The China Bird Read online

  ‘Is she experienced?’

  ‘No, unfortunately.’

  He shakes his head, ‘Not easy you know if they’re not experienced. You have to know how to put them at ease.’

  ‘I tried but,’ she pauses, ‘she got annoyed because I only drew her feet.’

  He places her pint in front of her. ‘You don’t fancy doing a spot of modelling do you? Me and Felicity, you know her don’t you, we’re looking for a model.’

  She takes a sip of her froth, ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a commission from a gallery in London. I’ve got an idea for a series of drawings and you would be just perfect. I want to use oils and pastels and maybe a combination of other media. I’m really excited.’

  ‘Well, congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d pay of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve got too much on.’

  ‘Surely you could fit in a couple of hours, here and there?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Twenty pounds an hour?’

  ‘Listen,’ she says, raising her voice. ‘I don’t want to. Okay?’

  He grins sheepishly, ‘There’s no need to get aerated.’

  She wishes she had the courage to strut out of the pub and leave her nearly full pint of Guinness untouched. He is so out of order. For God’s sake, he’s her tutor. She picks up her pint and her packet of crisps and without another word goes to sit over by the empty fire grate where he can’t see her. Her heart is pounding. Why couldn’t she have just said ‘no’ and left it at that? He had to push the matter, the creep. Although, she thinks, it would give me the perfect opportunity to experience modelling, the chance to practise so that I could beard the lion in his den, so to speak. Edward would never think in a million years that she would agree to his stupid demands.

  And another thing, she thinks, taking a sip of her Guinness, Alex has the cheek to go on about me not being adventurous with my work, and there he is getting his knickers wet about life drawing.

  She finishes her drink, gets up and goes over to the table where Alex is sitting,

  ‘I’m sorry I got huffy with you. It’s just, well, obviously I felt a bit awkward about it.’

  He is sitting at a table with a pale woman; skin, hair, clothes, melting into one as if all the colour has washed out of her. The woman looks up, knowing, not knowing, sizing her up. Angela notices pale blue milky eyes.

  Alex stubs out a cigarette, blowing the smoke upwards in rings. ‘Never had you down as the shy type.’

  ‘I’m not,’ She grits her teeth. ‘But don’t you think it’s a bit inappropriate.’

  ‘Your model’s thrown a wobbler. Isn’t that what you said?’

  Angela nods, wondering where this is leading.

  ‘Which is why I suggested you model for me, or for anyone for that matter. You’d be much more in control of the situation if you understood how your model felt.’

  She grimaces, ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘Then,’ he shrugs. ‘I suggest that you find yourself an experienced model.’

  She stands, arms folded, not sure what to say. I can’t change models, she thinks to herself. I have to get Edward back.

  ‘So,’ He taps the end of a new cigarette on the table. ‘Will you model for me?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you are perfect. You have exactly the look I need.’

  Angela shakes her head. She wants to wipe that smug look off his face. ‘No, but thanks,’ she adds.

  The look of smugness changes to irritation, ‘Never mind, some other time maybe. When you’ve grown up.’

  She screws up her face. ‘Go to hell!’

  She stops on her way home to buy a bag of chips, forgetting the crisps still unopened in her pocket. In her anger, the chips stick in her throat. She throws them into a privet hedge. How dare he talk to her like that? And why had she told him to go to hell when she meant to take him up on his offer? And why had she forgotten to bring up about it being alright for him to do life drawing and not her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Can I get you anything, Sir?’

  Edward had not seen the waitress approaching. He wants to ask her, ‘Does Angela still work here on a Thursday?’ But instead he orders a coffee.

  What would he have said to her if she’d suddenly appeared to take his order? Every Saturday afternoon for the rest of the year, please, and I promise not to lose my temper again?

  He’s missed two Saturdays now, and he’d only been going for two Saturdays before that, for Christ’s sake. It unnerves him to think how quickly she’s made a difference to his life. He misses sitting there with her in the studio. The waitress approaches with his coffee. I’ll ask her this time, he promises himself. She puts the coffee down and is just walking away.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss?’

  She turns, ‘Sorry, did you want to order food?’

  ‘Ah, yes. I’ll have tuna mayonnaise on brown bread, please.’

  ‘Well done, Edward,’ he thinks, as she walks away. Never mind, I can ask her when she brings my sandwich. Outside, the sky is clear. He watches people on their lunch break sauntering past, enjoying the warmth of the winter sun.

  She had written him a letter. Not one that Mrs Ingram could examine closely, this one arrived at work. Someone had placed the envelope on his desk; addressed to him, care of the library, scribbled in untidy handwriting.

  Edward,

  Please don’t give up on me. What can I say? I’m sorry. I’m not sure how I could have avoided upsetting you, unless of course I’d not asked you in the first place. If I was insensitive, I am sincerely sorry. I would never intentionally hurt you. To be honest, I was so fed up when you stormed out I just wanted to throw the whole thing out the window but, on reflection, and looking through the sketches, (one of which I enclose) I can’t give up on you. We have to carry on. Don’t ask me why. I just feel that between us we could produce something really unique. Please Edward, come on Saturday.

  Yours,

  Angela.

  He had read the letter over and over not caring who saw him and then had looked in the envelope for the sketch. It was of himself, standing, leaning on his stick for support. She must have drawn it at their first session while he still had the dignity of his clothes. He’d held it at arm’s length. It was really good. No, it was more than that. She had actually captured him. He was there on the paper. He’d tilted his office chair and leaned into it, suddenly feeling so raw. Why was that? It wasn’t the girl. He liked her, but that was all. He wasn’t in love with her or anything, though she did seem to have pushed open doors that for so long he had managed to keep shut; doors beyond which there was pain, and feelings he didn’t wish to confront.

  He decided, as he folded the letter and put it carefully back in his breast pocket, that he would go and see her at Henry’s that lunchtime before his courage failed him.

  He takes a sip of his coffee and looks at the time: 12.30. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the glass of the watch; such a pleasing face, he thinks, a white background, with black roman numerals of almost filigree fineness. The watch had been a birthday present: his first watch. The brown leather strap had worn through after five years but luckily, when it broke, it dropped into his drawer at work. He was always careful after that to check the strap for signs of wear. The watch was irreplaceable. It was one of his few links to the past; to happier times when his father was still alive and he and his mother still had some semblance of a relationship.

  He knows the inside of the watch intimately. When he first got it, Uncle Ruben had taken the back off, prising it open with his thumbnail. It flipped open with a ping, like the lid off the shoe-polish.

  ‘I want you to have a look in the back of the watch, my boy,’ his uncle had said. ‘See all the intricate workings. Then you can really appreciate what the family have bought for your 21st.’

  The rubies. It was the rubies that he remembers most, pale as pomegranate seeds.

&
nbsp; ‘Why do they use rubies?’ he asked his uncle.

  ‘They don’t wear. They’ll last you a lifetime.’

  And up to now, they had, and he knew that there, behind the face, were the pomegranate seeds, little pinpricks of rubies, making his watch special.

  Half way through his sandwich he sees Angela rush past the window. He doesn’t recognise her at first. Her face is set hard, making her look older than her years. And she looks somewhat bedraggled. Her clothes are crumpled, her hair uncombed. She is obviously late. He beckons over the waitress,

  ‘Can I have the bill, please? I have to go.’ He hands her the correct change and fishes into the breast pocket of his jacket. Just as she turns away he calls her back and hands her the folded sketch. ‘Would you be very kind and make sure Angela O’Donnell gets this please.’

  She looks at him, curiously. ‘You can give it to her yourself if you like, she’s just walked in. I think she’s out in the back.’

  He looks at his watch, ‘I’m running late. I’ll catch her another time. You will make sure she gets it won’t you?’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Felicity smiles when she learns that Angela has never modelled before and puts her immediately at ease, ‘Take your clothes off and walk up and down a bit.’

  Angela looks back at the door. ‘What if he walks in?’

  ‘Who? Alex? Oh, don’t worry about him. Remember whose body it is.’

  Angela likes Felicity, admires her work greatly. She’d bumped into her in the corridor, asked her if it was true that she was looking for a model. She’d let Felicity persuade her into agreeing to model, allowed her to make all the arrangements. Angela didn’t want Alex taking any satisfaction from the fact that she’d changed her mind. She starts to peel off her clothes. She feels okay until she gets down to her underwear and then she is suddenly self-conscious and cold. She shivers, wondering what to do next. Felicity is watching her with interest, ‘Go on, take the plunge.’

  Angela turns away, unhooks her bra from behind, lets it fall down her arms to the floor. She takes a deep breath and, with one slick motion, flicks off her knickers. Crouching, she gathers all her clothes to her and stands up. She turns and stares defiantly at Felicity, daring her to stare back.

  Felicity laughs, ‘Go on, strut up and down a bit. Loosen up. Get into your skin. Feel comfortable with yourself. You’ll soon feel empowered by your nakedness.’

  She is right. Angela feels like a ballerina, walking with precision up and down the room and, when Alex arrives, she is already seated and being drawn by Felicity. He doesn’t say a word, but sets up his easel and works in silence, studying her from different angles. Angela has to constantly remember to keep still. The very fact of having to stay motionless makes her whole body long to move. Alex had been right, damn him! She’d given little thought to how it would feel to sit still for so long and although she subconsciously knew how defenceless Edward felt, she hadn’t really empathised. Oddly though, she doesn’t feel vulnerable herself, in fact she feels a sense of freedom, of power almost.

  She watches the hands on the clock move slowly around. After an hour, just as the light is beginning to fade, Felicity begins to gather up her things.

  ‘Are you carrying on, Alex?’ she asks.

  He looks up, irritated at being disturbed. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was just checking. Making sure Angela was okay to keep going, seeing it’s her first time.’ She glances over at Angela who gives a small nod of her head.

  After Felicity leaves, Alex begins to speak to her occasionally, but only to ask her to change position,

  ‘Can you stand, please? Hands behind your back.’

  She watches the windows darken further and tries to look at the clock. But she can’t see it without moving her head.

  ‘Okay, we’ll call it a day.’ He looks up and smiles, as if acknowledging her for the first time.

  Angela picks up the gown that Felicity had provided. Slipping it on, she walks across the room to the window. The grey pewter of the day is darkening to black. Under the streetlight is a small mound of russet coloured leaves left over from autumn. She can just make out the lines of ink-drawn trees on the horizon, a single-decker bus making its way up the hill on the opposite side of the valley. A magpie squawks on the lawn. Angela searches for the other one.

  One for sorrow

  Two for joy

  Three for a girl

  Four for a boy

  Alex stands up and crosses the room to join her. She continues to stare out of the window, suddenly very aware that all she has on is the gown.

  ‘It’s wonderful up here isn’t it?’ He says, looking out across the city.

  Angela walks back across the room and picks up her dress. She hadn’t had time for a shower that morning and as she pulls her dress over her head she can smell the musky odour of her armpits. She knows that she should feel scared here, alone with this man, but she doesn’t. If anything, she feels a strange sense of power.

  He watches as she buttons up her dress. She walks over to where he has put his work on the bench, looks down at herself looking up.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ he asks.

  ‘I like them.’

  ‘Good. Glad to have your approval.’ He takes his coat from the back of the chair.

  She’s not sure if he is taking the Mick.

  ‘I’m going outside for a fag. I’ll walk you home when you’re ready.’

  ‘I think I deserve a drink, don’t you?’ she asks, pulling on her boots.

  ‘You most certainly do. You were sensational.’

  She feels her face grow hot, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re a natural, girl. A natural.’

  Alex buys two pints. Angela sits down at the table next to the open fire. They are the only two in the pub.

  Alex draws on his cigarette. ‘He was an interesting old bloke you had in the studio the other day, shame everything’s got so politically correct.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just thought, oh forget it, it was a stupid idea.’

  She breathes a sigh of relief. He’d nearly come up with her idea.

  He changes the subject, ‘Well, in spite of your reservations, did you enjoy being a model?’

  Angela runs her finger round the rim of her glass and sucks off the foam, ‘I did, actually. I learnt a lot.’

  ‘I don’t know why you were so reticent. Did you think I had another agenda or something?’

  Angela can feel herself beginning to blush, ‘And don’t you?’

  ‘It’s about time you decided if you’re an artist or not. It’s a totally different issue.’

  ‘Always? It didn’t stop those Pre-Raphaelites did it?’

  ‘Different era, and the models weren’t their pupils, were they?’

  ‘And on that note I think I’ll go,’ she says and drains her pint.

  ‘Can you manage the same time next week?’

  ‘I don’t remember saying I’d sit more than once.’

  ‘Come on Ange, don’t let me down, I need you to do this. This is a really important commission for me.’ He fishes in his wallet and pulls out forty pounds, ‘Here.’

  ‘That’s too much,’ she protests.

  He shoves it across the table towards her, ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘That good, was I?’ She smirks in spite of herself.

  ‘See! You’re starting it again,’ he admonishes, ‘Don’t dish out what you can’t take young lady.’

  She stands up. ‘How long will it take?’

  He takes a sip of his drink, ‘I don’t honestly know at the moment. My mother’s really ill and she’s taken herself off to Cornwall with her sister so, instead of having to go to Nottingham to visit her, I now have to go all the way down there.’

  ‘What’s she gone down there for?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think it’s got something to do with my Aunt Hilda. The silly old cow’s into complementary medicine. I think she’s conv
inced my mother she can find a cure down there.’

  ‘Talking of old ladies,’ Angela sits back down again. ‘Do you remember an old lady called Rachel who used to model, about three years ago?’

  ‘Who? Rachel Anderson? Yes, I remember her. Why?’

  ‘I met her at a funeral a couple of months ago and I knew I’d seen her before, but for ages I couldn’t figure out where. I think she knew, but she wasn’t saying.’

  ‘She wouldn’t. She’s a wily old bird, that one.’

  ‘Does she still model?’

  ‘No, I think she stopped around the time you mentioned. Not sure why. She had a good body.’

  ‘Fancied her, did you?’

  ‘No, but there were some that did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She played her cards very close to her chest, that one.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Edward stands on the Library steps and wonders what to do with the rest of his lunch hour. It has been a busy morning; it must be the rain, he thinks, bringing people into the shelter of the library. He looks over the tops of the buildings to where the sky is beginning to clear, and then descends the rain-washed steps. He needs a walk to clear his head. Tomorrow is Saturday and he intends to go back to the studio to see Angela. He sighs at the thought and stops to gaze into a shop window, taking little note of the contents. He doesn’t have to go back. With the end of his stick he flicks water out of a puddle. This girl has given him a new courage. When she looks straight into his eyes she lends him an inner strength, as if they are both following a predestined course.

  It had been different with Tessa. He shakes his head while watching his reflection in the shop window. He’d felt powerless then. He’d been unable to tell her he didn’t want a relationship with her. But with Angela, if anything, he feels a new strength. As if they are moving forward together.

  He had very nearly married Tessa. Poor, clumpy Tessa! He’d met her on an archaeology holiday. Unfortunately, she’d an aunt who lived in Sheffield. Tessa had suddenly taken to visiting this aunt on a regular basis. He remembered how he finally got the strength to break it off. Ironically, it was his mother who’d helped. She’d written to him and suggested they meet at the Claremont; for some reason they hadn’t seen each other for several months. He was already engaged to Tessa by then and, knowing he would have to tell Rachel at some point, had informed her by letter.