Authors: Stella White
''Mike, stop by after work. I'll
be finished
by then,'' Marcella
said softly
. He nodded and left without saying anything.
''He's not suitable for you,'' Joyce said.
Marcella knew Joyce was right. She'd intended to do something about it, but the time never seemed to be right. ''You're right, but we've been going out for two years. It's not so easy to just finish it.''
''Do you want to marry him?''
''No way,'' Marcella exclaimed.
''Then finish it.'' Marcella wished Joyce could do it for her.
At around five thirty Mike arrived again, his day’s work at the bank done. ''I don't know why you hang around with that old woman,'' he said of Joyce.
''She's not old. She's nice, I enjoy her company.''
''More than mine,'' Mike said jealously.
''What does that mean?'' she looked at him.
''I came and asked you out to lunch, but you said you were too busy. You weren't too busy to sit around and talk to her, were you?''
''Mike, that's different.''
He wanted to take her to bed. She was so beautiful he ached for her. They hadn't touched each other for a couple of
weeks,
and he missed touching her. He reached for her, but she pulled back. ''Marcella, you know I love you?''
''Yes, I know you do,'' she said looking at the floor awkwardly.
''Will you go to bed with me?''
''No,'' she cried. She didn't mean it to sound as harsh as it did.
''But we haven't touched for weeks.''
It
was now
or never she thought. ''Mike I.......I.......want to finish with you.'' She cringed when she saw the look on his face.
''What? Why?''
''Because
we’re
not compatible.''
''Of course we are.''
''Look at us,'' she said. ''I'm
arty
and you're standing here in a business suit. You don't understand my world and I don't
understand
yours. Let's agree to be friends.''
''Bitch,'' he shouted. ''You absolute bitch. It's like you live on a different planet. Your world doesn't exist, playing all day long with modeling clay isn't real.''
''Well that's what I love. Now sod off and leave me alone.''
Mike raised his hand but thought better of it. He slammed his fist down on the table instead.
When he
was gone
, Marcella went to her studio and closed the door. She took a deep breath.
This was
the place she loved. The small wooden-clad room her grandmother had used
as a
studio. To
Marcella,
it was home, a place where she felt comfortable and safe. She looked at the sculpture she was
working on
. She was pleased with it. At the
Academy,
they had to study several artistic
disciplines but
sculpting was what she enjoyed most.
*****
Peter woke with a start. When he moved his
head,
he moaned and remembered the wine they'd drunk the night before. Lots of it.
He
was intertwined
in some woman whose name he couldn't remember. The previous evening she'd looked good, even beautiful. But as the gray light of morning crept through a chink in the curtains, she looked very different. He moved her arm from his waist and rolled from the bed. She moaned and looked across at him.
''What time is it?'' she asked.
He picked up his watch from the bedside table. ''Seven thirty,''
''Jesus.'' She leaped from the bed and began to gather her clothes from the floor where, the previous evening, they'd
been hurriedly discarded
.
Peter put an aspirin in a glass and waited for it to dissolve. Marion, now fully dressed, kissed him on the cheek and left. He took the medicine and went for a shower.
He was just about to go out of the door when his phone rang. It was his wife again. He put his hand to his forehead when she started to shout at him.
''It's not good enough Peter. You've upset him,'' she said referring to their son.
''I know. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to him.''
''It's too late now, the damage
is done
.''
Peter looked around his bleak apartment. He'd had a lovely four bedroom detached house with a large garden and great neighbors when he'd still been with his family.
''Well I can't turn the clock back. Tell him I'm sorry.'' Peter was beginning to lose patience with her. Whenever he'd made a mistake in the
past,
she would never let him forget it. Always reminding, prodding, driving him to the edge with her nagging.
''You're a good for nothing...''
Peter slammed the phone down before she could complete the sentence. He shouldn't have forgotten his son's birthday. But he loved
him,
and Max knew that as well. His
ex was
just using it to score points. Peter was dreading the divorce. He knew he would end up with nothing. She'd make sure of that.
''
Mr.
Flowers, you're late,'' the Dean said as Peter ran up the steps to the Academy of Arts. ''Do I smell alcohol?'' he added as Peter stood breathless in front of him.
''No Dean, I have a gum problem. The dentist advised me to cleanse with an alcohol based liquid.''
The Dean cocked his head in disbelief. ''Well hurry to your class.'' Peter walked away. ''Oh, I forgot,'' the Dean shouted after him. ''One of your class has been selected to represent the Academy in the National Sculpture Competition at the South Bank Art Museum.'' The Dean was surprised that the committee had selected one of Peter's students. Most of them were like Peter, talented but lacking in motivation. What was it with artists, he thought? It seemed to him that most of them just gave up when they realized they couldn't be number one.
''Which one?'' Peter asked.
''Marcella Horner.''
The only real student I've ever had, he thought. She deserved better than to be taught by
him;
he knew that. He wasn't a good teacher anymore because his
own
motivation for sculpture had gone, and he didn't seem to be able to rediscover it. He blamed it on years of teaching mediocre students as well as his bad marriage. Since his wife threw him out, he'd not only lost motivation for his job, but for life.
He'd often thought of Marcella and felt guilty. Perhaps now she was to represent the school, he would hand her over to his colleague.
The classroom Peter taught in was a mess. He
taught
six at a time. The students each had a table and a stool and would face the front where Peter had a desk and blackboard.
When he
arrived,
they were waiting for him. Young fresh-faced, some enthusiastic some indifferent. All of them aware that Peter had artistic flair but no motivation.
''Carry on where we left off yesterday,'' he said as he put his satchel on his desk. The students had assumed he would say that and were already busy working on various articles. Peter looked at Marcella. She was wearing a flower print summer dress. It was short, well above the knee. ''Marcella, can I have a word with you?'' he asked. Marcella looked up. ''In private,'' he said pointing to the door. Marcella followed him into the corridor.
''Congratulations.''
''For what?''
Obviously,
the Dean hadn't told her yet. ''Don't you know?''
''Know what?''
That morning Marcella had decided to make an extra effort
with
her appearance. As a single she was going to make sure she looked good. Not that she wanted a relationship, it was more a fresh start, a new chapter.
''You have been chosen
by the committee
to represent the Academy in the National Sculpture Competition.''
Marcella's eyes
widened,
and a look of disbelief enveloped her face. ''No way,'' she said covering her mouth with her hand. ''Are you sure?''
''The Dean told me just now,'' Peter said.
''My God. Unbelievable.'' She was overwhelmed and threw her arms around Peter. ''Thank you.'' Surprised, he instinctively put his arm around her waist. Her scent and the feel of her waist through the thin dress made him realize what a beautiful
human-being
she was. Not only highly talented but gorgeous to
look at
.
''I'll ask Andre van Staalen to take over as your teacher from now on.''
''Why?'' The look of shock on her face surprised him.
''He's more dynamic than I am. He'll teach you at a faster rate, bring you on better. You're
a great
student,
you deserve the best.''
''But you are a great teacher,'' she said without hesitation. ''Why do you think I've
been chosen
?''
''Because you're talented. Nothing to do with me.''
She stood back from him and pushed her hair away from her face. ''I don't want another teacher. I want you.'' It was
genuine
heartfelt appeal, one which touched him quite
deeply
. ''You are
a great,
I have learned so much from you, you just don't realize it.''
''Thank you for those kind words. None of which are
true
by the way,'' he said leaning against the wall. ''Alright, I don't want to disturb
your
studies. If you
want
to stay with
me,
then stay.''
She smiled and without saying anything walked ahead of him back into the
classroom
. No, stop, he told himself, desperately trying not to look at the shape of her hips and bottom as they swayed seductively in front of him.
******
The Dragoon was full as usual. The barman placed a glass of red wine in front of
Peter,
and he took a sip. When he saw Marion
at
the other side of the
pub,
he turned away from her. What had he been thinking taking her back to his apartment? He was a
mess,
and
he
had to do something about it. First he had to apologize to Max. He took out his mobile.
''Max?''
''Hi Dad.'' Max liked answering the phone. He'd been doing it since he was four.
''Listen, I'm
really
sorry I forgot your birthday. It was unforgivable. I could give you a list of excuses but I just plain forgot.''
Max was silent for a minute. ''It's okay Dad. It's not easy for you, alone without
mum and me
.''
It wasn't easy without Max, he was right, but being without that bitch of a woman was certainly no hardship, he thought. ''How about I take you out next weekend. Anything you want to do.'' He heard a woman's voice in the background and a rustle.
''Stop trying to bribe him to love you,'' she said. '' I want you to keep away from here.''
''You can't stop me from seeing him.''
''Can't I? Watch me.'' The line went dead.
Peter gulped down the wine and ordered another. When Marion wandered over to the bar she gave him a dirty look. ''You ignoring me?'' she said.
He shook his head. ''No, why would I?''
''I enjoyed yesterday evening.''
He had too, at the time, but now when he looked at her, she was
really
not the kind of woman he needed in his life. ''Me too. It was nice.''
''Can we do it again?'' she asked.
Peter closed his eyes and thought for a moment. He couldn't remember her name. ''It was nice yesterday, but I'm in no mental shape to start a relationship. Sorry.''
She looked disappointed as she turned away from him. He ordered another drink.
Two hours later the barman shouted. ''Peter. Peter,'' as he tried to wake him. ''Peter, wake up.'' Peter opened an eye and looked at the portly young man. ''You fell asleep with your head on the bar. It doesn't
look
good. Go home.''
The group of young men looked at each other and smiled when they saw Peter stagger out of the pub. They'd been waiting for someone like him. Respectable looking, probably with a wallet full of cash, and too drunk to fight back. Peter didn't see his
attackers;
they came from behind. One of them hit him on the back of the head. As drunk as he was, he fell like a sack of flour. The sound of his head hitting the concrete was nauseating. He looked at the feet around him, through the blood which was streaming into his eyes, as he tried to stop one of the attackers reaching into his inside jacket pocket. Another kicked his arm away. The last thing he
saw
before he passed out were three pairs of sneakers running away.