tree boys, already at their beer stations, gave a whoop and stood, firtling for fivers earnestly; buying a round these days, a serious business.

“Is Kika feeling better?” I asked Todd.

“Unfortunately” he began (I knew what was coming), “she went downhill this afternoon and she's erm ...sadly passed away”. One of his stock phrases that never failed to make me laugh.

“You're such a knob head” I said as Kika scurried in. “Are they all for me?” Three rum and cokes had materialised; someone had the idea it was my drink. I must pace myself though. I didn't want to be a twat in front of Dale. Eyes moving from clock to door, which swung open continuously.

“Good turn out” said Maisie, “even senior management”.

More drinks bestowed and I chatted freely about my plans to paint and potter. Six o'clock when I saw the kinky hair moving between smokers who stepped back and ostentatiously held the door open. The very bones of me burned and some inner turbine cranked into slow, lustful revolutions as she became corporeal, set in sunshine. Dressed in a way I'd never seen before and as Evelyn 'Champagne' King kept mentioning, she did indeed make my love come all the way down.

The silver star glowed on her tanned décolletage, appearing all the more dusky due to a tight white ribbed vest which described her breasts, accentuating her limber angles and toned arms. A skirt! Dark blue with tiny white dots blossoming into flowers as she drew nearer, it flowed mid-thigh, allowing us the benefit of her gently muscled legs. Her feet, grounded in Blundstones, like a gypsy soldier. Ringlets relaxed with some exotic unguent, shining ebony around her shoulders and scintillating aquamarines, enhanced with mascara and black eye liner (something else I'd never seen), scanned the room, seeking me.

She was Brahmin ...of the highest caste.

A moment of disquiet as she realised the whole pub was watching her, but spotting me, her warm, wide mouth rendered them inconsequential. Striding towards me, her eyes never left mine, her smile shifting from genial to personal.

“Here's my Dale” I said, more in affirmation than introduction. This woman couldn't be mine, could she?

“Hello you” she said, placing her juicy fruit lips on my mouth in a kiss that either snuffed my hearing or quietened the room, lingering a split second too long for polite company. Her anointed hair smelt of vetiver.

“Hi baby” I whispered and introduced
her as my partner. She captivated my colleagues in twos and threes. Staying by my side, sipping beer from the bottle, she linked her little finger with mine.

“I had no idea there'd be so many people” she said. “Do you know them all?”

“Pretty much”.

A persistent staccato tink. “Oh no” I groaned, as the room hushed.

“Hello everyone, I'm glad you could all make it” Lionel Beresford said, as if addressing a steering group. “Well, Minette is leaving us”. Kika interjected with stagy sobbing. “I know we're all going to miss her” he continued.

“Especially me” choked Kika.

“I won't” said Todd, provoking a ripple of laughter.

“I would just like to say” Lionel persisted, “Minette, it's been a pleasure”.

“You'd like to, but…”. Todd was buried in a barrage of shushes.

“Minette has always delivered, albeit in an often unorthodox way, producing imaginative and intelligent solutions and I believe she has been key in changing the public's perception of front line staff for the better”.

“Here here!” said John Jenkins from 'Friends of Cobb Gardens”.

“We all wish you well in your artistic endeavours. Minette, your legacy is great”.