Into My Arms (3 page)

Ten minutes later, the roster still uncompleted, Hamish found himself in the spectators’ gallery above the main gym, trying to catch a glimpse of Skye. He was responsible for her class, he’d told himself on the way up the stairs, Jess padding beside him; he needed to check she could still teach with her injured hand. But who was he kidding? All he really wanted was a wave or a nod from her, something to smooth things over between them so he could get back to work. Jess settled herself on the floor, lowering her head to her paws with an air of resignation.

It took him a minute to spot her amid the blur of tracksuits and leotards. She was demonstrating a routine on the mat next to one of the beams: leg swing mount, moving into a snap turn. She paused to make sure the class was paying attention, executed a meticulous arabesque, then concluded the sequence with a switch leap. Two of the students clapped, and with a grin and a flourish Skye sank effortlessly into the splits.

She was a natural performer. He’d admired that in her from the moment they met. As the staff coordinator when she was first employed, Hamish had been asked to sit in on a few of her classes to make sure she was as capable as her references suggested. Most new teachers would have been nervous in such a situation, aware they were on probation, but Skye had seemed to relish the extra attention. He remembered watching her with the senior girls as she took them step by step through a complicated manoeuvre on the bars. Her legs were strong and shapely from years of training; her ash-blonde ponytail danced; her hands moved fluidly from one position to the next: up, over, grip, regrip, spin, dismount. And all the time she smiled. Not in that false, lip-glossed competition way, but with genuine enjoyment, because she was good and she knew it, because they were watching and she could make her slender, supple body do whatever she chose.

Hamish knew the feeling, knew it well, though he had never exulted in it the way Skye did. He’d been in high school when he first realised he could succeed at any sport he turned his hand to. With his long legs and lean frame, athletics came easily to him, but so too did rugby, swimming, basketball . . . He was pretty good at his schoolwork, but after a while no one seemed to care about that, not even his teachers. They just wanted to talk about the try he’d scored, or the new record he’d set, and whether he thought the first eighteen might finally have a chance of beating arch rivals Scotch College. By the time he was in year twelve, he was captain of five different teams and almost too busy to study. It made sense to apply for a degree in physical education. The entrance score was low, and it was what he was best at. Everyone had always told him so.

Four years later he wished he hadn’t listened to them. Working at the gym had been fun for a while, but then started to bore him. He took a year off to travel, and when he got back worked as a personal trainer. The money was good, but even that palled after a while. He didn’t much care about his clients’ pinch-test results; he’d never cared about his own. He wanted to do something with his brain, he realised, not just his body. Moving into management helped for a bit, and then one day a middle-aged man Hamish was preparing for a marathon mentioned that he was a futures trader. As they ran together his client explained the industry and what he did all day; maybe Hamish should look into it, he suggested. He could study part time while he worked at the gym. The idea appealed, and then stuck fast. A future was what Hamish needed, after all. He’d been good at maths at school, he reasoned, at least on those rare occasions when he wasn’t training or competing, and this had the advantage of longevity. Fitness was a young person’s game, and he was in his thirties now. Recently, whenever he filled in for an absent instructor his lower back ached afterwards; his knees had begun to seize up in cold weather. None of that would matter in an office. Flesh was weak. He needed a plan B.

Maybe Skye’s art could be that for her, Hamish thought as he moved to the front of the spectators’ gallery, hoping she’d spot him. After all, it was another form of exhibitionism; she would still be on display. Nell seemed to think Skye had some talent, and as a painter herself she should probably know. Hamish had no idea. All the same, he’d encouraged her with it, because she couldn’t teach gym forever.

Not that you could tell Skye that, of course. The only time he’d dared suggest such a possibility—that one day her limbs might fail her or arthritis set in—she’d been immediately offended. The trouble was that she thought she was unique, immune; imagined she’d always be able to do exactly what she pleased. Hamish found himself thinking about the first time they’d slept together, just a few weeks after those probation classes. She’d certainly done as she liked then; she knew what she wanted and how to achieve it. He’d been well aware of the attraction between them, and had been planning to ask her out. If he’d considered seduction at all, it was in terms of dinner, crisp sheets, candlelight . . . And then, after one of her evening classes, Skye hauled him into the storage area for the mats, had his shorts down and her hand round his cock before he could even be sure the door was shut. He hadn’t completely enjoyed it, to be honest, though the smell of foam still turned him on. Skye’s students had left and the gym was emptying, but the rhythmic thump of a step class continued next door, and with it the fear that at any moment someone might burst in and catch him screwing his staff. Skye, of course, hadn’t been bothered. She’d taken charge, despite the seven-year age gap between them, despite the step class and the unlocked door and her sports bra that he couldn’t undo. Later, when he knew her better, Hamish realised that the risk was part of the appeal. Unlike him, Skye got a kick out of taking chances, and probably wouldn’t have minded being caught. Perhaps, he wondered, she might even have enjoyed it, felt as if she was back in front of the judges, legs splayed, toes pointed.

‘Are you hiding out from the boss or perving on the students?’

It was Vanessa, one of the other instructors, who’d sneaked up behind him while he was lost in thought.

Hamish moved closer to the guard rail to hide his erection. ‘Neither,’ he protested. There were plenty of opportunities for voyeurism in his job, but the level ten girls below, all flat chests and hipbones, did nothing for him.

‘Just as well,’ cautioned Vanessa, then peered down into the gym herself, where Skye was coaching her class through a sequence of flip-flops. She observed for a moment, then said, ‘I know who you’re watching. She’s a good teacher, isn’t she? They all love her.’

‘You’re a good teacher too,’ Hamish responded automatically. And Vanessa was, he thought, but Skye was better. It wasn’t just about showing off; she was passionate about the things she taught, and that made up for her lack of formal qualifications.

‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’ Vanessa laughed, standing a little too close to him. She wasn’t wearing very much, he noticed, just a crop top and a tiny pair of shorts.

‘Did you need me?’ he asked, returning his gaze to the bars and mats.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I want to swap a class next week if I can. Wednesday, at five, the mixed junior development group. I’ve got an appointment I can’t get out of.’

She expected him to ask her about it, he could tell, but he couldn’t be bothered. All the instructors were casuals, and they were always swapping classes. He’d lost interest in their reasons years ago. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied. ‘Can you think of anyone who could take your place?’

‘Dan might,’ Vanessa said. ‘He told me he wanted to do more gym stuff . . . or what about your girlfriend?’

‘Skye doesn’t have the time now she’s got her arts job as well. That’s her preparation day.’

‘Oh, I forgot about that,’ said Vanessa. ‘So she’s not here as often, then. Do you get lonely in that office of yours?’

Hamish snorted. ‘Not much chance of that. There are always people like you coming in to disturb me.’ Then he softened, and added, ‘I’ll ask Dan about that class, if you like.’

‘You’re a sweetheart. I owe you.’ She blew him a kiss and turned to go, but tripped over Jess stretched out on the floor. The dog’s aggrieved yelp made the gymnasts look up, and Skye, spotting Hamish, smiled and waved. Then she held up one finger, as if instructing him to watch, and moved fluidly into a back walkover. A one-handed back walkover, Hamish noted wryly. Not many people could pull those off. He was torn between admiration and annoyance. She couldn’t be told; she always had to prove her point. Beside him, Vanessa rolled her eyes and bent to apologise to Jess.

3

‘The word mosaic comes from Ancient Greece and means “of the muses”. Does anyone know what a muse is?’ Skye stood before 5C holding up a green glass tile, the colour of grass after rain. She waited hopefully, but no hands went up. ‘Rowena—you have a shot,’ she prompted.

Rowena screwed up her face and glared at the desk. She hated answering questions when there was a chance she could be wrong. ‘Muse . . . like amusing? Or music, maybe?’ she ventured.

‘Good try,’ said Skye, smiling at her. ‘Music must be from the same word. In Greek mythology, the muses were goddesses or spirits who inspired ordinary people to create something beautiful—poetry, songs or art. Mosaics are an art form that has been around for thousands of years, since well before the time of Christ. Originally they were made of pieces of coloured stone or ivory, even shells, and used on floors, but by the time of the Roman Empire they had started appearing on walls and ceilings as well.’

Skye glanced at the class, who were fiddling with their sketchbooks or staring out the window. She was losing them. They didn’t care about any of this history—they just wanted to start cutting out tiles and sticking them down. Still, she persisted. To really understand something you had to know where it had come from, how it had been shaped.

‘There was a famous mosaic in Greece called the Unswept Room,’ she continued, trying another tack. ‘It was designed for the floor of a dining hall, with tiles—or tesserae, as they’re properly called—placed to look like bits of food and other refuse dropped from the table, then left there. Apparently it was so realistic that guests entering the hall would either wrinkle their noses in disgust or send the servants to fetch brooms.’

That was better. They were listening to her again, and Skye felt the familiar pleasure of having engaged her audience. Nothing had ever elated her more than when she was competing and the crowd had spontaneously begun clapping along with the music to her floor routine. She’d been surprised and pleased to find that, on the good days, teaching could be just the same; that there were moments when your students went with you and didn’t look away.

‘OK, then, so has anyone here made a mosaic before? Or seen one?’ she asked.

A few hands went up. ‘Last year in art we made letters—our initials—out of torn-up bits of coloured paper glued onto cardboard,’ a boy in the second row answered.

‘That’s a good start,’ said Skye. ‘Ours is going to be much bigger though, and made of glass and tiles. Plus it will last for years and years. Do you still have your initials?’

The boy shook his head. ‘No way. Mum threw it out pretty much as soon as I brought it home.’

‘There you go,’ said Skye. ‘But no one’s going to throw this one out. You’ll be able to bring your own kids to see it.’ She was rewarded with a smile, and selected another hand.

‘There’s a mosaic-covered statue down by the Yarra,’ said a girl with thick black hair. ‘It’s a great big thing, like an animal. There’s lots of different colours.’

‘Oh, that’s a good one, Natasha,’ exclaimed Skye. ‘It is Natasha, isn’t it?’ She was still learning. The girl nodded. ‘That sculpture’s called
Angel
, and I think it’s made up of about four thousand tiles. It stood in the moat at the National Gallery for years.’ No flicker of recognition on any of their faces. They were too young to remember that. Skye looked around again. A thin brown arm on the periphery of the classroom tentatively edged forward. ‘Yes?’ Skye said, encouragingly.

‘Excuse me, miss, but at home my parents have a picture of a mosque with mo-say-ic.’ The boy spoke haltingly and with an accent, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables.

‘A mosque—that’s like a church or a temple, only for Muslims,’ Skye explained for the benefit of the class. She turned back to the boy, who blinked at her nervously. ‘Where is it, do you know? And can you tell us about the mosaics?’

He swallowed, his face serious. ‘It is in Iran, where my family is from. The colours are very bright—blue, red and yellow. They are triangles.’ He paused for a second, as though carefully considering his words. ‘They make the ceiling dance.’

‘That’s a wonderful expression,’ Skye said. ‘Sometimes tiles do that, if they’re placed at a certain angle—they can cause a flat surface to appear three-dimensional, as if it has curves or crests. There’s some beautiful mosaic work in the Middle East. They use it on the outsides of their mosques, as well as internally. Is this one in Tehran?’

‘No,’ the boy said. ‘Shiraz.’

‘Perhaps you could bring the picture in next week, ah . . .’

‘Zia,’ he supplied. ‘It is pinned to the wall, but I will ask my father.’

‘Thank you, Zia,’ said Skye, and instructed the class to open their sketchbooks.

Later, she asked the students to divide into groups of four or five to work together on specific sections of the mosaic. As the other children quickly coalesced into factions or shrieked to their friends across the room, Zia simply sat at his desk and waited, hands folded neatly in his lap. Once it was clear that no one was going to claim him, Skye picked up her stool and went and sat beside him herself.

‘Zia,’ she said quietly, after asking the groups to start pooling their ideas, ‘remember the designs we did last week? Can I see some of yours?’

The boy gave the slightest shrug of his shoulders and nudged his book towards her. On the first page he’d sketched a frog leaping out of the water towards a lily pad, on the second a bird in flight. The name of the school was crudely lettered underneath, and, Skye noticed, misspelled.