Life Class
Authors: Gilli Allan
LIFE CLASS
Gilli Allan
Four people hide secrets from the world and themselves. Dory is disillusioned by men and relationships, having seen the damage sex can do. Fran deals with her mid-life crisis by pursuing an online flirtation which turns threatening. Stefan feels he is a failure and searches for self-validation through his art. Dominic is a lost boy, heading for self-destruction.
They meet regularly at a life-drawing class, led by sculptor Stefan. They all want a life different from the one they have, but all have made mistakes they know they cannot escape. They must uncover the past – and the truths that come with it - before they can make sense of the present and navigate a new path into the future.
Acknowledgements
To write this book I needed to understand the mechanics of sculpture.
Sculptors Elisabeth Hadley and Ian Rank-Broadley not only tolerated and answered my ignorant questions, but also gave me an insight into the drive, dedication and single-mindedness necessary to devote one’s life to this discipline. I am very indebted to them for their time and patience.
My thanks also go to all the art teachers whose classes I have ever attended over the years. Particular thanks go to Mark Kelland and the delightful and idiosyncratic Anthony Hodge, who is, sadly, no longer with us.
Finally, extra special thanks go to Joan - friend, fellow artist and my informant on a fascinating and unusual career. We had a laugh!
I am grateful to everyone who so generously gave me the benefit of their time and expertise. If there are any errors in this story, they have been introduced by me.
It goes without saying that I am as ever indebted to the members of the Romantic Novelists Association for their invaluable support.
To my sister, Jan
Contents
Chapter Two - The Previous September
Chapter One - Christmas Eve
‘I work in the sex trade,’ was her usual answer. It amused her to watch the battle for self-control on the face of whoever had asked the question, and their dawning relief when she added the qualifier, ‘… the clean-up end.’
Her job had always had its lighter moments, but today, since she’d come back from her lunch break, her mood had plummeted. On the pin board above her microscopes, official instructions about hygiene, circulars, and timetables jostled with the cartoons and jokes members of staff had attached. Her contribution – NEVER TRUST A SMILING HETEROSEXUAL – was boldly inscribed on a Post-it note. Even though she’d become used to seeing it, it usually it made her smile. Now, it was neither funny nor relevant.
She had only seen the patient’s back view but had recognised the boy instantly. And it was impossible not to start putting two and two together, given whom she’d spotted waiting in his car outside.
Earlier, she’d walked back from the city centre, her mind buzzing, consumed by thoughts of the house, her mad offer for it … and its owner. She’d had to juggle with her bags, umbrella, and key fob to get the boot of her car open and stow her purchases. Just as she slammed it shut, the sun came out and a sudden flare off a puddle momentarily blinded her. She averted her eyes. In that instant, she recognised the man she’d been thinking about, sat in the car parked next to hers.
What a comedown. But it didn’t have to mean anything. Perhaps it was just a bizarre coincidence. Even if they had come together, there were any number of explanations. Perhaps he’d come as a ‘buddy’, or
in loco parentis
to support the boy. She rubbed at her forehead. Why was she trying to convince herself that the obvious conclusion was the wrong one? And what was it to her, anyway? If you work in this field you can’t be judgmental, she reminded herself. Other people’s lifestyle choices are none of your business.
Chapter Two - The Previous September
‘… And you’d rather miss your first life class? For Christ’s sake, sis, there’s more to life than the speed of your broadband!’
‘Look, Fran, I don’t
want
to miss it, but the engineer should have been here an hour ago, and …’ Mobile cupped against her ear, Dory looked around at the packing cases that still took up much of the floor space in her small sitting room. ‘There’s still masses to do. I’ve boxes yet to open, let alone unpack.’
‘There’ll be time enough for all that boring stuff later. After all, today is the first day of the rest of your life.’
‘Have you been reading your fridge magnets again?’
‘Why do you think we fall back on platitudes, Dory? Because they’re based on universal truths. So?’
Glancing at her watch, Dory walked back into the kitchen. Her sister had a point. Even if it had been against her better judgement, why agree to enrol for the class if she wasn’t prepared to make an effort and attend it? She reached across the sink to close the window. Below her first-floor rented maisonette, a dahlia enthusiast had filled his small garden with the blousy blooms, their colours magnified in the morning sun. They weren’t a favourite of hers but, momentarily transfixed by the implausible flare of luminous pinks, reds, and oranges, by the crazy deckchair stripes, she felt her spirits lift.
‘OK. If the BT bloke doesn’t arrive in the next ten minutes, I’ll reschedule the appointment. I might be a bit late but … See you when I see you.’ Dory pressed the red button and breathed. Despite the tower of packing cases, a great deal had been accomplished in a very short time. Storage solutions still had to be found, but it would all be sorted. How could she regret the London house she’d left behind? What price prestige, location, success if you’re unhappy in your relationship, if you’re not doing what you want to do?
Now she’d taken the first steps to real independence, what was she going to do with it? How was she going to live the rest of her life? Maybe today would prove the cliché. It might yet prove to be the beginning of something; a different direction, a different way of thinking. After all, science had always come second to art when she was growing up. How had she found herself in a science-based career?
The future was a clean sheet, waiting to be written. But it was
her
wish list, not her sister’s. In her mind’s eye Dory could see the words, ‘Start a business (something creative?)’ as the first entry on that imaginary blank page. Ignore what Fran thought her priorities should be. There was little likelihood that ‘men and relationships’ would figure on the list any time soon … if ever.
The woman who’d come out of the office would have looked more at home at a music festival than standing here, hands spread on the reception desk. Behind small, round glasses, her eyes were smudged with greasy black make-up, and her layers of baggy clothes looked as if they’d been assembled in the dark. The acidic taint of sweat hung in the air. She waited, mouth pinched, for him to identify himself.
‘I’ve been engaged to teach art classes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Stefan Novak. Mornings; Monday, Tuesday, and today.’ He was already tense about the new job – let alone the fact he was starting on a Friday, which felt weird in itself. Now he was getting the distinct message that his arrival was as unexpected as it was unwelcome, and was preventing this woman from getting on with far more important work. Maybe it was an overreaction that said more about him than it did about her. Even so, he could do without the assault on his confidence – wherever it came from. There was nothing to stop him turning on his heels and walking out. He didn’t have to do this. Except that he knew he did. He couldn’t live on air. He had to do something until the big breakthrough – if it happened at all.
‘Ah!’ Sitting down abruptly, she swivelled towards the computer monitor and banged the mouse several times on the desk. She raised her hand to her head and raked through her short hair, leaving it sticking up in all directions. He noticed the colour – an unnatural orange – was growing out, giving her roots a faded, almost greenish-brown tint.
‘I didn’t recognise you as staff. And you’re too early to be a student.’ It seemed a half-hearted justification of her ungracious manner. She still stared at the screen. ‘So …’ Rapid clicks of the mouse. A muted swear word. ‘You are … Stefan Novak?’ she eventually read out, as if he’d not supplied his name already. She looked towards him accusingly, eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve taken over from Sandira Benfield?’
He shrugged. ‘So I’ve been told.’ There was a pause.
‘Everyone liked Sandy.’ Stefan wondered if he should apologise. ‘Do you know where your class is? First floor, right at the top of the stairs, second door along.’ She handed him some keys, pointing to each in turn. ‘That one’s the class and that’s the storeroom. When he gets in I’ll tell Gordon, the head of department, that you’ve arrived.’
As he mounted the stairs he was aware of the tension still gripping him. Was it a kind of stage fright? Anxiety about standing in front of a class? Only natural, he supposed. After all, he wasn’t a teacher. Never had the slightest instinct or ambition to teach. Yet here he was. He’d heard the horror stories, but this wasn’t an inner city comprehensive; it was an adult class. The students were here by choice. And one of them – if he turned up – he already knew. At least he needn’t worry about meeting resistance or having to win the class over.
Dom sniffed surreptitiously in the direction of his armpit. Didn’t seem to honk too badly, and it would’ve made him late to go back to wash and change. It was more important to make sure he got the bus. And if he
had
shown his face, what’s the betting he’d’ve had to listen to another bollocking about staying out overnight, or endure another sermon about going back to school?
Didn’t they get it? He’d had it with school. If the Principal was to be believed, school’d had it with him, too. What was the point? At his age he didn’t have to go any more, and he wasn’t about to beg to be allowed to. Anyway, there was only one subject he was interested in, and doing
this
three whole mornings a week had to be better than one poxy art lesson with a roomful of kids who didn’t care and a teacher who’d given up trying to make them. He’d show them all!
Across the pavement from the bus stop the shop window was plastered with tempting adverts. No point trying to buy smokes. Dom guessed he’d be challenged about his age and didn’t have any ID on him. Perhaps he could blag some off Stefan. He couldn’t be bothered to waste energy arguing about it now. But crisps and cola were another matter. He’d not eaten since …? As he struggled to recall, the pang of hunger and thirst that gripped his belly was irresistible.
The Asian woman filling a shelf on the back wall behind the counter turned at the piercing chime of the doorbell. She visibly stiffened. One hand clutched the filmy scarf thing around her neck, and the other curved, kind of protectively, over the till drawer. What did she think? That he was going to rob her? Didn’t she realise he was in more danger of being mugged than she was?
The other night they’d taken his iPod and some cash, but he’d escaped without being badly hurt. That was the main thing. And he’d already recouped the money. Withdrawing his right hand from the pocket of his low-slung jeans he double-checked the screwed-up bank notes in his grubby palm. And it felt like there was some change at the bottom of his pocket, too. He didn’t need to pinch anything … well, not from people like her. If he
did
ever nick stuff – his left hand encircled the new iPhone in his other pocket – it’d be from the big shops in the city centre. Whatever Stefan said … it was, like, a victimless crime, wasn’t it? Although recently, Stefan had stopped asking him how he acquired his stuff or where he got the extra money.