Pat Barker: Life Class

‘Paul.’

She raised her face to his and for one mad moment he thought he was expected to kiss her, but then she turned away. ‘Teresa, this is Paul Tarrant. Do you remember I said he might be coming? Paul, Teresa Halliday.’

The girl held out her hand. She was dark, with short, shining hair, high cheekbones and red, painted, pouting lips. That mouth still had the power to shock, though he’d noticed that many of the women here wore make-up. She was wearing a high-necked brocade jacket that made her look … Russian, Chinese? Anything but English. He was instantly attracted to her and thought she was aware of him, though once the introduction was over she said nothing further, merely leaned back against the plush seat waiting to have Elinor’s full attention again.

‘And this is Kit Neville.’

He’d seen Neville once or twice at the Slade. He was starting to be famous, a circumstance that some people attributed to a talent for painting and others to a talent for self-promotion.

‘Kit was at the Slade.’

Neville looked uncomfortable. ‘I left two years ago.’

‘But you’re always coming back.’

‘Oh, we all come back.’ It was said easily, but he was obviously nettled by the observation.

‘Not everybody.’

Paul was trying to recall the stories he’d heard about Neville at the Slade. Hadn’t he been expelled?

‘What’ll you have?’ Neville asked, raising his hand to summon the waiter.

‘Whisky please.’

‘I think the ones who keep coming back are the ones it didn’t work for,’ said Elinor. ‘It’s like turning a key in a lock. If it turns you forget about it. If it doesn’t you go on rattling away.’

‘Or move on to something else.’ Neville was flushed and miserable-looking. ‘So,’ he said, turning to Paul, ‘Elinor tells me you walked out on Tonks today.’

‘He said he thinks I’m wasting my time. I didn’t see the point of sitting there after that.’

‘He can be wrong, you know.’

‘How long were you at the Slade?’

‘Two years. And I didn’t walk out.’ Neville’s eyes were alight with a blue, dancing truculence. ‘Probably should have done, mind you, but I didn’t, I stuck it out, and in the end he more or less said, Go.’ He grinned, adding in a mock Oirish accent, ‘Never resign, mister. Get yourself fired.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why did he throw you out?’

‘He didn’t like my work. I didn’t like it much either so I can’t hold that against him. And …’ With a sidelong glance at the girls he lowered his voice. ‘He disapproved of my relationship with one of the models. She got pregnant and I refused to be fathered.’

Paul was startled and a little repelled by so much intimacy so early in their acquaintance. ‘Oh.’

‘I said, Why the hell should I pay? There’s at least a dozen others who could be the father and if you believe everything you hear Tonks was one of them. But of course he got on his high horse. What was it? For a long time he’d believed that nothing could exceed his contempt for my work, but in the light of recent events he now realized his contempt for my moral character was infinitely greater.’

What an extraordinary story to tell against yourself. It argued either unlimited egotism or a talent for self-destruction, or both perhaps. It was difficult to know what to say. Trying to lighten the tone, Paul said, ‘Are all the models like that?’

‘Like what? Oh, loose, you mean? Yes, a lot of them are, thank God. But …’ Nodding towards Teresa, he raised a finger to his lips.

‘She’s a model?’

She was so unlike the generally rather battered ladies who modelled for the life class he could scarcely believe it. At that moment she glanced across and met his eyes, smiled a slow, incommunicative smile, and immediately turned again to Elinor. The two girls were focused on each other in a way he found provocative.

‘What are you two getting so intense about?’ Neville asked.

That was clumsy, and he wasn’t a clumsy man. Too sure of himself for that.

‘Teresa’s husband’s been snooping round again.’

Husband. Paul’s eyes went to her left hand, but she wasn’t wearing a ring.

‘Caught him out the back last night trying to see through the window. Least, I thought it was him. You know, I pulled the curtain back and there was this face squashed against the glass, didn’t look like anything on earth, but then he stepped back a bit and of course I could see it was him. Anyroad, there’s me screaming blue murder and the chap upstairs ran down to see what was going on — only by that time he’d gone.’

‘He’s left you alone quite a long time, hasn’t he?’ Neville said.

‘Going on a year. But that’s what he does.’ She flicked a glance at Paul. ‘He starts getting on with his own life but then the minute things start to go wrong he decides it’s all my fault and comes looking for me again. And it always does go wrong. He can’t hold a job down. I don’t think it’s ever going to end.’

‘It will,’ said Elinor. ‘He’ll drink himself to death.’

‘That’s a slow process,’ Neville said, gazing down at his empty glass.

Paul took the hint and summoned the waiter. Elinor shook her head — she’d scarcely touched her glass — but Teresa nodded. With a stab of excitement, Paul realized she was tipsy.

As he gave the order, he heard Neville ask, in his blunt, authoritative way, ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Move, I suppose.’

‘Oh, you can’t,’ Elinor said. ‘Not again.’

‘Well, I can’t stop there. Even if he’s not outside spying on me I always think he is. And if he finds out I’m modelling …’

‘How could he find out?’ Neville said.

‘He’s only got to follow me. I thought I saw him the other day just as I was leaving Tonks.’

So she modelled for Tonks. Paul saw her slipping off her robe, mounting the dais, Tonks’s hand on her arm adjusting the pose. The image produced such a rush of desire and envy he missed part of the conversation.

‘Look,’ Elinor was saying, when he was able to concentrate again, ‘he’s got to eat, he’s got to sleep, he can’t be following you round all the time.’

‘What else has he got to do? Except drink.’

‘Doesn’t he have a home to go to?’ Paul said.

‘Well, you know you’re always welcome to stay with me,’ Elinor said. ‘There’s a sofa in the living room.’

‘I know, and it’s kind of you, but you wouldn’t have anywhere to paint. I’ve got to get it sorted out.’

Neville’s gaze on Elinor’s face had become even more intent. ‘You should go to the police,’ he said to Teresa, roughly, not looking at her. ‘That’d frighten him off.’

‘I’m his wife. I could go in with a couple of black eyes and a broken nose wouldn’t worry them.’

‘Has he hit you?’ Paul said.

‘’Course he has.’ Incredibly, she laughed. ‘Blames me for that too, he was never a violent man till he met me.’

‘Then Neville’s right. You should go to the police.’

‘They’re not interested.’

‘You have finished with him, I suppose?’ said Neville. ‘ Really finished? There isn’t a small part of you still feels sorry for him?’

She looked away, resenting the question or made uncomfortable by it. ‘You can’t be indifferent to somebody you’ve —’ She shook her head. ‘No, it’s over. I couldn’t go back to him now.’

The conversation lapsed, though after a while the two girls started whispering to each other again. Paul sensed they were getting ready to part.

A few minutes later Elinor stood up. ‘I’ve got to go, I’m afraid.’

Instantly, Neville was on his feet. He was going past her lodgings on his way home, perhaps he could drop her off? She seemed about to refuse, but then nodded.